Mostly Void, Partially Stars: Welcome to Night Vale Episodes, Volume 1

by Joseph Fink

  The NVPA statement adds that you look good in that shirt and that you should wear tighter clothing. People want to see what you look like under there. They also ask you to just touch their back. You don’t have to rub it, just touch it. Just put your hand there. God I miss you so much, the report concludes.

  This just in. The traveler and his wife, Cactus June, were seen shopping at the Ralphs just moments ago. He was shaking his head at the fashion of our clothing, and clucking derisively at our telephones and grocery scales. “We have much better when I am from,” said the traveler, according to one report, which I am choosing to believe. He added, “That’s right, I said ‘when’ and not ‘where.’ ” He then winked.

  The Sheriff’s Secret Police meanwhile are more than a little interested in the sudden reopening of Jerry’s Tacos, located on the corner of Ouroboros Road. You will recall that Jerry’s Tacos was encased in amber last summer with Jerry inside. Now it is as if Jerry never transgressed against nature with his enchiladas.

  The traveler has been spotted in the vicinity of Jerry’s Tacos. If I were you—and I do not believe I am—I would be very careful about ordering anything off the secret menu at Jerry’s. Definitely do not order anything off the forsaken menu.

  And now for corrections. In a previous report, we at Night Vale Community Radio were talking about the commonly held belief that there is such a thing as “mountains.” We scoffed at this belief, and bellowed repeatedly “IT IS FLAT ALL THE WAY ROUND. IT IS FLAT ALL THE WAY ROUND.” We wrote lists of friends we knew to believe in mountains and sent the lists to the City Council, recommending that all of them be put into indefinite detention. We got physically violent with an effigy labeled “Mountain Believer,” punching it repeatedly before burning it in our station’s bloodstone circle. In fact, we devoted a full day of our programming to getting together the entire station staff and screaming in unison “MOUNTAINS? MORE LIKE NOTHINGS” into the microphone.

  Recently one of our previously mentioned friends, who thankfully had not yet been apprehended by the council, took us for a drive out to a mountain. We looked at the mountain and even touched it, and it was definitely real. Therefore, we are forced to admit, there is indeed at least one mountain in this world, and we apologize for our previous energetic assertions to the contrary.

  I’m still not completely sold on there being more than one mountain. It’s possible that the mountain apologists built a single mountain in order to prove their skewed worldview. Not certain, listeners. Not certain. But possible. This has been corrections.

  Here, now, is an update. We’re getting reports that the traveler was just seen standing on the tailgate of his truck and addressing a small crowd of curious people.

  “I have traveled here from the future. I have saved Night Vale from destruction and I will save it again,” the traveler reportedly said to the crowd. “You do not know this because your memories have been changed along with the course of events. Now that I have altered the past I cannot return to my own time. I am staying here. I will show you the way. I hope you enjoy my enchiladas.”

  The Sheriff’s Secret Police said they can bring no charges against the traveler, as Night Vale recently voted to decriminalize time travel.

  Just what did the traveler mean when he said he saved our town? How will he save it again? We have always trusted in the unknowable purposes of the hooded figures. Can we afford to abandon what we presume is their wisdom and follow this new prophet of tomorrow?

  And now, a paid editorial, sponsored by Yelp.com.

  [Wordless humming and whistling]

  This has been a paid editorial, sponsored by Yelp.com.

  Here’s a look at the community calendar.

  Eight p.m., Thursday, at Dark Owl Records: Curtis Mayfield reads from his new book, Where Am I? I Cannot See, Cannot Feel, Do Not Know Who I Am or How Long I Have Been Here: A Memoir.

  Friday afternoon is free admission day at the Children’s Science Museum. After school, take the kids to the newest exhibit: “Frogs: Truth or Legend.” They’ve also installed a new interactive learning room, where young scientists can play freely with such scientific items as paint thinner, nail polish remover, glass cleaner, and a half-empty bucket of grout starter.

  Saturday has been merged with Sunday to create Superday.

  Monday will not harm you, but you should stock up on latex gloves nonetheless.

  And Tuesday is hornet-free dining at the Olive Garden.

  More news soon, but first, the weather.

  WEATHER: “Jews for Jesus Blues” by Clem Snide

  Ladies and gentlemen and those of you not clearly falling into either category, it is my ambivalent duty to report that the traveler is suddenly gone. His photograph has disappeared from the front page of the newspaper. His truck is missing. Some who reported seeing him have called back to say that they must have been mistaken and that they have never seen anything, that they don’t even know how to open their eyes.

  Perhaps he has leaped again through the stream of time or passed to an alternate dimension created by the changes he has made to our world. Or perhaps he was surrounded suddenly by the hooded figures, speaking in voices that only the traveler could hear. Perhaps they closed in on him and he panicked as their circle tightened and tightened around him until all that could be seen by horrified onlookers were the hooded figures. And perhaps just as suddenly the hooded figures were gone and nothing remained of the traveler except for a pile of indescribable buttons from his uniform, left scattered around the hole in the vacant lot out back of the Ralphs.

  Whatever happened, I can only say, Farewell, traveler.

  In other news, Jerry’s Tacos now and forever shall be under the management of the hooded figures. Plants in the vicinity of the restaurant have already begun to wilt, and animals and insects are avoiding the area. The restaurant has been renovated to resemble a nine-meter-high black monolith with no visible entrance. If we learn of any change in the menu or pricing, you will be the first to know.

  Finally, we are pleased to end today’s broadcast with some happy news from Night Vale’s hospital. There have been several additions to the community.

  Tock Wallaby’s wife, Hershel, has given birth to an adult man’s detached hand, which they have named Megan.

  The Black Dauphin has given birth to a smooth metallic pellet of astonishing density. It joins three previous pellets with similarly curious properties currently being kept inside a safe in the Sheriff’s Secret Police’s secret police vault.

  And the beautiful widow, Cactus June, whose husband we no longer remember at all, is glad to bring into this world a baby boy she has named Champ. The birth was attended by several agents from a vague yet menacing government agency. Champ is said to be a child with a foreign face and a handsome but terrible beard.

  Well listeners, this has been another day, another night, another bit of time in this bit of space. I’m sitting at my desk, feet planted on old, thinning carpet, but in my mind I am anywhere but. I am above, in the sky above, looking down at our little Night Vale. I see the lights, in grids and curves, and the places where there are no lights, because they are off or missing or invisible. I see roads with cars, and the cars have people in them, and the people are traveling through the dark in the comfort and light of the cars, and I see all of this from above. I see where the town gives way gradually to the desert, the last few lights from the last few homesteads like stray sparks from a campfire, tossed out into the absolute black of the scrublands and the sand wastes. I see the orbit of citizen around citizen, all these ordinary Night Valians about their ordinary lives in this singular, extraordinary place we call home. Moving higher, into the cold, thin air of the upper atmosphere, I see below me the crisscrossed lines of contrails and chemtrails, the signature of air machines that have long since moved on, the footprint of our civilization upon the night sky. And, looking up, I see only the stars and the void, all a little closer than they were before. All still so unreachably distant.


  I have something of urgent importance to tell you, but I will tell it to you later, or I will tell it to you not at all. Certainly, I will not tell it to you now. Now I merely look, from the vantage point of my own imagination, down at a town busy with its own existence. And, for now, existing is enough.

  Stay tuned next for an exact word-for-word repeat of this broadcast that will seem to you imperceptibly but unshakably different, although you will never be able to explain why.

  Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.

  PROVERB: Find more ways to work plinth into daily conversations.

  EPISODE 19A:

  “THE SANDSTORM”

  MARCH 15, 2013

  GUEST VOICE: KEVIN R. FREE

  BEFORE WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE BECAME OUR FULL-TIME JOB, CECIL and I were active writers and performers in the performance-art collective the New York Neo-Futurists. We did a weekly late-night show in the East Village called Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind. (You can still see the show: www.nynf.org. It’s been ongoing and ever changing in New York since 2004.)

  In late 2012, about ten or twelve episodes into the run of Night Vale, Cecil and I were chatting one night after doing a Too Much Light show, and he did something he rarely does: made a suggestion for Night Vale.

  In this case, he said he wanted to do a really scary episode.

  I had already been working on this idea for a double-episode told from two different points of view about the same event, and Cecil—a true fan of horror films and novels—made his case for a horror story. It was the catalyst for me to finish writing the Sandstorm episode drafts.

  This was also the first casting choice we’d need to make (outside of Cecil, of course, and our little blip of a Carlos scene in episode 16). Like any resourceful artists, we decided to poach talented people from the New York Neo-Futurists. For this one, we hired Kevin R. Free to be the voice of Kevin in Desert Bluffs.

  The beautiful thing about Kevin—besides Kevin himself—is how his voice is so different from Cecil’s. It worked perfectly for the duality in this episode. Cecil’s voice is deep, dark, serious. Kevin’s is bright, light, and smiling. So much smiling.

  He appears only briefly in this part of the episode, but the first time I heard the audio file, it really did bring tears to my eyes. Kevin’s character is so utterly horrifying and with such a chipper, sunny voice. I didn’t know whether I was laughing or crying.

  —Jeffrey Cranor

  Blinking red light in the night sky. The future is changing, but it’s hard to tell.

  WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE.

  Listeners, the City Council announced moments ago that a sandstorm will be arriving in Night Vale in just a few minutes. They apologized that they did not announce this sooner, but they just kind of let their morning slip away from them.

  “You know how it is,” they said in unison, “you think, ‘Oh, we should announce this dangerous sandstorm. That’s priority one!’ but then you have to get some coffee, and you run into your coworker friends, and then you check your e-mail, and maybe a glance at Facebook, and you just lose track of the time. You know,” they concluded.

  The sandstorm is projected to be the largest in decades, and meteorologists warned that high winds and debris from the desert could cause millions in damage. They also said that if you’re not already inside with windows closed, doors locked, and eyes shut tight then your future will probably be very different.

  Meteorologists then warned that raccoons are actually pretty dangerous animals despite how adorable they seem, and never, ever feed baby raccoons because the mother raccoon will definitely attack you. Have you ever had rabies shots? Oh, it is the worst, the meteorologists continued, as the press corps got restless and hoped the meteorologists would shut up soon. God, meteorologists just don’t know when to stop, the entire press corps moaned.

  So, take cover, Night Vale. Hide in your homes and offices and pretend that mere walls are enough to protect you from nature’s might and life’s brevity and meaninglessness. Keep your radios tuned in here. We’ll keep you up to date.

  Hey, sports fans! Assuming we’re all still here after today, it’s time for baseball season! This Saturday is the minor league home opener for the Night Vale Spider Wolves. They’ll be taking on bitter rivals, the Desert Bluffs Sunbeams.

  The Spider Wolves are fielding a very young, but promising pitching staff this year. Fans are especially excited to see twenty-year-old hometown hero Trevin Murphy get his first chance in the starting rotation.

  Murphy graduated Night Vale High School two years ago and immediately joined the Spider Wolves after they discovered he could use his telepathic powers to cripple batters emotionally, often sending them into weeks-long slumps and fits of crying, even while playing in the field.

  The Sunbeams have some changes in their team as well. This off-season, they got a new owner and a new manager, because they’re terrible. Just terrible. Who even cares?

  And now traffic.

  Highway officials are warning all Night Vale residents to stay off the roads. The sandstorm is making travel nearly impossible. We are told that several cars have stalled near the southbound off-ramp at Exit 6 on Route 800. Traffic officers reported that each car screeched to a halt, and through the rushing sand they could see dozens of drivers and passengers running into the road, pairing off and then fighting. They noted that each fighting pair seemed to be of the same build, gender, age, and were wearing the exact same thing.

  Also, unrelated to the sandstorm, all stop signs and traffic lights have been taken down for their bimonthly polishing. They’ll be back from the cleaners on Tuesday, officials said.

  Listeners, thank you for your calls and e-mails. We’re getting word that the sandstorm has already begun to hit. Larry Leroy, out on the edge of town, called moments ago to say that the sand was thick and really flying fast, but that when it touched his skin he could hardly feel it. He could hardly feel a thing, that the past was a fiction and that consequences were a choice. He saw colors and shapes instead of familiar things like stoves and ponies. He shouted a bright confirmation of life up toward the sand-covered sun before gasping and screaming “No! Not you! Not you!” and then hanging up the phone.

  Well, thank you, Larry, for that informative report. We’ll certainly keep that in mind. Old Woman Josie has not called, but Intern Dana said that Josie updated her Facebook page with an Instagram of some rune stones. Dana has been furiously translating these symbols and her best guess is that they say: “They come in twos. You come in twos. You and you. Kill your double.”

  There’s also a link to this amazing cat that keeps jumping in and out of boxes, and oh my god, that is the cutest thing I have ever seen. Dana, you have got to post that on my wall. Oh my god, he loves those boxes so much.

  And now, a look at financial news. A fallow wheat field, gray sky, cut by black Vs of black birds. There is a child dragging a hatchet. His eyes cast down. His eyes tight. His eyes white and red and superfluous. He knows not what he sees, but he knows what is there. A single black-wingéd beast, beak cracked, feathers rotting, alights roughly on the child’s shoulder. They stop. The bird picks at the cartilage of the boy’s ear, as if biting secrets into it. The boy groans, not unpleasantly. Heavy, slow clouds roll and rise, starkly contrasted against the flickering daguerreotype hills, which stoically keep the poisonous rains at bay. A sudden little river, partially walled by palsied shafts of grain, rolls by. The boy walks to it. He bends forward. His blank eyes stare into his reflection. Neither he nor his mirror knows the other is there. But the bird. The bird knows. The bird cackles. Or perhaps cries. Even the bird is uncertain. The boy takes a palmful of the dark water. Most of it runs out through his long, zigzagging fingers. He licks the remainder from his dusty skin. A sound. Like thunder. Like drums. Like steps. The boy turns and hurls his hatchet behind him. The bird flies up and away. There is a hideous thump. The boy knows not what he has hit, but that it has been wounded. He waits for its retort.

  This has
been financial news.

  This just in, Night Vale: Mayor Pamela Winchell has declared a state of emergency. She has asked that if you are still outside, you return home immediately. A second announcement, shortly after, says that she was lying and that you shouldn’t listen to her. She’s not the real mayor. I am. A third announcement followed requesting that you give me that microphone and get away from the podium. This is my press conference, you replicant clown! The press conference then erupted into shouts of “Phony!” and “Impostor!” as the press corps suddenly doubled and began fighting itself.

  Night Vale, do be careful. I fear this sandstorm to be quite a terrible event. Please stay safe inside, and should you see yourself, I cannot condone murdering yourself. I just do not believe violence is ever the answer. (It is a question. The real answer is far more terrifying.)

  So make peace with your double, Night Vale. Do not be tempted to draw swords or guns. We can get along.

  [Muffled thump or crashing sound]

  Oh dear. What was that noise?

  Dana? Is everything okay in there, Dana? Who are you fighting?

  Dana, put down the letter opener. Dana put away the—

  [Muffled crashing sounds, more intense]

  I’m coming in there! Let’s go to a word from our sponsor.

  [Sudden shift in sound/ambient music/tone of voice]

  Got a home improvement project? Need help? Incomplete? Having feelings? Strange feelings? Feelings you’ve never felt? Incomplete? Is your body filled with hot blood, waving curves of sinew and skin? Can you feel all that blood? Is it even your blood? How can you be sure? Incomplete? Are you dizzy from it all? All of this? What are your hands doing? Incomplete? Where are your hands now? Where have they been? Where are they going? Where are you going? Have you ever broken the surface of something with a hammer? Ever channeled sublime thought into sandpaper? Ever wanted to touch something because you feel things? Because touch is the only sense you trust? Incomplete? What is trust? Is making a thing proof that you exist? Is fixing a thing proof that you have transcended mortality? History? Incomplete? Feel things? Feel things? You can do it. We can help. The Home Depot.