I grab a baseball bat, organize a search party of my best friends, and go down there to investigate.

I call a secret government tip-line and then hide in my attic until the sun comes up.

I record it on my phone, post it with a cryptic caption, and accept that my life is about to change forever.

I ignore it. If I don't acknowledge the doom, it can't affect my property value.

Use it to save my friends, even if it means risking my own life in a dangerous alternate dimension.

Hide it completely. I’m not about to be a test subject for some shadowy organization.

Use it to get what I want, regardless of the ethical implications or the "Very Bad" consequences.

I’d probably just use it to get better cable reception or find my lost keys.

A band of misfits who are bonded by trauma and a shared love for 80s nostalgia.

A group of survivors who know how to keep their mouths shut to stay alive.

People who share my specific, dark obsession with the "Something Very Bad" that’s coming.

Normal, boring people who think I’m "eccentric" for worrying about the neighborhood.

It's a code from a friend trapped on the "other side."

It’s a signal from a facility I’m not supposed to know about.

It’s the final countdown before something very bad is going to happen.

I need to call the electric company; the grid in this town is garbage.