by Joseph Fink
This episode also features the first mention, I believe, of Night Vale’s many weirdly named housing developments. My homeland of suburban Southern California is a goldmine of stupid housing development names. And the names are always put on some lavish sign with a big logo right by the entrance to the development, to remind you that you don’t just live in suburbia, you are a resident of The Luscious Cleft or whatever.
The best Valentine’s Day my wife and I ever spent was at a dog show. So, if you want to have a good Valentine’s Day, maybe go to a dog show. Flowers are good. But petting dogs is better.
—Joseph Fink
Trust everyone.
WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE.
Hello, citizens of Night Vale. I bring you now to our ongoing coverage of the Valentine’s Day aftermath. Emergency workers have been at it since early this morning, starting the long task of cleanup and recovery. Reports are still hazy, but we believe that the housing developments of Marshall’s Gorge and Golden Dunes have both been wiped completely off the map, while Coyote Corners and Cactus Bloom are reporting extensive damage to structures and power lines. Please, if you are not directly involved in the recovery and cleanup from Valentine’s Day, stay off the roads to make room for those who are. This Valentine’s Day, as all Valentine’s Days, will not succeed in bringing our city down. This Valentine’s Day, as all Valentine’s Days, will soon recede into painful memory, fading with time until another foul Valentine’s Day is upon us again.
In other news, the Randy Newman Memorial Night Vale Airport has announced some schedule changes due to multiple severe weather conditions, including the existence of an atmosphere, and that strange fiery orb that appears for approximately half of every twenty-four-hour period. Many of today’s flights will be delayed for several hours while the rest will be moved into the past and will have already happened last week. All arriving flights have been canceled except those from JFK, LAX, and XTA, which will continue on the usual routine of unscheduled arrivals that are a complete surprise to both the pilots and air traffic control, based on routes that appear to violate the simple laws of physics and geography.
In addition, Martin McCaffry, local TSA representative, reminded all travelers that security measures are in place for their own safety, and we should respect the sacrifice needed to keep our lives and our country secure.
Martin said: “I know going through both a metal and full body scanner, as well as crawling through a lengthy pitch-black tunnel while a recording of a monotone male voice lists possible ways of dying, are all inconveniences, and I know that many travelers are concerned with privacy issues involving the voice of a small child that comes through strategically placed ceiling grates, asking them to name every person they have ever kissed, but these are all necessary evils.”
Mr. McCaffry then went on to draw a quick sketch of a strange, elongated dark figure crawling out of a kitchen refrigerator, after which he immediately insisted that he had no memory of creating the picture and no idea what it could mean. More on this eventually, probably.
Hey! Here’s a health tip from the Greater Night Vale Medical Community. It’s possible you won’t be able to kill it. If it manages to burrow under your skin, stop fighting because it has already become part of you. Welcome your new body mate. Listen to what it has to say, and see where the new symbiotic lifestyle takes you!
Emergency workers report that the damage from Valentine’s Day is worse than previously projected. They describe bodies strewn upon the ground, covered in glitter and paper cupids. Entire buildings collapsed, leaving only rubble and chalky candy hearts. And of course there is the sad fate of those chosen to be another person’s valentine. Little can be said to help the families of those unfortunates, except that the process is, while exactly as ghastly and excruciating as feared, apparently not as horribly slow and drawn-out as it appears to outside observers.
As usual, no aid has come our way from either the state or national government. The statehouse even went so far as to send a formal reply, the entirety of which reads: “Sorry. We can see what you were going for, but maybe we just don’t ‘get’ that kind of thing. Anyway, creative stuff and have a happy valentines.” Those monsters.
If you or anyone you know has any footage or photos of the events of Valentine’s Day, please send them directly in to the station, so that we may put the images and video on the radio. Thank you and be safe.
The City Council recently moved to name “dance” as the official town language. This measure has been met with tense debate and raised voices over the past several weeks. Proponents say we need a unified language, as it will save money on municipal signage and documentation, not to mention bring us together as a community. The poetry of the human body, they said (while quickly pulling in their elbows and turning their bowler hats down over their eyes in an obvious tribute to Bob Fosse), mates physical being with mental necessity—a marriage that brings purpose to our quickly rotting, living corpses.
Opponents say that this move, if voted into law, is discriminatory against the physically handicapped. Also, less than ten percent of Night Vale citizens have ever even taken a single dance lesson, let alone achieved lifelong mastery of one of the most ethereal and difficult-to-grasp art forms. One opponent, who asked to remain nameless out of fear of retribution, told us the bill was entirely funded by lobbyists from Cheryl’s Little Princesses Dance Studio. “Just follow the money,” they said. Then the anonymous insider’s pupils grew until they eclipsed the whites, their tongue slid out from their knife-gash of a grin, and their hair would not stop graying and growing.
A final vote is expected on Tuesday.
And now traffic.
A representative from the Sheriff’s Secret Police, waving vaguely at a map in our studio, said that there are street closures, quote, “All over.”
“Just all over the general area,” the representative said, tapping the edge of the map with two knuckles, “a bunch of them in different places.” We asked if he could be more specific and he nodded, but did not say anything more. We tried naming a number of streets, to see if any of them were included on the list of closures, but the representative only replied with an “Oh yeah, I mean, probably,” and an ambiguous head waggle to each one. He added that anyone caught on a closed road would be dealt with in the usual manner, and then he winked and gave me a thumbs-up. It is possible he was merely a vagrant who wandered into the studio. We didn’t bother to check his credentials. Just to be safe, though, look out for road closures all over in the general area, listeners. They’re in a bunch of different places, probably. This has been traffic.
And now for corrections. We offer the following corrections to previous reports broadcast on Night Vale Community Radio:
1. Blue, not green.
2. A low whirring sound was heard only by those to the west of it.
3. The witness’s name was Henry Greggson, and not, as we reported, Crystal Souleater.
4. We were feeling, at best, fine, and not, as we stated on the record, “pretty good thanks.”
5. No! No! Do not do what we advised! We were so terribly, terribly wrong. If you have done it already . . . well, our heart goes out to those who miss you. Please forgive us. Please forgive us.
This has been corrections.
More post–Valentine’s Day news. The Night Vale Mall’s planned Valentine’s Day art installation, involving footage of actual beating animal hearts projected on a vivisected teddy bear, was canceled due to the entire mall being flooded with poisonous gas. This gas was described as difficult to breathe, and a major cause of death to those who stood in it. Mall PR officials expressed regret at the cancellation, saying “Man, it’s like every time an artist has a bold new idea, the system has to come in and shut them down.” They concluded by muttering, “It stinks, man, it stinks,” before going off to sulk in the Red Cross medical tent.
Emergency workers, meanwhile, report coming across a stash of unactivated Valentine’s Day cards, forcing them to cease ope
rations until a specialized team could be called in to deal with the danger. Three workers died before they could retreat. Also Night Vale Community Radio Intern Stacey died a couple of months ago, soon after our last mention of her. Our sympathies to the loved ones of those who are lost, especially Stacey. Sorry that I didn’t get around to telling you until now. That was totally my fault.
Mayor Pamela Winchell issued the following statement today, in regards to the increasing public support for her ouster, and replacement by dashing inmate and blogger Hiram McDaniels. Winchell said:
The mayor smells of olives. The mayor burns like a match tip and casts her flickering light upon the darkened path of fate. The mayor does not have keys to the stone door; the mayor is the stone door and all that quivers behind it. The mayor is forgiving. The mayor makes no mistakes. The mayor clutches tightly to your lungs, all six arms embracing your savory breaths. Let the mayor out. Let the mayor out. Let the mayor out.
There were no follow-up questions, but the press pool did let out a simultaneous “omm” as fire burst forth from the podium, and the conference room ceiling flew away revealing a midday night sky that had grown cancerous with blinking stars.
McDaniels is still in jail awaiting trial for insurance fraud and evasion of arrest. He has previously announced interest in becoming mayor of Night Vale and is a 3,600-lb., five-headed dragon.
In other news, several alert citizens have reported that the Night Vale Post Office, closed since the strange and probably supernatural attack that it suffered several months ago, now appears to be open for business once again. This is good news for all of us, as we as a city have been unable to send or receive letters and packages since the closing. All private delivery companies, of course, refuse to enter the greater Night Vale area because, a FedEx spokesperson explained, “It is cursed.”
Witnesses say the post office has opened its doors and looks to be full of activity. There have been a few changes. For instance, all clerks behind the counter are now strange cloth-wrapped figures, who hum tunelessly and turn in place instead of doing any sort of official postal business. In addition, the entire customer line and lobby area is full of more of these cloth-wrapped figures, all similarly turning and humming. Those who have tried to enter the building have reported an immediate wave of dizziness and nausea, followed by visions of strange jagged peaks and a churning black ocean. Also, they say, stamps now cost two cents more than a few months ago. It is not enough, apparently, for the postal service to violently assault our minds with visions, but they are also intent on bleeding our wallets dry. For shame. But hey, at least everyone can get Amazon deliveries again. As their slogan says: “Amazon.com. The only website now. Where did the rest of them go? Do not ask. Do not ask.”
And now, the weather.
WEATHER: “Neptune’s Jewels” by Mystic
Ladies and gentlemen, emergency workers report that they have reached Old Town Night Vale, and further report that it is a scene out of a nightmare, assuming you have had the usual nightmare in which Old Town received minor structural damage and debris, with no serious injuries.
Emergency workers report that they have treated those who need treating and have cleared away what needed clearing away. They report that the usual stress of day-to-day life was worse, but now it seems better, and that later, they project, it will be worse again.
Emergency workers report that they are feeling good about stuff in general, for once. Emergency workers report that they are smiling and they don’t even know why. Emergency workers report a cloud. Just that, a cloud, and isn’t it funny how we often don’t notice little things like that, they report.
Well, listeners, it seems perhaps that we have come through this day and reached some other side. Not unaffected, no. Not unchanged. But here.
After all, this Valentine’s Day, as all Valentine’s Days, will not succeed in bringing our city down. This Valentine’s Day, as all Valentine’s Days, will soon recede into painful memory, fading with time until another foul Valentine’s Day is upon us again.
Stay tuned next for me saying, “Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.”
Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.
PROVERB: Werner Herzog is the most interesting person.
EPISODE 18:
“THE TRAVELER”
MARCH 1, 2013
COWRITTEN WITH ZACK PARSONS
I WAS HONORED TO BE THE FIRST GUEST WRITER JOSEPH AND JEFFREY INVITED to share the Welcome to Night Vale experience. I had worked with Joseph for years as a writer at Something Awful and contributed to his fictional anthologies, including A Commonplace Book of the Weird: The Untold Stories of H.P. Lovecraft. He knew my works of fictional weirdness and I had been enjoying Welcome to Night Vale’s first episodes when he contacted me in September 2012 and invited me to contribute some writing. I heard the geniuses at work and I didn’t have to be asked twice.
My starting point for writing “The Traveler” was to insert a character into the richly strange world of Night Vale who would be completely self-contained. The traveler was his own beginning and his own end, as mysterious as the town, and yet by the time he departed it was my hope it would seem as if he had always been there. I was also amused by the idea of presenting a closed loop of a character: a complete quantum impossibility, who contradicts science and yet feels perfectly at home under the glowing light of the Arby’s sign.
The traveler was not the only character I created, and I seeded in the mentions of a few other strange events and persons who might be useful in future scripts, like the Black Dauphin and Megan Wallaby. It was exciting to contribute to this world and a pleasure to collaborate with both Joseph and Jeffrey on the writing. I believe it was around the time the episode aired that the show had grown into a huge hit on iTunes, for which I humbly and fully take credit. You’re welcome.
—Zack Parsons
The optimist says the glass is half full. The pessimist says the glass is half empty. It is only the truth seeker who wonders: Why is the glass there? Why is there water all over the floor? Why is it covering every other surface of the house? Who, or what, is doing this to us?
WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE.
Listeners, a new traveler has arrived in Night Vale. This is not uncommon, perfectly located, as we are, between several vertices, but this traveler is not one who will be mistaken for those other travelers. You know the ones.
This traveler is said to have a foreign face and a handsome but terrible beard. He is reportedly wearing a uniform with silver epaulettes, golden braid, and buttons of a metallic alloy not describable in our limited color language. This is all very similar to the marching band uniform of the Desert Bluffs Cacti, prior to The Incident, but the traveler’s uniform is not scorched and soaked with blood.
“I cannot say that I trust this interloper very much, and his actions do not give me reason to trust him,” suggests the Manual on Interlopers published by the Sheriff’s Secret Police. According to the manual, citizens are advised to not speak with the traveler and to dig a shelter in their garden or, if they do not have a garden, to make themselves into a metaphorical shelter through vigilance and a positive outlook.
Who can say what agenda the traveler might have? He drives a large and expensive truck, he digs in the desert late at night, he does not seem adequately respectful of forbidden areas, and he has already married Night Vale’s third most beautiful woman, Cactus June. He persuaded her to come down from her cactus and he has married her. I am looking at a photograph of the wedding in the newspaper at this very moment. Now I am drinking something. [He does.] Now I am [crunchy chewing] eating an enchilada that was just handed to me.
Mayor Pamela Winchell called an emergency press conference today, her fourth this week. After the usual crowd had gathered around, minus those arrested at previous press conferences, she began proceedings by vibrating slightly and staring at the sun for five straight minutes. Once these usual pleasantries were over, she read her statement, which was the following:
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sp; THE FENCES IN THE CAVES. A HEART THROBBING FOR WHAT IT CANNOT HAVE. A HEART NOT HAVING WHAT IT NEEDS TO THROB. THE FENCES IN THE CAVES. HEAT FROM BELOW AND ABOVE BUT ALL IS COLD BETWIXT. THE FENCES IN THE CAVES. THE FENCES IN THE CAVES.
Then she vanished in a puff of green smoke. Several follow-up questions were asked, but since no one was at the podium, none of them were answered. Many of the questions were rhetorical anyway. After the round of questioning, a few arrests were made and the chosen journalists were led away to wherever journalists are taken when they disappear forever. All in all, a relatively uneventful press conference.
And now, a public service announcement. The Night Vale Psychological Association recommends that you spend at least thirty minutes each day believing what you see. The NVPA cited a study showing that more than sixty percent of all working citizens live in a self-created dome of obstinance, distraction, and surreal fantasy. When confronted with actual things outside of their own understanding (referred to by the psychologists as “real life”) most test subjects closed their eyes and pretended there was a spider or something on the ground.
The study does warn that trusting your own eyes can lead to some dangers. For instance: poltergeists, robots, and humidity may create visual illusions, tricking you into unsavory activities like gambling and eating nonfoods, so that they can gloat at your misfortune.
But the NVPA assures us that taking what you see at face value (even if only for a few minutes daily) is the most efficient way to live. It saves the mind from the emotional stress of self-fiction and skepticism.
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.
