Work Text:
Monday
Now, I don’t have anything against giant babies, listeners. After all, weren’t we all giant babies at one time? Giant, cannibalistic babies babbling in ancient tongues long thought dead, feasting on the entrails of those who would calm us with pacifiers or diaper changes, or the blood of our ancestors heated in a pot on the stove at no more than 100 degrees Fahrenheit, lest we burn our tiny, yet giant mouths. Exactly. But I just don’t understand what that has to do with the Twelfth Annual Night Vale T-Ball and BBQ Picnic.
And well, I don’t mean to tell anyone how to do their job, but I am just agog at the mayor’s decision to make attendance at the picnic compulsory for our youngest and most fragile of bodies. Our small town has always prided itself on our ability to keep our children safe, and the mere thought of a flaming t-ball flying through the air and hitting such delicate (albeit alarmingly large) frames fills me with dismay. Am I being too overprotective? I just can’t bring myself to agree with such a decision, and—what?
Oh.
I see.
An intern has just handed me a letter from the mayor’s office. Citizens of Night Vale, I dearly regret that, for the safety of the population, all children must be present in order for the annual hunt and sacrifice at the bloodstone to work. No matter how dangerous it may or may not, but probably definitely will be, it is absolutely necessary in order to prevent us from sinking into the sand like so many other civilizations lost in time.
My apologies, Mayor Winchell, for questioning your commitment to keeping Night Vale safe for generations to come. To put it quite simply: I never should have doubted you.
So come one, come all to the Twelfth Annual Night Vale T-Ball and BBQ Picnic next Saturday night and enjoy great music, wonderful company, and the taste of slow grilled meat of dubious origins.
In other news, the City Council has announced that they have solved our current problem of excess puppies, though they would not explain how they have done so. Regardless, Night Vale can rest easily now knowing that no harm has come to those adorable little scamps, and that they are sure to live long and healthy lives with families who will no doubt love them until their untimely demise.
And now, a word from our sponsors.
Death. Fire. Judgment. A flock of geese fly into your room while you dream of an oncoming storm. You awake with a start. Your fingers are now tiny snakes, hissing and rattling and lunging at you as you stare in horror and dismay. Flames sprout from the corner of your room. You clutch at your throat, unable to scream. The snakes strike as one, pumping venom into your veins through the tiny marks they made upon your flesh. Poison oozes down your neck. It smells of mozzarella and burning wood. You flee from the room, only to collapse at the front door, worn and dizzy. You die with the name of your long dead lover on your lips and the smell of freshly baked bread in your nose.
This message has been brought to you by the Olive Garden.
Have you been keeping up with your government mandated dream journals? If you’re still having a bit of trouble recalling them, I’ll let you in on a little tip that really helps me clear things up in the morning: consider that the universe is a vast and terrifying place. Think deeply on the eternal nothingness that lies above and around. Remember that while many of us will die, so many more of us will be left screaming in agony, trapped inside our own minds as our bodies quiver and force us to soil ourselves in fear. The deep and terrible truth of the universe will cause you to escape into a fantasy world you will never wish to leave, and as a result, you will find yourself remembering your dreams more and more clearly. The fear stricken hallucinations that result may just cause you to tap into collective unconsciousness of the world.
So, you know, have fun! Break loose! Meet some new people, maybe even make a date. There’s no reason government mandated activities can’t be fun and educational.
Speaking of dates, listeners, you might just be interested in discovering that I, Cecil Baldwin, have one. Carlos, beautiful, perfectly coifed Carlos, has invited me over to his lab and asked me to submit to a range of physical and psychological testing. He has become convinced that there is something unique to Night Vale and its residents that cause everything and everyone to defy both the laws of physics and rational thought.
Well now, I don’t know what he could have possibly meant by that, but what I do know is that he asked me to come visit him in private long after work hours have ended in order to submit to a vast array of medical procedures, and that certainly sounds like a date to me. What do you think, Night Vale? Should I rush home and put on my Sunday best, or am I jumping the gun on this one? Sacrifice a small goat and chant your answers into a bloodstone and I’ll be sure to hear your thoughts on it.
John Peters (you know, the farmer?) has reported hearing strange noises emanating from the dog park early this morning. He described it as a “strange pulsating tone that resembles nothing more than the aching splendor of a dying star," which, as we all know sounds almost exactly like the beginning eight measures of Lady Gaga’s hit song “Telephone”, featuring Beyoncé. He then went on to exclaim, while bleeding from the eyes, “I can see into eternity, and it is COLD. There are monstrous unknowable things all around us that feast on our thoughts.” He then continued, saying, “Time and space are convulsing all around us. My eyes are melting from things I should not have seen! The pain is unceasing and I fear that my torment shall never end,” shortly before turning to stone.
The Sheriff’s Secret Police is urging people to avoid looking at the dog park at all costs, but the City Council assures us that there’s “probably nothing to worry about, but hey, wouldn’t it be kind of funny to see how many people we can get to turn into statues? We could get them to make funny faces or do poses or something. It would be like a competition. We could give out prizes.”
I have to admit, Night Vale—that does sound like an enjoyable way to pass the time with family and friends. Perhaps we could add that to the list of possible activities at the Old Town Night Vale Memorial Summer Festival. Regardless, I agree with the Sheriff’s Secret Police—such family-friendly activities have a place and time, but the very beginning of a work week is not that moment. Save it for the weekend, Night Vale, when all members of the family can play along!
Night Vale Community Radio would like to issue the following corrections:
Do NOT—I repeat, do NOT stand still and make eye contact with the ravenous beasts that stalked our streets last weekend, for it will cause them to become enraged and attack you much more viciously than they otherwise would have. Instead, you should try running as fast and as far as you possibly can, or hitting them with whatever weapon you happen to have lying about the house. I myself favor rocket launchers for times such as these, as they give you that singular burst of confidence that’s oh so desirable in these situations.
I know what you’re thinking, Night Vale—not literally, of course, that wore off months ago—but you’re thinking, “Why should we listen to you this time?” And you’re right. I suspect such advice comes far too late for most of our listeners, who have undoubtedly already perished from their wounds. But, I don’t know, I just can’t help but live in hope. And hope, as they say, springs eternal.
Perhaps I’d rather believe that my words can still reach the few stragglers who survived by hiding in chimneys or walk-in freezers and have somehow managed not to succumb to their own injuries. And perhaps it brings me pleasure to think about the strength of our citizens in the face of overwhelming peril and increasingly unlikely odds. Is that really so bad? After all, where would we be without hope? If I didn’t have hope, would I be here right now, desperately trying to decide whether noninvasive medical procedures call for casual or dressy-casual clothes? No, I wouldn’t. And I would be much worse for the lack of it. Hope is what allows to us to continue fighting against a dark and fearsome universe. Without hope there is no comfort. Without hope, there would be no life.
And without life, there could be no love.
I leave you with these thoughts as we turn to the weather.
Tuesday
My hope was in vain.
As many of you may know, I was all a-twitter last night over Carlos finally asking me on a date to his medical laboratory on the edge of town. I was in rapture. All my dreams had finally come true. All I could think about was the possibility of Carlos allowing me to lean into his body once more, to run my fingers through his perfectly coifed hair, to gaze upon his perfect skin and perhaps, dear listeners, even be allowed to touch.
And, well, I think I looked good, Night Vale. Snazzy, but casual. Not at all like someone who had just spent precisely seventy-four minutes trying on every single item in their closet, including the ones that were banned several years ago by the City Council. You know, it’s important not to look like you’re trying too hard. It doesn’t matter how carefully you plan your outfit if the only thing people notice about you is the stench of your own desperation, which oddly enough smells like blueberries. You don’t want to come on too strongly, mark my words. But still, you want to make some sort of an effort. It’s a fine line.
So there I was, dressed with care and carrying my best vintage of soulwine and an envelope of carefully detailed medical history written entirely in my own blood, and—I’m not gonna lie, I was feeling pretty confident. But when I made my way into the odd, ramshackle building, I was pained to discover that we were not alone after all! When I got there, I saw nothing but a room full of scientists and flickering, oddly clicking machines.
I began to suspect that it was not a date after all, but something of a group outing. Oh, how could I have been so mistaken, Night Vale? Invasive medical procedures are one thing, but noninvasive medical procedures are exactly the kind of getting-no-know-you activity one has with an acquaintance or coworker, not someone you have a romantic interest in. I don’t know how I mixed that up.
I am so embarrassed. I really jumped the gun on that one. I don’t know what I was thinking. But that’s hope for you, Night Vale. Sometimes it’s the candle lighting up the darkness and sometimes it’s the dark flame screaming at you from the abyss. Whether or not you choose to extinguish either flame is entirely up to you. Goodnight, Night Vale. May your sleep be restful and your dreams completely lacking in torment.
Stay tuned for the dulcet tones of an all ant quartet singing an acapella rendition of Vida la Viva by Coldplay.
Wednesday
The man in the tan jacket was recently seen speaking to the zombified corpse of the Apache Tracker late last night near the Fuel’n’Go. This marks the fourth time in as many days that he has been spotted wandering around Night Vale. While we are all incredibly grateful to the Apache Tracker for so valiantly saving Carlos from an army of tiny warriors from the vast underground city beneath the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex, no one is really surprised to see him still kicking around. After all, death is now a meritocracy in Night Vale, and he was, frankly, kind of an asshole. I mean, just really racist. I don’t know what he was thinking. It was embarrassing.
Old Woman Josie told one of our interns that the angels were eavesdropping on the conversation and believe it has something to do with the slow inevitable collapse of our universe to alternate timelines. Could this be connected to the strange happenings going on in the dog park? We will be following this story carefully throughout the week and remind everyone that the warnings given by the Sheriff’s Secret Police are still in effect. Do not enter the dog park. Avoid staring at the dog park. Do not attempt to communicate with the dog park and above all, avoid give the dog park any offerings, ultimatums or baked goods.
Next up: the traffic report.
There has been a small accident just a block away from the Night Vale High School due to Michael Sandero spontaneously growing yet another arm just as he was pulling out of the school parking lot. The new arm then proceeded to violently punch both of Michael Sandero’s heads for a full four minutes until authorities arrived and were able to stun it. Shortly after, it was placed under arrest for aggravated assault and stands in a jail cell awaiting trial. Both of Michael Sandero’s heads will make a full recovery.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I did not want to say so earlier, but my excitement has been bubbling over and I can no longer keep it inside. After yesterday’s broadcast, Carlos called me up and asked if we could meet at the parking lot behind the Arby’s.
“Is something the matter?” I asked anxiously. I did not mean to sound uneager to speak to him, but it does sometimes seem as if Carlos only ever calls me when things have gone wrong.
“No, of course not,” he said immediately. “I was listening to your broadcast and, Cecil, I just, I need to speak to you face to face. Can we meet?”
He sounded nervous and upset and I am unashamed to say that it filled me with fear. Had I only imagined the brush of his hair as I lay my head on his shoulder so many weeks ago? Had I only hallucinated the feel of his warm palm against my knee and the comfort of his body against mine? Was it all just a lovely dream I would come to regret waking from?
I did not know what to think. But it was Carlos, and I would follow him anywhere.
As I made my way over to the parking lot behind the Arby’s where we had once spent all night metaphorically baring our souls to each other, I could think of nothing but my own self-doubt. But all that slipped from my mind the moment we laid eyes on each other, for when he saw me…
Oh, when he saw me. When he glanced up at me from the hood of his car and saw me standing just a few feet away, his face shone. His black hair gleamed in the moonlight, his white teeth glittered like bone, and he smiled at me so brightly I felt myself shake.
It occurred to me that I had not seen him smile in quite some time.
I sat next to him on the hood of his car for hours that night, ignoring the cool desert temperatures by focusing on the warmth of his body at my side. As the night wore on, we drew closer to each other, and I rested my head on his shoulder once more, as I had so many weeks ago.
Carlos never explained exactly why he called me down there, and in fact we barely spoke at all the entire night. But though we said little to each other, I was not disappointed, for I remembered the look in his eyes when he saw me and I was glad.
It reminded me that hope is never in vain.
I feel as if I have a new understanding of Carlos. And you know what, Night Vale? We may not be dating, but what we have is hardly anything to scoff at. And if Carlos isn’t ready, I can wait until he is.
Good night, Night Vale, and may your dreams be as peaceful as mine.
Thursday
Night Vale was rocked early this morning by an explosion that caused a large crater and took out at slightly less than half of the town. Hundreds were injured and thousands more killed in an event made all the more shocking by the fact that so many of them seem to be staying dead. The Sheriff’s Secret Police has declared a state of emergency and are urging people to stay in their houses until things have been properly investigated. In a press report, Mayor Pamela Winchell had this to say: “A few thousand, that’s not too bad, right? I mean, it could’ve been worse.”
I agree, Mayor Winchell. It’s important to stay positive in times such as these.
The Night Vale School District has announced that they will be making some major changes to the foreign language curriculum at the elementary school. No longer will they be teaching long dead languages that have been lost to the sands of time, but will instead start focusing on languages that are far more useful to the world at large. “Who even speaks Spanish or French anymore? If Night Vale wants to adapt to the times and let our children become meaningful, productive members of society, we have to throw out the old curriculum and start teaching our students some useful and much needed skills that will help them make their way in the world,” they announced in a press conference held in the elementary school basement.
In addition, the P.T.A. had this to say:
THE GLOW CLOUD DOES NOT NEED LANGUAGE. THE GLOW CLOUD NEEDS NOTHING. THE GLOW CLOUD DOES NOT SPEAK. IT IS ABOVE SUCH PETTY HUMAN CONCERNS. THE GLOW CLOUD DESIRES NOTHING OF COMMUNICATION. YOU WILL SUBMIT TO THE MIGHT GLOW CLOUD.
ALL HAIL THE MIGHTY GLOW CLOUD.
Well, I have to say, they make a very convincing argument. Tradition is a powerful and important part of every culture’s way of life, but that doesn’t mean we should run from change—we should embrace it. So this upcoming school year expect to see a few more courses in Advanced Neo-Sumerian, Double Russian, and a little language called Sievish. I for one applaud the School District in their efforts to adapt to a new and ever changing world.
ALL HAIL.
Listeners, I did not want to speak of it as the memory of the event is almost too painful for me to recall, but my integrity as a radio host has forced me to admit that Carlos was in the dog park when it exploded.
Earlier this morning, Carlos and several of his as of yet unnamed scientists had begun investigating a stunning yet eerily pulsating glow that had been radiating from the dog park. They had hoped that by looking at the dog park through the unrelenting gaze of technology, they could avoid facing a similar fate as John Peters, former farmer/current water feature at the Night Vale Community College. Yet to everyone’s dismay, they had been there for only a short time when the glow began getting brighter and pulsing more quickly.
Several of the scientists backed away, and a few more fled entirely, but Carlos was not among them. Beautiful, brave Carlos actually began moving closer. And the closer he got, the more it pulsed, until finally it exploded in a burst of light and sound.
Now, I was not actually there to see any of this, listeners, but Old Woman’s Josie’s angel friends were telling her the events as they occurred, and she has relayed them to me as accurately as possible.
For hours I waited for some sign that Carlos might still be alive. Perhaps, I thought, perhaps he was merely flung into the dog park with intern Dana. Perhaps it was actually some other Carlos from some alternate dimension, and mine was safe and sound in his laboratory or apartment. Perhaps the entire event was a town wide hallucination brought about by a shady and mysterious government agency drugging our water supply, and there had never actually been an explosion. While I waited, I thought of every single possible scenario that would explain his survival, and I tried desperately to will them all into being.
But hours went by and still there was nothing.
And then it happened. He appeared just as I began to lose hope, arriving in a radiant gleam of light in the middle of what remained of the town.
And, well. All’s well that ends well, right Night Vale?
Not that it seems to be much of a comfort for Carlos, mind you. When I spoke to him earlier, he seemed very troubled and said that he was absolutely determined to figure out what went wrong this morning. But when I asked if I could do anything to help he just shook his head and asked for some time alone to work things out without distractions.
Did you hear that? He thinks I’m distracting!
Night Vale, I’m not exactly sure about what’s happening, but I have just received word that yet another strangely pulsating glow has shown up near the radio tower. Carlos was seen running toward the area, and we have sent Intern Bill to the general area in order to report on the situation. He has already reported overhearing Carlos mumble something about “getting good readings of the point of origin.”
We will continue following this story as it breaks.
Thursday
Station Management has been unnervingly quiet lately. Though we can spot strange shapes moving just behind the frosted glass window, we are no longer able hear the monstrous sound of their very existence. I do not know whether to be relieved or afraid. My coworkers have taken to tiptoeing through the halls and psychically removing their thought patterns from outside perception. I myself will not bother with such tricks, as I am certain they would do no good for any of us. Wish us luck, Night Vale, and pray that we make it through the day intact.
Carlos was last seen outside of City Hall this afternoon arguing with the Sheriff’s Secret Police shortly after reappearing in a sudden blaze of light in the middle of town. Unfortunately for him, he did not have much luck getting into the building, as the Secret Police immediately barred him from entering by using physical force—luckily without damaging his perfect face and chiseled jaw. Not much of the conversation was understood thanks to the anti-cognition force field that surrounds the structure, but Old Woman Josie’s angel friends claim that Carlos was attempting to get the Mayor to evacuate the city. The angels also explained that the explosion this morning was the direct result of the universe destroying alternate timeline we reported on yesterday. They also told her that another explosion was sure to come and that she should probably consider watching her DVR-d episode of Longmire before dinner.
In a move that shocked everyone, the Whispering Forest suddenly stopped whispering early this morning following the explosion. However, I have no further information for you at this time as to why it would do such a thing or what it is indicative of, as it has refused to answer questions in either verbal or written form. Further attempts at either sign language or interpretive dance were entirely unsuccessful.
I’m afraid I have some bad news for you all. Night Vale’s favorite scientist was just seen being taken into the abandoned mineshaft on the edge of town. Witnesses report seeing him punched multiple times and then eventually sprayed with a canister of what I can only assume is super bear mace.
Now, I know that the Sheriff’s Secret Police are doing their best to keep each and every one of us safe from any and all unnamed horrors, but surely they cannot believe that Carlos is a threat to our safety! He is above reproach—certainly all their listening devices and recordings of private conversations can prove that.
We must not allow this to happen, listeners. We must all band together in protest. We must let the government know that we will not stand for this, whether by starting some kind of letter writing campaign or scheduling a sit-in at the local Ralph’s, or even by forming some sort of guerrilla-fighting militia that will storm into the mineshaft and take back what was so wrongly stolen from us.
No. Wait. It occurs to me that I am perhaps being too hasty. I apologize for my moment of hysteria. Ignore what I have said. I know that the police are only there to protect us, and because I am absolutely positive that they have our best interests at heart, I am confident that Carlos will be returned to us before the week’s end.
Thursday
The Whispering Forest shocked everyone today by suddenly and completely without warning bursting into a haunting dirge from which there was no earthly escape. The melody pierced into the collective conscious, causing several Night Vale residents to clutch at their head in agony, screaming in ancient Akkadian, “Eli Baltuti Ima”Idu Mituti!”
The Mayor later explained that there was nothing to worry about, as it was all just a preview for a special play the Night Vale Community Theatre will be putting on next week for our viewing pleasure. Strangely, the Night Vale Community Theater informed us that they had no recollection of practicing or even writing any such play, but admitted that they kind of had a lot to drink last night, and could have made all sorts of plans that they no longer have any memory of.
Night Vale, this play sounds amazing, and I for one will definitely be seeing it on opening day. Akkadian is a beautiful language, and we so rarely get to see any form of media that utilizes it. It will be an excellent time to brush off my old high school language arts skills and regain that former fluency. I urge everyone to buy tickets for it as soon as possible. Now I know most of you probably want to wait until the first couple of reviews come out to see whether or not it’s up your alley, but you don’t want to wait until the last minute to discover that the play has sold out and you’ve missed your chance completely.
Live in the moment, Night Vale! You’ll be supporting community theater and helping to promote bilingual forms of entertainment. And hey, even if you wind up disliking it in the end, you’d have tried something new and the experience you had will have been priceless.
During the break, I received a mysterious yet intriguing call from none other than Intern Dana, reporting to us live (or some approximation thereof) from the dog park. She has a very interesting story for us here at Night Vale Community Radio, one of which I am happy to report. In the call, she claims that the explosion this morning was no accident and was in fact the result of a strange groundhog’s day loop that has affected the entire town. She says that that we are all actually stuck in an endless repeating Thursday from which there is no earthly escape, and that “all this has happened before and all this will happen again.”
She also reports that she’s really bored and is frankly getting sick and tired of having to watch the same episodes of the same television shows over and over again. Our thoughts are with you, Dana. I know none of us would like to be in such a predicament.
So please, if you have a still-beating heart and an iTunes gift card, please send any codes you can spare to Dana’s mobile phone in the dog park. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.
Thursday
Station Management has left the building. I can spot no movement behind the frosted glass. The door to their office is ajar, but I am unwilling to look inside. In sheer defiance of all self-preservation, Intern Bill briefly attempted to peek inside from the relative safety of the hall….but he has not been seen since. Nearby witnesses report hearing a blood curdling shriek and the clearly recognizable sounds of someone being torn to pieces. I suspect that was only their security defense, and shudder to think of what it could possibly be protecting.
I fear for my life, Night Vale, and more importantly, I fear for yours. I say this to you while huddled underneath my desk once more, surrounded by the only two interns that remain alive. This is not a drill. This is not a delusion. This is a very real, very terrifying threat that we all are facing this night.
Should you happen upon them outside, I urge you to run. Run as far and as fast as you can. Run as though your very life depended on it, for it most assuredly does. Do not attempt to make contact with them. Do not attempt to hide. Go home, Night Vale. Stay indoors and take comfort in your loved ones. Live each moment you have left with them as though they might be your last, and above all else, pray.
Thursday
Our favorite scientist called early this morning asking if I could somehow arrange a press conference for him at one o’clock in the Town Hall, and asked if I could make sure as many people as possible showed up. Being something of a local celebrity, I was able to pull quite a few strings, and even managed to get some very important people to put in an appearance, including yours truly. Old Woman Josie’s angel friends were there, as well as Mayor Winchell, the sheriff, a few hooded figures and potential mayor candidate Hiram McDaniels. It was quite a turn out!
Carlos opened up by discussing the events that took place shortly after seven o’clock this Thursday morning, when an awful explosion made somewhat of a mess for Night Vale residents to clean up. He claimed that it was his actions that were to blame, and that the result of the explosion hurled him through space and time, eventually causing a secondary reaction that took out the remainder of the life left in Night Vale. He then told us that the explosion would be happening in just a few short hours, and that we should evacuate the town post-haste.
He paused for a moment to let us all take that in. Then, looking somewhat sheepish, he continued, “Oddly enough, the watch Cecil gave me for my birthday kept perfect time throughout the entire event. Strangely perfect time, considering that it correctly told me what the date and time was whenever the portal took me somewhen new, despite it not making logical sense for it to do so. It even told me the correct date despite the portal failing to touch down entirely.”
Of course it does, Carlos. Night Vale watches always keep perfect time, no matter what your location in space-time. It’s really handy when going on vacation to another time zone!
“For some reason, the portal briefly attempted to let me out two days ago. For whatever reason, it was either unable or unwilling to do so, and sent me back two twelve o’clock this afternoon. I suspect that a second explosion so soon after the first somehow damaged it in some way, and it lacked the ability to complete its destination. I suspect this is the reason I was unable to exit the portal when it first appeared on Monday.”
Then a loud and pointed cough from a woman without a face interrupted him, and he quickly jumped down from the podium so that the mayor could speak.
When asked if she would consider evacuating the town before the second explosion took place, Mayor Pamela Winchell asserted that she would not be doing so, saying only, “If there really is a time loop, and I see no reason why there would not be, there is absolutely no point in going anywhere at all. So just stay home. Enjoy your day. Have fun trying some illegal activity that would normally force the Sheriff’s Secret Police to snatch you from your home.” While Carlos began looking increasingly upset by her words, she continued, “In fact, let’s just declare this week Night Vale’s 1st Annual Free Crime Week.”
Do you hear that, Night Vale? Crime free holidays are no longer just for Tauruses. So go wild. Get out there and enjoy yourselves. Rob a grocery store or place a curse on that roommate of yours that always leaves dirty towels on the floor and never takes out the trash even though you’ve asked him a million times. Maybe even try to figure out exactly who or what is hiding underneath the Sheriff’s cloak.
Actually, on second thought, I can’t in good conscience recommend doing that last one. As we all know, the Sheriff’s Secret Police can ignore all laws and government mandates, and you might just find yourself spending Night Vale’s 1st Annual Free Crime Week in a mineshaft at the edge of town. And wouldn’t that just be a disappointment?
Thursday
Right before coming to work today, I received a long and rambling voice mail from Intern Dana—or her doppelganger, I’m still not sure. I’ve listened to it three times already, but I confess, I don’t quite know what to make of it. I don’t think it’s relevant to anything that’s going on, but she seemed so concerned about it all that I thought I’d better get a second opinion before dismissing it offhand.
So take a listen, Night Vale, and tell me your opinion:
“I don’t know what to think anymore. This situation is getting so out of hand. How did this happen? How did it get this bad? I’m slowly losing any and all hope in everything and everyone. I don’t know if humanity can ever recover from this. People are dying all the time now and I just don’t know who to trust anymore. I’m beginning to think that they’re ALL cylons, Cecil. It’s the only explanation.”
So, what do you say, Night Vale? Cylons: actual threat, or the fanatic ramblings of the mildly obsessed? Let us know!
Carlos has been acting increasingly erratic following the events of early this morning, wherein he disappeared in a strange glow, somehow triggered an explosion, and then later reappeared with no explanation of what might have happened for anyone who may have been concerned or overcome with despair during those lost hours.
At 3pm, he was spotted pulling violently at his perfect hair in visible frustration while pacing angrily in front of Big Rico’s Pizza, unintentionally blocking the entrance for people trying to enter or exit. By 4pm, he was found morosely lying on the hood of his car in the parking lot of the Arby’s, looking as though the world had ended—which, of course, it has not. I think we would have noticed if the world had ended, Night Vale. I mean, probably.
After that he was spotted spending two whole hours standing in the crater in front of the dog park (which is remarkably still standing) while having a heated argument with the spot on the ground where a glowing pulsing orb of energy once existed.
Carlos, if you’re listening and your unpredictable behavior is the result of some sort of guilt for the thousands of people who have lost their lives in the explosion that followed your investigation into an area that was forbidden, I have only this to say to you:
Stop.
Seriously, stop. We all make mistakes. It could have happened to anybody! No one even cares and barely anyone got hurt. So stop making a mountain out of a molehill and cheer up!
Also, you really should call me back sometime. That doesn’t really have anything to do with any survivor guilt you may or may not be feeling, I just think it would be rude not to.
In other news, the Giant Glow Cloud was recently spotted departing Night Vale at incredibly speeds and heading in the direction of Desert Bluffs. The decision to go was very abrupt, completely unexpected and left the Night Vale P.T.A. reeling. Sources tell me that the Giant Glow Cloud did not even have the decency to ask for leave ahead of time, as would be polite and professional, and that it will be missing several important discussions about various school trips and sporting events.
The P.T.A. refused to comment on the situation, saying only that there was no need for its position to be filled, as the Giant Glow Cloud is expected back shortly. Then they added that the Giant Glow Cloud obviously loves its job and would surely not leave them in the lurch for an extended period of time—not for any reason, and certainly not for a town as horrible as Desert Bluffs.
It’s hard to argue with that kind of logic.
Thursday
Larry Leroy on the edge of town reported that the Whispering Forest has been looking particularly glum this morning. He did not describe any other potentially worrisome activities, but just to be on the safe side, I sent Intern Bill out for an interview. According to him, the Whispering Forest is upset because, “Everything’s just been really sad. Just really really sad. But you look great, though. Your shirt really brings out your eyes. And did you do something to your hair? It looks amazing.”
Intern Bill conveyed all of this to me over the phone shortly before tending his resignation. When asked if there was a reason for his sudden departure, he had only this to say: “I dunno, Cecil. I’m starting to feel really bad for it. I think I’m just gonna stick around and hang out until it feels better. Maybe become a tree.”
Fair enough. Resignation denied, Intern Bill. I will consider this an extended leave of absence. If you ever decide to come back or just stop being a tree for a while, there will be a job here waiting for you.
Ugh. Steve Carlsberg has been ranting about conspiracies again. He claims that the sudden disappearance of the Glow Cloud, Station Management, the Sheriff’s Secret Police and every single city official are all somehow connected and suggests that they are all actually just abandoning Night Vale to our inevitable dark fate. Furthermore, he says that they are specifically leaving us in the wake of this morning’s explosion because they are aware of something much more devastating that they—
Okay, you know what? I can’t continue. I am just too angry to continue this report.
You listen to me, Steve Carlsberg: people are allowed to go on vacation. Just because they’re city officials doesn’t mean they don’t deserve a break every now and then. And you know what else? They do deserve it. Day after day, year after year, they work hard, struggling to keep this city working to the best of their abilities. And you know who they’re doing it for? US. They’re doing it for us, Steve. They’re doing it for Night Vale. So for you to start making all these baseless and frankly insulting accusations against the people who make our town safe—
Well. I just hope you wake up tomorrow morning and realize what a terrible and selfish person you have been, and I hope you are filled with shame.
Night Vale, if you walk past Steve Carlsberg on the street today, I want you to look at him. I want you to look at him, and then I want you to point at him and say, “Shaaame.”
Maybe then he’ll learn some manners!
Thursday
I woke up to a series of strange and somewhat bewildering messages on my phone this morning. The first was from the Apache Tracker, and to be honest, I didn’t even bother to answer the phone. When I finally got around to checking my voice mail, I discovered that I didn’t even have to feel guilty about it, as the Apache Tracker had said absolutely nothing at all of importance in his entire message. He just rambled on for a full two minutes of nonsense that ended with, “Ничто́ не пропада́ет без следа́. Все меняется, ничто не исчезает. Знал бы, где упасть, там соломки постлал бы.”
Ugh. Can you believe that guy? What an jackass. I mean, if you’re going to call someone at six-thirty in the morning and interrupt their early morning bloodstone circle, it had better be for something important.
That just takes me back to what I said about etiquette. Some things are fine at six in the afternoon, but are just incredibly rude at six in the morning, and calling someone up just to tell them a series of inexplicable Russian proverbs are one of those things.
The second message was from former Intern Dana, who just a few months ago reported to me live from the dog park. From her I received a text message that read: “Neighborhood Watch wears black cloaks and kills people who ruin the neighborhood. Sound familiar? LOL.”
Yes, Dana, it does, though I am somewhat mystified as to why you would suddenly start mentioning something we are all already aware of and have vowed to forget. Regardless, I am glad to see that you are still alive and well. Presuming, of course, that you are still well. And alive.”
The third, final, and most bewildering message of all came from none other than Carlos, who called while I was in the shower a mere fifteen minutes before the explosion at the dog park that caused widespread death, but otherwise very little turmoil. In the message, he spoke of strange events and puzzling cycles, along with instances that (to my memory) have never actually happened. He even, Night Vale, spoke of a mysterious second explosion that seems to have rocked the town. Here, let me play the message for you so that you can hear for yourselves:
“I keep going to the parking lot behind the Arby’s. I don’t know why, but it seems to be the only place I can get my head on straight. It’s the only place I can calm down and just breathe, and I think it’s because it reminds me of you. I’ve started calling you every day in the hours before the second explosion and it’s all I can do not to yell at you or plead with you to run. I’ve already tried it a few times and it was no help. I don’t even know why I tried…I know it wouldn’t do anything; I know it wouldn’t really help anyone. I know that everything would revert back immediately and that nothing I do counts, but I guess I wanted to have at least one moment in which I could save someone and I suppose I wanted that someone to be you. I’m so tired, Cecil. Nothing has changed, not in all the iterations. Nothing has changed at all except for me. So every night before the cycle starts over, I go to the parking lot behind the Arby’s and I stare up at the flickering lights in the night sky and I think of you. And I think of your head on my shoulder and I think of my hand on your knee and I think to myself that I want to have a lot more nights like that. And then I remember that I can’t. Cecil, if I ever find a way to end this, I want us to go there again some time. I just wanted you to know that.“
What could it all mean? Have our memories been wiped and replaced with those from an alternate dimension? Has Carlos been stricken mad by firepollen or a poorly aimed curse? I don’t know what’s going on, but I am deeply concerned for Night Vale’s favorite scientist. If anyone has any explanation for what could have caused this, please contact the station so that we send either medical aid or a good exorcist in Carlos’ direction.
Thursday
Night Vale, I’m going to try something a little unusual for tonight’s broadcast. If you’re a regular listener, you’ll know that every year I or so give a big speech about the importance of changing things up a bit every now and then. And I am many, many things, Night Vale, but I am no hypocrite.
So tonight I’d like to tell you a story about fear and determination and sacrifice and bravery and love and loss.
This is a story about us.
Carlos came to my apartment today. He banged on the door and shouted my name so loudly he could have literally woken the dead. I had no idea that he even knew where I lived, and the shock of the moment gave me some pause, so I was not as quick to open the door as I otherwise would have been. He was so tense he was practically vibrating. His clothes were ragged and unkempt and his hair messy and unbrushed; he stood at my doorway with eyes stained red with tears and skin unwashed, and listeners?
He still looked beautiful to me.
I let him in without further ado. He had never been there before, had never seen the inside of my apartment and to be honest, neither had I seen his.
It seemed so odd that someone who meant so much to me had witnessed so little of my life.
I showed him into the living room, and just as I was about to offer him some coffee or tea, or perhaps Night Vale’s very own secret vintage, a metaphorical sea of words burst from him and stilled me into silence.
Listen carefully, Night Vale, because this next bit is important.
In halting, haunted words, Carlos explained that for the last week or so, he had been unwillingly trapped in what he called a “temporal causality loop.” Now, I’m no scientist, but I think he was using fancy-schmancy scientist lingo to describe a simple pre-destination paradox, like the ones we learned about in kindergarten.
“Oh,” I said, doing my best to sound supportive, “That’s neat. Is this your first one?”
“Cecil, this is serious,” he replied, “I don’t know what to do. I’m just so tired, and I keep—Cecil, everyone keeps dying.”
Well, he sounded really distressed as he paced around the room, and I was taught that when you truly care about someone you should always take their concerns seriously, so I didn’t point out that it was impossible for that many people to have died, as death was a meritocracy and most of them hadn’t yet earned it. So instead, I just nodded solemnly and said, “Go on…”
“The distortion field is causing the temporal causality loop, Cecil. Do you understand? I’m the reason this is happening. Getting stuck in the distortion field causes me to travel briefly to the morning of the explosion, which then destroys the fabric of reality in the new timeline while I return to the old timeline. It just repeats, over and over, and every single time Night Vale explodes and I am the only one left alive.”
“Well, not all of Night Vale,” I said comfortingly, because honestly, the explosion only took out about forty percent of the population, and that’s not that big of deal. We’ve been through way worse than that in recent history. Plus, you know, there’s just no way that Steve Carlsberg or Telly the Barber could have been deserving enough to greet the eternal sleep. That’s just impossible.
“No, I think…I think the explosions are caused by the paradox inherent in having multiple instances of myself, which means…Cecil, it means there was a secondary explosion in an already unstable field.”
I was about to point out that we have already had multiple instances of ourselves in one place at one time and they’ve never caused any explosions before (remember, listeners? Dana killed hers.) when something happened that metaphorically threw the words straight from my mind.
Carlos said, in a voice hoarse and broken, “I think it must have killed everyone. Even you.”
His shaking hands ran through his black hair, mussing it further, and his eyes began to well up with unshed tears. He looked beautiful and perfect, and my heart skipped a beat. He stopped in front of me, and without saying anything further, he reached down and pulled me off the couch and into his arms, clutching me tightly to his chest.
I did not know what to say or even if I wanted to say anything at all. It felt as if speaking aloud might destroy the tenderness of the moment—a moment I wanted to go on forever. But the moment could not last, for Carlos was not done speaking just yet.
“I didn’t remember, not at first. It wasn’t until I went to see Dana—“
“—or her doppelganger.”
“—after you reported on the time loop, and I don’t know Cecil, I think she had something done to me, because all of a sudden I could remember everything, every single time, and I keep on remembering with every iteration.” He took a deep breath in an attempt to get himself under control. “I was near the radio tower the second time. The blast radius, it must have…all those people…“ His fingers clutched tightly at my shirt and he breathed heavily, as if holding back sobs. “Cecil,” he pleaded, “I need your help. I don’t know what to do.”
But I knew what he had to do.
Night Vale, if our plan works you won’t be remembering any of this. If this works, you will have no recollection of explosions, or death, or crying children pleading for parents who will not come home. You will have no memory of a Night Vale that finally succumbed to the heavy hand of a universe that loves and despises us in equal measure.
You will have no knowledge of the terrible deed I have helped plan.
And neither will I.
That, at least, I am grateful for.
Thursday
I don’t often say this, Night Vale, but as you’re all probably aware of, something extremely upsetting happened early this morning. I’ve pieced together the timeline of events so that I could better describe to you what has happened, but some things are still confusing to me and cannot be explained.
I am told that shortly after dawn, the Apache Tracker was spotted receiving a mysterious call from an unknown person or entity while shopping in kitchen department of the 24hr Home Depot. This call caused him to instantly drop what he was doing and leave the store at a brisk pace without even buying that stainless steel convection oven he had been eying, even though it was on sale. Reports show that upon exiting the store, he immediately headed straight to the dog park where a strange pulsating glow had replaced the prior pulsating tone.
Upon hearing about the strange, pulsating tone, Carlos, beautiful and brave, went to the dog park to investigate, and was cruelly and without warning snatched from the jaws of life when the Apache Tracker took out a small hunting knife and stabbed him in the heart.
While his breath began to leave his body in quick bursts and his blood pooled in ever increasing volumes on the ground, the Apache Tracker stood over him, a still and silent guardian against the world. And as he took his final breath, the glow grew brighter until—incredibly—another Carlos appeared in the light.
I have no explanation for any of these events, Night Vale. I don’t know why there were two of Carlos, or why the Apache Tracker felt the need to kill one of them, but strangely, in my heart of hearts, I feel relieved. As if some fate had been narrowly avoided or some burden lifted from my chest. Though I have not yet seen or spoken to him, I am unafraid. Somehow, deep inside of me, I feel that the Carlos that remains is still my Carlos and that the events that occurred were necessary for him to remain that way.
Friday
Old Woman Josie called in to say that the angels have assured her that there will be no further issues with the inevitable collapse of our timeline for at least a few more months. Or until the prophecy reveals itself, either one. She also reports that the strange pulsating glow in the dog park will disappear entirely by the end of the day, and that John Peters (you know, the farmer?) will slowly return to normal over the course of the week, after which he will no doubt collapse from dehydration and/or starvation and possibly die.
Well, that might be good news for John Peters, but I’m sure that Night Vale Community College will be mourning the loss of its prized water feature for years to come.
Someone who I’m becoming increasingly sure is actually Intern Dana and not her doppelganger texted me yesterday night shortly after I finished delivering the news. The text said, mysteriously, “There can be only one.” Then there was a pause, during which she sent a second, even more mysterious text which read: “Btw, thnx for the gift cards, everyone—really appreciated,” which was followed by a series of exclamation marks, a smiley face and a symbol which when placed on its side seemed to resemble a heart.
I’m not exactly sure what she means by that, much less what it has to do with the earlier events of the day, but for any Night Vale residents that so graciously donated or gifted—
“Cecil?”
I…
Oh…
Um. Night Vale, it seems as if we have a guest in the booth tonight. I’m sorry, listeners, I know this is incredibly unprofessional, but I need just one moment—
“Cecil. I’m sorry to bother you. I know I should have either waited a little bit longer or talked to you a little bit earlier, but I wanted to get my head on straight before I spoke to you, and by the time I did a day had passed and you were already at work—”
“Carlos? Is something wrong? You seem—”
“No, nothing. Nothing’s wrong, not anymore.”
“Then what—“
“I used to think that the world had to make sense. That the universe was governed by rules and laws and an underlying sense of order that was unchanging and omnipresent. I thought that if I approached everything with logic and determination and patience the world would eventually open up to me. I thought that the laws of physics could eventually explain everything—even the things were vastly beyond human comprehension. But then I realized…”
“Realized what?”
“I realized that none of that really matters. That the universe isn’t nearly as important as the people in it. And I was so blind, Cecil, so stupid. It took me so long to see what was right in front of my face, and even then I ignored it. I put it off; I told myself that there would be plenty of time later to focus on other things. And I was wrong. We have to take whatever time we have. That’s what I realized. And I came here today because…“
“Y-Yes?”
“Cecil, I came here today because after everything that happened to me, I just wanted to see you.”