#wtnv transcripts

[particularly scary version of the theme song]

Do you ever stare at yourself for so long in the mirror that you no longer understand what you look like? [Are you losing consciousness?] Is this the same effect as thinking about someone you miss so much that you forget the shape of their face? Why would you do that? Why would you refuse to maintain order? [Why would you refuse to maintain order?] Are you refusing? Or are you a victim of your own mind?

Do brain cells dictate souls? Is thought matter? Does thought matter? Can the person looking back at you from the mirror tell you the answer? Just because you can see a person, does it mean that person exists? Is it you you are looking at? Or is it someone else? [(backwards) Does inscrutability scare you?]

How many hairs do I have? How many did I have yesterday? Are they the same color, the same length? Are these the same hairs I had when I was a child? [(backwards) Their eyes expressing nothing]

Should I be high if I’m going to ask myself these questions? Can you get high by behaving high?

Are you a good person because you do good things? Does a qualitative assessment mandate empirical evidence to support its truth? If I point at something and declare it –good-, will I be cross-examined? And if so, am I to be held in contempt for refusing to answer? Narrative is everything, right? [(backwards) Are you? Are you? Are you?]

Has anyone else been feeling this way, that you don’t recognize yourself? Have you told anyone? Does it help? Is it helping now, hearing me talk about it? Basically, why do I know I am me?

How many times have I seen myself in the mirror? [How many times have I seen myself in the mirror?] Is it bad that the answer is “rarely”? Shouldn’t we all be afraid of mirrors, or is it just me? [(backwards) Strange… and scary] How many times in a fit of disassociation do we see someone else- [Or someone else?] -behind us?

Are you, too, too afraid to turn around? Do you really want to challenge the veracity of your eyes? Do you think disbelief in death will make it disappear?

Are awareness and manifestation one and the same? [(backwards) But isn’t it strange?]

So, what did I see in the mirror today? [(backwards) If you look into the mirror that you just smashed do you see that the creature is gone?] Don’t we all see the same thing, isn’t it a person who looks exactly like ourselves? [(backwards) Mirror] And weren’t they making the same physical gestures and behind that person in the reflection, [(backwards) Are you?] did you not also see just over your shoulder a pair of eyes, the curve of a head, and did you notice how that head was human in shape – but maybe only a third of the size?

And did you make the same mistake as I? Thinking that because the head was so small, it must have been some distance away? [(backwards) Are you? Are you? Are you?] But you stared so long into those tiny eyes, didn’t you? And then you saw it. [And then you saw it.] Right? Did you see little spiny fingers reach up in front of its miniature, this passionate face, and [whispering] touch your shoulders? [(backwards) Are you losing consciousness?]

Did you scream inside, when you understood? Did you really truly understand that it was climbing, right there, on your back? [(backwards) What do you want from me?]

Are you still screaming, like I’m still screaming? How can you know how I feel? What - do you want - from meee?

[long pause, music] Where was I? Who is behind you in the mirror? [(backwards) What do you want from me?] Or what is behind you? Should I speak in present or past tense?

Is there a face there or is the face gone now? Are you no longer at the mirror? Do you feel safer? Why do you assume that because you aren’t looking in the mirror right now, that the tiny face and spiny digits – are not still behind you?

Do you feel it? [(backwards) Is this like when-] Are you, reflexively, touching your shoulder right now? [(backwards) Are you scared?] Or are you too scared? [(backwards) Are you, reflexively, touching your shoulder right now?]

Is this like when the ATM asks if you want to check your balance before withdrawing money and you decline, because you just don’t want to know? It doesn’t change the fact of your bank balance, does it?

Again. You think awareness and manifestation are one and the same, don’t you? Don’t we all?

So what of that little face with its inexpressive eyes and flat, lipless mouth? Didn’t it look like… Didn’t it look oh so familiar? Where have you seen that face before? Is it a ghost, a monster Or your own imagination? Are you starting to forget exactly what it looks like? Do you want to go to the mirror again?

Do you want to stare and stare at it, until you can comprehend what it is? [(backwards) Do you want to go to the mirror again? Do you want to stare? And stare at it? Until you can comprehend what it is?] Why? What will that accomplish? Are you being honest what yourself? Isn’t the real danger your won face? Could it be inferred that you invented the creature to distract yourself from the real horror? And what if we went to the mirror together? If we don’t feel alone in our feelings, could we conquer our fears? Are we in agreement, you and I?

What are you even looking at? Is your focus drifting to your shoulder? Can you not do that? Can you resist the urge? What will staring directly into your terror accomplish?

You see the face again, don’t you? Are you as scared as before, or have you steeled yourself for this? Is your mind more free to think critically about what it is and what it – wants? Is it attacking, or defending? Is it friend or foe or – indifferent?

Why is it so familiar? Is it something from childhood? [Were you sad?] Or was it a dream you once had? If you think about a memory long enough, doesn’t that mutate the truth? Isn’t every act of remembering another log on the fire of lies? When was the last time you saw your mother?

It’s been since childhood, hasn’t it? Didn’t she warn you – about mirrors? Didn’t she tell you they would be your demise? [(backwards) Didn’t she warn you – about mirrors? Didn’t she tell you they would be your demise?]

Or was that just a popular bedtime story? Do you see a flickering behind the tiny face? Is that sunlight oscillating behind swiftly moving clouds, or is that the creature creating that effect? Is it getting closer? Is the flickering less like a strobe effect and more like a hand-drawn flip book? Now that we’re looking with clearer eyes, is it just me or does the creature look like – a drawing?

Do you suddenly remember a swing set? Why swing set? You were on the swing set, weren’t you? How high did you go? Was it possible to do a full loop? Would you have fallen out at the top of the circle, or did you understand centripetal force without knowing the term? And when you let go at the apex of your arc, did you predict correctly the pain of a broken leg when you landed? Do you still remember the sound of the snap? [backwards) Do you still remember the sound of the snap?] Do you still shudder when ice cracks in warm water, or when someone pops a knuckle?

What did your mother tell you about swing sets? What did she say to you when you yelled to her for help? Did you lean over your sobbing face and ask you: “Why are you crying when you don’t even exist?” Did she tell you again about the mirror?

[Sad.] Do you still see the flickering creature climbing up your back? Is the little hand reaching up again? Do you notice it wears black rings? Are those talons? And what is it opening its mouth to say? Do you see how it rises up behind you, how long is its torso? Is it some kind of snake, but with human skin? Why does it have so many teeth? How long can a tongue be? What is it doing, why is it crying, is it a child? What unholy monster cries like a child, what does it want, Why won’t it stop?!

[music stops, eerie noises]

Is it gone for you too? [whispers] Why did I not look away? [Did I not look away?] Did you? How were you able to do that?

[long pause, music]

Did you figure it out? Could you see past your own mental inventions? [Who out there-]

Who out there looked beyond the long gape-jawed figure and its inexplicable whinesss? Did you see the table? There, in the mirror image- [mirror image of your hou-] -of your house, did you see the table?

You hadn’t noticed the table before, had you? What of the table, of its chipped corners? What of the mismatched wood stain on the tiny drawer at its center? What of its tarnished, yet ornate brass bulb knob? Did you turn around to see if the table was in your home too? Were you sad when you realized it was not? Or were you relieved? Why was the table only in the mirror, why isn’t it real? But isn’t it, though? You didn’t ask for any of this, did you? But what have you ever asked from the universe that you could not get yourself, and when has the universe ever obliged? What’s inside the drawer of the rickety table in the mirror? What other uncanny discoveries await you if you could just break through? Is it as simple as breaking through?

Do you find that the simplest problems require the biggest efforts?

Have you ever decided you wanted a lightweight wool button-up coat, all black? Did you go shopping for it and did you find one? How disappointed were you to learn that this design was not available in any of the five stores you went to? Did you ponder the idea that such a coat was so basic, [angrily] so unassuming, so without frill or feature that no one had ever thought to create it? [angrily, scarily] Do you want to know what’s in the drawer below the table? Shouldn’t it be as easy to obtain as a lightweight wool button-up coat all black? But nothing, nothing easy ever is, is it? How do you get to a table that’s right in front of you but only visible innn a mirror?

Shouldn’t you take a break from this? Wouldn’t some – fresh air – be good for you? What’s the weather like outside?

[“Flower Lane” by Funbearable https://funbearable.bandcamp.com/]

[anxiously] What are you not getting? Besides the creature and the table, what are you not noticing? Do you see yourself? [very fast] What is different about the you you are and the you you see before you? Are you paying close attention to the color of your eyes? Are you watching for any deviation in the movement of your reaction? [(backwards) Now that we’re looking with clearer eyes-] Are you able to ignore the creature over your shoulder? Now that it has revealed itself, do you find it less frightening? [(backwards) -ignore the creature over your shoulder? Now that it has revealed itself do you find it less frightening?] Do-do-does it, does its cry kind of sound now like the high-pitched howl of a Siberian Husky puppy vocalizing its hunger, isn’t it less scary and – more just weird?

Did you see the movie “Signs”? Did you feel less creeped out once the aliens were shown on screen? [(backwards) Are you? Are you?] Isn’t all fear fear of the unknown? Are you concentrating on the table now? And you’re sure it only exists in the mirror? Double checked? Do you want to know what’s inside the drawer of the front of the table? [softly] Are you willing to break something? [Are you-] Are you willing to break the mirror, yes but so much more? [(backwards) Do you feel the pain? -your flesh - is that why you’re screaming?] Are you willing to go- [Are you?] -to a place from which you cannot return? Are you willing to learn things you cannot unlearn? Do you have a hammer? Or if not, can you find something heavy that you can lift? [(backwards) What is different about the you you are?] Will you smash the mirror? Will you do it quickly? Why are you hesitating? Have you let your comfortability lapse into carelessness? Why did you take your eyes off the creature on your neck? Did you see the blood, or feel the pain first? Is it tearing into your flesh, is that why you’re screaming?

Can you still break the mirror? [(backwards) Are you?] Are you losing consciousness? Are you?

[(backwards) Are you willing to break something?] Are you? Are you?

[Scary]

Are you OK? Did you do it? Huh. If you look into the mirror you just smashed, Do you see that the creature is gone? [quietly] Cool, right?

But isn’t it strange that all about you on the floor are shards of the mirror you shattered, yet in front of you, the mirror remains, fully intact? [Scary] Strange. [echoes] Or scary. [swallows, echoes] Wouldn’t you think that the mirror being simultaneously broken- [broken and unbroken is strange while the fact that you have no reflection-] broken and unbroken is strange while the fact that you have no reflection is scary?

Is that true though? Do you have a reflection? Do you see yourself on the floor of the mirror’s world? [Are you losing consciousness? Are you?]

Is your body crumpled on the floor like a wet towel? Is your lower jaw hanging open because you died screaming? Or because of gravity?

Do you have a blanket of some sort? Why don’t you cover that mirror up? Why don’t you cover all the mirrors, in fact? While you are walking about your home, do you notice the antique table by the door with its tarnished, yet ornate brass bulb knob? Was that table always there? Did you – Enter the mirror world?

Or were you always in the mirror world? What else is different around you?

Do you remember why you never opened that door? You do, don’t you? What was it about the book inside that frightened you so? Was it – the handwriting that matched no known language? Was it the drawings of serpents with human faces, but innn-numerable teeth? Was it the disorientation you felt from seeing these faces contorted into a scream, yet their eyes expressing nothing? Does inscrutability scare you?

What was it your mother said before she left home when you were a teenager? Did she tell you she was an oracle? Did she tell you to read the book til you understood its alphabet? Did she make you promise to never tell another soul, and did you keep that promise by burying it so deep, so so deep?

Now what? Will you cover the mirrors and sweep the floor and pretend it never happened? Will this prevent it from happening again?

Are awareness and manifestation one and the same? Who can say? Will you stay tuned next for sound of a muffled… crack! Presented without context or commercial interruption. Could that be an egg, or a twig, or a leg?

Narrative is everything, isn’t it?

Won’t you Have a good night, Night Vale? Won’t you have a good – night?

In an effort to bring more transparency to the Sheriff’s Secret Police, a chronicle of one night’s dispatches will be released to the public. This action comes at the behest of the City Council, who voted unanimously on a resolution to ban plastic bags.

Now, OK, while those two things may not seem related, Sheriff Sam misunderstood the vote as a rallying cry against tyrannical surveillance and a personal threat, involving being thrown to the pit of vipers behind the bowling alley. Sheriff Sam, who has a paralyzing fear of vipers, proposed a compromise in which Secret Police dispatches would be temporarily divulged, so the public can get a better idea of what agency does and how tax dollars are being spent. A plan which was readily accepted by the Council, though they continued to roll their eyes and gnash their teeth and chant softly: [creepy voice] “Viper pit! Viper pit! Blessed be the viper pit!” Which is just how they express a “yay” vote on procedural issues.

As a result, Night Vale has its first ever police blotter. Let’s dig in. 9 o’clock PM. Missing person reported inside the Ralphs. Night manager on duty says employee went to stock some cases of Lime-A-Ritas in the new walk-in beer cave and never came out. Reporting officer thoroughly checked beer cave and confirmed it was deserted. Three cases of the beverage were left haphazardly in the middle of the floor, and a loading dolly had tipped over onto its side. Manager states employee originally brought in four cases. Manager added one missing case of Lime-A-Ritas to the report. When asked if this kind of thing has happened before, manager changed subject and asked if officer would like to look at some of the children’s drawing contest submissions. Officer was amenable to this request.

9:16 PM. Noise complaint. Dog barking in an unknown language annoying residents. Dirty white fur, human face. Gone when officer arrived on scene.

9:25 PM. Two underage residents attempted to sneak into an R-rated movie by pretending to be one tall person in a trench coat. When confronted by officer, they turned into a swarm of flies and dispersed.

10:01 PM. Noise complaint. A sound resembling television static was being emitted from a shower drain out in the Hefty Sycamore trailer park. When recorded and played backwards, it turned out to be a broadcast from a 1952 episode of the game show “Beat the Clock”, where contestants competed to see how many pieces they could smash a clock into. A plumber was called.

10:15 PM. A resident of Desert Creek searched for “easy tortellini recipes”, but none of them were easy enough. It was so late already, and they needed to get to bed soon, but they were also very hungry and needed to eat dinner first. They wanted something quick, but they also wanted a real dinner, not a false dinner like… cereal? They became hyperaware that the more they deliberated on what to make, the longer it was all taking. And factoring in the decision-making time on top of the meal prep time was becoming additionally stressful in relation to the desire to get to bed soon.

11:30 PM. A Coyote Corner’s swimming pool filled with blood and began swirling furiously in a counter-clockwise direction. Home owner appeared distressed. Officer advised home owner to drain pool.

11:31 PM. Multiple residents awoke in a cold sweat from the same dream. It wasn’t necessarily a nightmare, but it was definitely not pleasant. The only thing they could recall afterwards was that it was showing, and that there was a tree with seven limbs.

12:00 AM. Witches.

2:00 AM. That time of night when everything starts getting hazy. Were you headed to a crime? Checking a surveillance station? Listening to a wiretap? Going home? Returning to headquarters? Signalling an invisible helicopter? Sometimes you lose track. An old local legend comes into your mind, and you try to recall the details. It’s been so long since you heard it. You watch the headlights bounce along the dirt road ahead, and your eyes begin to play tricks on you, sensing movement in the dark margins where the light doesn’t penetrate. You turn off the lights and slow the vehicle. They weren’t tricks after all. There is movement here, a dark writhing mass entering the roadway. You are forced to stop the car. Eyes flesh open in the dark. Many sets of eyes. This isn’t part of a half-remembered legend. This is something very, very real.

More of the blotter soon. But first, let’s have a look at traffic. You’re hunting in a pack near the Old Highway. The smell of blood is in the air. Headlights bounce over the rise and your stomachs rumble. The moon flees behind the clouds and you fan out, along both sides of the road, moving parallel to it like a lazy river. The car approaches and slows. It shuts off its headlights, as you knew it would. Some of you push ahead to the car, blocking its path. Others move to the rear and others remain at the sides boxing it in. You converge, surrounding it more tightly the door opens, then closes again, the fleshy creature inside cursing softly. You hear a crackle of radio static, but you know it is inconsequential to you. You consume the metal shell first. There are explosions of air and the hiss of leaking fluids. Then the glass, crunchy and cool in your collective gullet. And finally, the screaming delicacy in the center, the cloth-wrapped package of meat and bone. There are other things afterward, less enjoyable, but consumable nonetheless. Papers and electronics, and the pleather, and cold French fries in the back. Nothing must remain. By the time the moon emerges from the clouds, the old highway will be deserted once more. This has been traffic.

And now a word from our sponsors. Today’s show is brought to you by TickTock. The only app that tells you exactly how long you have left to live. The sleek countdown display synchs easily with all of your devices, so that you can check your mortality at a glance. The premium edition provides additional details, such as manner and location of death, and updates to the minute, as you make different choices throughout your day. You’ll find yourself asking questions like, why did returning a library book just subtract 4 years from my life? How did leaving late for work change my final outcome from drowning in gulch to birds of prey? Why does it say “tomorrow” all of a sudden? [panicking] It must be some kind of glitch, right? OK, OK, I’ve updated the app but it still hasn’t changed. It still says “tomorrow”. I just got checked out by a doctor and they said I’m in great shape, I’m staying home from work, I’m not answering the door, I’ve closed the blinds and I’m sitting on the couch, surrounded by pillows, not moving, not even blinking, I’ve done everything dammit, EVERYTHING!!! WHY DOES IT STILL SAY “TOMORROW”???!! Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. This has been a word from our sponsors.

Back to the Sheriff’s Secret Police blotter. 2:30 AM. Responded to an officer distress call on the Old Highway. No sign of officer or vehicle found. Must have been a false alarm.

3:15 AM. Nude man ranting in middle of old highway, carrying a case of alcoholic beverages. Identified as the night shift stocker at the Ralphs. Claims he entered the walk-in refrigerator at work, reached up to place the case of beverages on the shelf, and abruptly found himself in a network of ice caves. He eventually climbed up a snowy mountain where he met a robed figure he refers to as “The Oracle”. “The Oracle” foretold of a hungry darkness with a thousand eyes and urged that the portal must be cloooosed. The Ralphs employee also reported that “The Oracle” had slurred speech and seemed unsteady on its feet, and may have been inebriated. After this exchange, he then found himself standing in the Sand Wastes nude. He does not know where his clothes are. Officer escorted man back to the Ralphs to finish out his shift.

3:35 AM. Domestic disturbance. “He won’t stop practicing the flute!” a Cactus Bloom resident reported, indicating his dopplegänger who stood in the corner of the bedroom, staring unblinkingly at the wall and playing the same halting scale on a wooden flute. Officer advised resident to take a melatonin and try to get some sleep. “If he doesn’t stop, I can’t be held responsible!” the sleep-deprived resident threatened. “Sounds fair,” the officer agreed and left the premises.

4:00 AM. An alarm clock went off in Old Town. A woman attempted to get out of bed, but her cat walked sleepily onto her person and began purring, preventing her from rising. Her cat is elderly and the woman knows its number of purrs are finite and must be honored. Eventually, she put on coffee and took a shower. She used Herbal Solution shampoo for a lifelong dandruff condition, though she has not seen any improvement after years of using the products. She continues using it, because she likes the way it smells. It smells medicinal, like it’s helping, and it does tingle, like the label promises. The tingle means it’s working, the label says. So it must be working.

And now a break form the police blotter for some sports news. Night Vale High School – go Scorpions! – has added a concession stand to be used during sporting events. The parent-teacher association proudly unveiled the new stand at last week’s baseball game, dedicating the plywood structure to the memory of favorite AP auto shop teacher, Nick Teller. Teller reacted with confusion at this news, as he is still alive. “Oh, of co-, no, of course you are,” the PTA responded awkwardly, “but we just wanted to honor – your memory, as in what a great memory you have. You-you know how you’re really good at remembering stuff? We just wanted to, yeah uh, honor that,” the PTA went on, seemingly unable to stop explaining themselves, whilst standing in front of the dedication plaque, which featured several doves, a Celtic cross, and an image of clasped hands. Teller admitted he does have an excellent memory and is very honored. The following concessions are available at the Teller memorial stand: Special allowances, the granting of rights, the acceptance of certain things as truth, the yielding of certain other things as untruth. Also, RC Cola and popcorn.

Oh, which reminds me, we actually have another word from our sponsor, Royal Crown Cola. Invented by Ferdinand the 1st, king of Naples, who built a museum of mummies inside his palace to house the bodies of his slain enemies. “I am parched from building this museum of mummies,” he famously said, and the rest is history. RC Cola – the drink of ruthless monarchs.

In local news, I have the results of the Ralphs drawing contest. Local school children were encouraged to submit a drawing to the store this week, depicting their favorite Ralphs product. I’ll start with the runners up. The third place drawing comes to us from Ella Snider, a student from Night Vale Elementary, and it shows a large black scribbled mass with a lot of eyes on it, with the Ralphs building on fire in the background. Very creative, Ella!

The second place drawing comes from Jace McCoy, also from Night Vale Elementary, and this one also shows a black mass with many eyes and a big bright red splatter of blood across the page. Nice use of color, Jace!

And the grand price winner comes to us from Heather (Fathusam) [0:16:52] of Daggers Plunge Charter School. Her drawing features a beautiful black mass with lots of lovely eyes, and it’s holding a box of store brand frozen pizza rolls. Congratulations, Heather!

Back to the blotter. 4:01 AM. Distress call from the Ralphs. Upon arrival, officer was pulled into the manager’s office. The employee from the earlier incident was also present, huddled under a desk. Manager frantically indicated the surveillance window that looks out into the store, which he normally uses to spy on shoppers and report on what they are wearing for his Customer Fashion newsletter. Shelves of products were being knocked over and consumed by a vast dark nothingness. The back of the store then burst into flames. The manager implored the officer to quote, “Do something, please, or we’ll all be killed!” Officer used the intercom system to tell the nothingness to vacate the store immediately, and advised it of trespass and vandalism laws. The nothingness took the form of many dark shapes with many eyes. A tank of fresh seafood exploded and numerous shellfish were damaged. Officer advised the shapes that they were all under arrest. “Stop talking to it!” the manager cried and knocked the intercom mic out of the officer’s hand. Approximately 1000 eyes turned to look at the office window. Interesting. Well.

Let’s have a look at that weather.

[“Best Friends” by Curtains: https://curtains.bandcamp.com/]

4:35 AM. Situation escalated at the Ralphs. Officer, manager and employee embraced one another under the office desk amid the shattered glass of the surveillance window. The building trembled around them, products flew through the air, half the inventory was sucked into oblivion, and a great fire blazed, spreading to the bakery section. After doing an estimated 200,000 dollars worth of damage, the darkness and its many eyes entered the beer cave and did not come back out. Officer investigated the beer cave and found it to be empty. “You have to shut down the cave!” the Ralphs employee implored the manager. “That’s its doorway to our world!” The manager hedged and responded that a big heat wave was coming and if they hoped to recoup any of their losses, keeping the beer cave open was going to be instrumental to the store’s survival. “People will spend big on frosty cold beverages,” the manager responded. “Not to mention they’re gonna like standing around in there for a nice cool-down.” The employee wrapped his robe tightly around himself. Oh, the manager had lent him the robe, one of the many fashion items the manager kept in his collection, since the employee still didn’t know where his clothes had gone. “OK,” the employee said. He picked up a Lime-A-Rita and guzzled it down in one continuous gulp. Then he said, his voice already a little slurred: “I’ll have to try to shhhhtop it myself.” He ran into the beer cave and promptly vanished.

5:40 AM. Tree with seven limbs seen growing out of a hole in the vacant lot out back of the Ralphs. Snow observed on the branches, which melted off quickly as the sun rose.

5:45 AM. Real pretty sunrise.

Well, that concludes our Secret Police blotter. I dunno about the rest of you, but I personally feel a lot more safe and secure getting a closer look at what our Secret Police do. On behalf of Night Vale Community Radio, thank you for your service. I’m sure we will all rest a lot easier knowing that our fate is in your hands. Our sleeping bodies are under your watchful eye, and our every thought and action is being monitored for the greater good. As Secret Police mascot Barks Ennui always says: Stay tuned, stay, vigilant, report your neighbors. Woof. Woof.

Good night, Night Vale, Good night.

The worst part is not the tall plumes of smoke. Nor the destroyed cars and buildings, nor the armed desert cult marching through the streets. It is the silence. The absence of sirens echoing across the valley. The absence of help. the absence of hope that help will happen. And now the absence even of screams.

The clan of passengers of Delta flight 18713 prowls the streets of our town, seeking those who hide, those who resist. They know there are few of us left who have not been subsumed by their leader’s commands. And those of us who do remain will be captured and eventually killed. They must know I am here, hiding, talking, resisting. They must see our radio antenna, our station sign, hear our broadcasts.

The pilot knows who I am, delights in having inhabited my mind a couple weeks go to speak his foul truth. He holds out some hope that he can re-enter my brain, squeeze it tight with his calm convincing voice. I remain alive because the pilot wants me in my job. Wants me on his side.

I hope for solution. I hope my own voice empowers those who are still free to rise up, to fight back, but so far – nothing. I no longer hope to find Amelia Anna Alfaro who was always the best at everything and who disappeared eight years ago to loo for Delta flight 18713. I no longer hope that Amelia Anna Alfaro will be found or that she will save us because she is found. She will not save us.

Amelia stands at the top step of the Night Vale City Hall. Behind her is the multi-headed, single-bodied entity that is City Council. Amelia and the City Council are both fully under the control of the pilot. Amelia Anna Alfaro found the missing passengers of flight 18713, and then was enjoined by the pilot to join them.

When the pilot makes contact with your brain, he does not speak to you at first. He does not begin with a plea, with a mission, with a request or command. He first forces you to hear the lives of his passengers, innocents who boarded Delta flight 18713 from Detroit to Albany on June 15, 2012. You hear a mother calming her child, you hear giggling teenage boys, you hear middle-aged men telling each other the same stories they have told each other for years on end. You hear about vacations and jobs and families and favorite books and unrealized dreams, you hear it all until you accept the mundane comfort and intimacy of community, until you are lulled into a willingness to hear anything – and then you hear the pilot. And you hear his message. The words of his message are about nature’s beauty. The words express loving respect that all nature is beautiful. But the message is not the words. It’s what’s encoded within them, the message is that all who are not beautiful are an affront to nature.

His power of unspoken oration, of invisible influence, allows his hatred to metastasize, to become an active assault rather than an idle grumble. It is difficult to stop his voice from entering your head. Nearly impossible. I am not able to do it on my own. Carlos sits with me still in my studio. When I talk to Carlos, I do not hear the voice of the pilot nor his passengers. Charles Rainier, the former warden of the Night Vale Asylum, went fishing to keep his mind clear. Tamika Flynn has taken to listening to the audio book of Emily St. John Mandel’s bestselling novel “Station 11”, which is narrated by Night Vale’s own Lee Marvin who, by the way, turns 32 next month. Happy early birthday, Lee, if you can hear me.

I have found that Carlos calms me, centers me, silences the echoes of 100 different people, 100 different thoughts in my head, none of which are my own. If you know what centers you, do that immediately.

The streets are quiet, Night Vale. I hope some of you can hear me. I hope some of you are staying out of sight, out of reach. If you can, come together, find each other. Perhaps we can overpower these invaders of our peace, but the pilot hides from any potential counterattack, and if we can’t stop him, can’t cut out the brain of his insurgency… I believe our hopes are lost. Our end is near.

The last hope I had stands on the top step of City Hall rallying her mindless clan on a ruthless scouring of our city. Amelia Anna Alfaro was always the best at everything, and the pilot knows that. It is why he chose her as his chief strategist, his general, his right hand.

They will push beyond Night Vale soon. To Red Mesa and Pine Cliff, and to the rest of the state, and beyond.

More people are brought to City Hall as I speak, and Amelia flanked by Doug Biondi delivers their sentence, their punishment for resistance. Their fate for lacking beauty in the eyes of a truly hateful man. Their sentence is to be tied together and held in the rock garden lining the outer lawn of City Hall. Once every person in Night Vale has been gathered in one place, the pilot will make one last attempt to overtake our minds as a group, to grow his army tenfold. He may succeed with some and the remainder – will be executed.

The pilot believes in his own specific definition of beauty. He believes those who fail to be good enough specimens of nature, of humanity, must be removed from the genetic pool. Every few hours, another group of prisoners crouches before Amelia, and another group receives immediate conviction.

As Amelia stands in judgment before the most recently indicted, she pauses. One of the captured is standing in defiance. In response to this rebellious act, Doug Biondi, still wearing his asylum-issued coveralls, raises a handmade curved blade, but Amelia stops him. The one standing is Yvette Alfaro. It is Amelia’s mother. She begs Amelia to recognize her own family and to have mercy. But Amelia’s eyes show no hint of relenting. Yvette tells Amelia she always loved her, was always proud of her, but that her motherly pride was sometimes a selfish price. “You were a story I wrote for myself to tell my friends,” Yvette says contritely. “I did not let you tell your own story. I should have been proud of you for what you achieved, for yourself. Happy for your happiness. But I saw you as a way to better me. I’m sorry, Amelia,” Yvette tells her only child, and then hands Amelia a note. “Please read this. It’s all I ask that you do for your mother. Read what I wrote,” Yvette says. Without even glancing at the paper, Amelia crumples it into a ball, her face reddens, and her eyes blacken, as she pushes her mother back down to her knees. With a nod of Amelia’s head, the brainwashed and ever growing clan of flight 18713 ties up the new prisoners and pushes them into the rock garden, until every remaining person in town has been drawn together for the pilot. And the last who resist his voice will be destroyed. A rotten harvest to be composted for a more promising crop.

If you can hear my voice, you are one of the last left. We cannot see the pilot, but he can see us, and it is not long until his minions are here with me, or there with you, Night Vale. We are the last to be reaped, the last to be gathered.

They stalk outside my studio now! Climbing the walls, smashing in windows, knocking down doors. I-I can hear them in the hallways behind me. Carlos is barring the door to the studio, but I know it will not hold! Carlos, do as you promised and run! I will stay focused, I will keep my head safe, I will take us all To the weather!

[“The Stolen Century” by Ellen Beizer: http://ellenclairebeizer.com]

I am captured, Night Vale. So is Carlos. I can’t see where they took him, so I keep my eyes closed and imagine Carlos’ face.  I keep talking to this image of Carlos to protect my thoughts from the pilot’s voice. The ragged, empty-minded clan of flight 18713 pushes me into a larger group of captives. I still do not see Carlos, but I see the violent hungry faces of those under the pilot’s control. I see two teenage boys who are secretly mad for each other. I see a middle-aged man who either went to New Orleans or heard about New Orleans so much that he might as well have gone. I see the people who inhabited my mind. Whose voices were used to hypnotize me, to lay the psychological groundwork for the pilot. And I hear them. I hear their voices coming from their mouths, live, in real time. But I hear them in my head too! Separate from their bodies. And I think of Carlos again, trying to stop the echoes, [very quietly] return to silence and clarity.

They lead our group. I with my head down, eyes closed, quietly conversing with an imaginary Carlos, to the steps of City Hall. To the feet of the ruthless Amelia Anna Alfaro. Ohh, [quietly] but she’s not ruthless. She is compromised. I do not know how to convince her of this, if her own mother could not. Even still immediately we are denounced as resistors and tied up with the other uncooperative prisoners, wriggling uselessly in their bindings along the rock garden. The last of those who refused to join the 18713 have been gathered together. Amelia knows she has quickly and thoroughly sorted out entire town into the recruited and the renounced. She was always the best at everything.

At this moment, the pilot emerges from the front doors of City Hall. Amelia and the rest of the 18713 look on him with awe. And it occurs to me they have never seen him in person. Only heard his voice. The enormity of his legend is evidence in the gaping maw and sparkling dark eyes of Amelia Anna Alfaro. The pilot does not visibly speak, yet I can hear him in my head. Each of us can her a personalized appeal from him in our minds.

[deep creepy voice] “Cecillll,” he says to me. “You have a beautiful voice. Think of how much beauty we can share together. Think of your voice, carried miles through the air like dandelion seeds. Spreading our message of nature’s true beauty to everyone in the desert. To everyone beyonddd the desert. You are chosennn Cecillllll. Beeeeeee. My. Voiccccce.”

I think of Carlos’ face. I say aloud to my imagined Carlos: the first time you called me, I knew you liked me. Even though you avoided my flirting. I thought you were trying to be professional, Carlos, playing ignorant, but you weren’t. you were shy. You didn’t know how to ask. And I knew I loved you.

My mind remains clear as I talk, but I see several of the remainders sturgling to ignore the pilot’s voice permeating their every thought. A few lose the fight and join his clan. He is too far from me, too far from any o the rest of us to reach him, to subdue him, to kill him, to get back my mind, to get back my town, to get back my Carlos.

When the pilot’s final pleas and patience expire, he walks down the paved path and stands next to Amelia Anna Alfaro. Then he says, for the first time using his mouth: “None of them are beautiful! None of them are nature! None of them can live!” Amelia stares at him like a star struck fan in the presence of a Hollywood celebrity. Doug Biondi, next to her, holds up his crooked blade. The angel of death wears electric blue coveralls, and the 18713 raise their weapons too, glaring at the last of us tied up a the rock garden. I search in vain for Carlos one last time, battling the sick truth that we are born and we will die alone. And Amelia Anna Alfaro raises her hand. Inside her hand is a ball of paper. Seeming confused about how it got there, she unfurls it. Smoothing out the wrinkles with her fingers, she examines the paper. There is a long silence. “Should I do it or what? Amelia?” Doug Biondi asks, anxious to get to the killing part. I now see what Amelia sees. I cannot read what is written on the paper, but I know what is there. They’re words from her mother, written in code. In a puzzle. The one place Amelia’s mind can hide from the voices, from the voice of the pilot, is in puzzles. Amelia says: “It is my responsibility to destroy that which is not beautiful. Give me the blade, Doug.” Doug, reluctantly, does so. Still staring at the paper, she pulls the blade behind her shoulder and says: “You come from nowhere, and that is where you shall return.” She splashes the blade into the pilot’s throat. I see his hands clutch at his neck. I see Doug Biondi lunge for Amelia, to protect his beloved leader, but as his arms crash down onto her shoulders, he relents. Doug’s mind is free now too.

I see the pilot convulse one final time. I see the emancipated Amelia run toward her mother. Other members of the 18713 surrounding us drop their weapons, their eyes vacant and lips white. The rush of mental agency is blinding them, staggering them. One of them cuts the ropes from my hands. I help free the others, one by one, still searching for Carlos and then – I find him. He is in the very back, the last of the last of Night Vale. Those who are free are running or embracing or helping those who are still bound or drunk with confusion, and on the ground where Amelia stood moments before, I find the wrinkled note from mother to daughter. It is a series of numbers, not words. I show it to Carlos. “A cryptogram puzzle,” he says. “I love those.” I ask him if he can solve it. He screws up his face. “We should get out of here first,” he says. “Please,” I say. He looks at it for a couple of minutes, until finally he says: “It’s a basic alphanumeric code. It reads: Amelia, I am proud of you, no. matter. what.”

Carlos and I hold each other through the town. Passing two teenage boys dressed in scraps of airplane upholstery, gripping tightly each other’s faces. We help a lost toddler find his parents. We clear broken glass from streets. We walk home.

We shade our eyes from the setting sunset, which kindles through a hilltop cliff. We talk nonstop about today, about tomorrow, about yesterday, about every possible moment, just talking and talking, because we almost lost our talk forever. We do not hear the returning echo of sirens across the valley. We do not hear anything but ourselves.

Stay tuned. Next. For a silence that is all your own.

Good night, Night Vale … Good night.  

Beyond our town, past the Sand Wastes, in the Scrublands, sits the old general store. An oaken cabin style A-frame with boxed windows and a covered patio. On the porch there sits a swinging bench and upon that bench sits an elderly man, his face crumpled like a discarded letter, his eyes like tire tracks hidden beneath the shady brim of a straw cowboy hat. The old man holds a block of Elmwood the size of a potato in his right hand, and in his left, a carving jack. He whittles away at the knot of food, shaving off small corners, making detailed lines and indentations. The wood is all his world. And this world is quiet in his lap, on his bench, on his patio, before his general store amid the Scrublands past the Sand Wastes, which curl about Night Vale like the gentle but calloused hands of a father holding a newborn. As the old man whittles, he whistles sad songs with no words. But all those who hear the notes know they are bout loss. That they are about loneliness. But no one hears those notes. Not yet. No one sees the old whittler, nor his general store far out in an uninhabited stretch of desert. Not yet. If they did, they would wonder how an old general store, which was not there yesterday, was suddenly here today, a shop that by all accounts had weathered decades of abusive heat, wind, and isolation. They would hear his sad song, and the universal language of wistful sorrow would hide from them their understanding of time.

Let’s have a look now at sports. This Saturday night, the Night Vale High School Scorpions basketball team begins the district tournament. The Scorpions, having finished the season 18-2, earned the number 1 seat this year, but face some tough competition in their bracket. In the first round, they must battle another basketball team. This is logical, because most basketball tournaments feature other basketball teams. But the other basketball team is considered weaker than the Night Vale Scorpions, because a series of accumulated numbers indicates this is so. Should the Scorpions make it out of the first round and into the semi-finals, they would likely battle the number 4 seed, Nature. A tougher matchup to be sure, as Nature is unpredictable and ubiquitous. Nature’s style of play is best described as capricious and random, sometimes showcasing an array of flashy skills like sunny days, crystalline lakes, and otters. But Nature is a lockdown defensive force with effective momentum stoppers like lightning, quicksand, and poison ivy.

And in the finals, the favorites to compete for the title are Night Vale High School versus themselves, perhaps the toughest battle of them all, as each player must confront their harmful secrets, painful pasts, and darkest nightmares. Themselves are able to match the pace and power of Night Vale’s offensive and defensive sets, and we expect an excellent game. Good luck, Scorpions!  

Most days the Scrublands are absent of humans, unapproachable and hostile. Today is not most days, as a line of Night Vale citizens has formed outside of the general store to see the old whittler and his wood menagerie. Parents ask for photos of their children with his work, and he only whistles and nods nearly imperceptibly. It could almost be interpreted as a slight twitch of the neck, rather than an affirming nod, but interpretations grow liberal when want is high.

Fathers and mothers snap pictures on their phones of children accepting gifts of wood figurines from the old man. The kids stare into the thin black ellipses that pass for his eyes, searching for the charming smile of elderly approval. But instead, seeing every single constellation of the night sky inside slits as thin as thistles and as black as tar. The historic expansion of the universe cannot be fully understood in words or even human thought, but it can be comprehended in the eyes of the tanned, wrinkled stranger.

The old whittler does not charge a penny for any of his work. He does not smile nor accept the many thank-yous coaxed out of the young ones by their manner-minded handlers. Nor does he accept requests. Children have many mascots, heroes, and cartoons that they love to possess via keepsake totems, and they repeatedly ask the old man for whittled representations of their favorite things, like Pokemon characters or one of Pixar’s anthropomorphic cars, or even Ted Allen, host of Food Network’s long running cooking competition “Chopped”. But the old whittler only carves what he carves. And he carves tiny horses, little cowboys, old-timey wagons, armadillos, tigers, tractors, almost anything you can think of. He finishes his sculpture of a koala bear and hands it to Amber Akinyi, who looks at her husband Wilson Levy, who is holding their sobbing, screaming 16-month-old baby Flora. The couple smiles together, never knowing that this balsa koala is everything they could have ever wanted beyond a loving family. Wilson begins to cry at the simple beauty of this craft. Amber begins to cry at the feeling of being understood, and young Flora stops crying as she fawns over the 6-inch tall antipodean marsupial, cartoonishly gnawing on a eucalyptus leaf.

The whittler also carves people. Small human figures, yes, like firefighters and ballerinas and clowns, but also actual people. Harrison Kip told the old man he wished to be happier in his own skin, and the old whittler grabbed Harrison’s cheeks and brought Harrison’s round, soft face before his own crinkled countenance, and Harrison screamed. He screamed in fear of what the old man was about to do. He also screamed in joyous anticipation, and the two screams were discordant like adjacent keys pressed simultaneously on a church organ. The old whittler pressed his knife against Harrison’s chin and began to pull the blade back, using the force of his thumb and the trunk of his forefinger. He repeated throughout Harrison’s assenting and defiant shouts, and after a few moments, Harrison stopped yelling and stood. His jaw squarer, his nose thinner and longer, his shoulders broader. And Harrison smiled.

Soon, the whittler began carving houses, roads, and city buildings. They were larger than the koala, much larger, for they were full-sized renditions of these things. He sliced and sawed away at block after block of red oak, hackberry and peachwood, forming new arteries of city travel, whole blocks of residences, and even cultural landmarks and venues. And the town of Night Vale, in a single late morning, began to expand into the distant and uninhabitable Scrublands of our desert.

Let’s have a look now at horoscopes. Gemini. Bury yourself in your work today, Gemini. Pile that garbage high and rest your weary head beneath its odorous, but comforting weight. Cancer. No more Mr. Nice Guy, Cancer. Today you are Mrs. Disinterested Lady. Get out there and be uninvolved in everything. Leo. You’re the talk of the town, Leo. Word after word is about you, and it is juicy! Like a rare steak, like a blood orange. Juicy like 2008 coutoure. Whew! You should hear what they’re saying. Virgo. You are not what you seem to be, Virgo. You seem to be a blackberry shrub, overreaching and prickly. But really you are a human, squishy and small. Continue to be the thorny fruit-bearing bush, though. Libra. You seek balance, Libra, but you are as lopsided as wealth disparity graph in an economist’s classroom. Share your worth, distribute your value fairly and compassionately, Libra, for the villagers are sharpening their tools. Scorpio. Hey Steve, love you pal! 

Sagittarius. Your (-) [0:10:42] in relationships is going to be your downfall, Sagittarius. You’re an obsidian monolith, towering over everyone, absorbing all light, except the faint reflection of those who want to know what glows inside your stony façade. You don’t have to be a diamond, Sagittarius, or even quartz. Just try for salt lick, OK? I think you can achieve that. 

Capricorn. Oh the games you play, Capricorn, you wicked little sea goat! You naughty caprine ocean dweller with your horns and scales, vexing us with your riddles and labyrinthian logic! The stars offer no advice for you, Capricorn, only envious praise. Aquarius. Put your money where your mouth is, but wash that money first, Aquarius. It’s been in so many other people’s mouths, ever since we added Jolly Ranchers as legal currency. Pisces. You’re swimming upstream, Pisces. Figuratively speaking, of course. I mean you are a human who does not need to actually swim upstream for food or a mate. Get out of the metaphorical stream and avoid the damage you’re going to do to your body and soul. Except for you, Tim. You’re a woodchuck, who is literally swimming upstream. I don’t like you, Tim, because you are eating my tulips. You can drown. Aries. Fake it til you pretend to make it, Aries. Taurus. Don’t hide your feelings, Taurus! Frame them! Display them ostentatiously on the wall. Mount them on plinths behind velvet robed (-) [0:12:33]. Curate an exhibit of your feelings, Taurus. Charge admission.

And now the news. The Night Vale City Council deliberated today on whether the old whittler in front of the old general store in the Scrublands was friend or foe to our town. Those voices arguing in favor of the old man celebrated the huge municipal expansion he was creating so quickly onto undeveloped land. 

“This new infrastructure would have taken us dozens of years and millions of dollars to deploy, and he has accomplished it all in half day!” these voices said in unison. “Plus,” they added, “he whittled a little army man for my kid, a bracelet for my wife, and a sweater for our cat. It’s everything we ever wanted!”

The dissenting voices, and they were few, could only argue that he failed to acquire proper permits for any of this construction, let alone an outdoor vendor’s license which is mandatory even for giveaways. Excepting restaurant samples, marketing promotions, and military dispersion of chemtrails. The many-voiced, uni-bodied creature that is the City Council, huffed in nearly unanimous support for this old man. His sad whistling, his prolific whittling, and his beneficence to our city. “Did you see?” said there of the voices, “that inside the general store there’s everything you could ever need. Cans, boxes, shelves, counters! Walls. It’s amazing. Everything is craved from a single block of wood, and it’s all connected! No glue or bolts or rivets anywhere.” “He’s a deft hand,” concurred four other voices. “How does he even find single blocks of wood that huge?” wondered a solo voice aloud. “Whatever!” the entire City Council roared in unison. “That old man is a superb whittler!”

And now financial news. [hysterical laughter Ha ha hahahaha hahaha every-everything’s fine! It’s just dandy! Uh, thank you for asking.

And now back to our top story. Out in the Scrublands, an entire wooden suburb has grown from the withered hands and sharp knife of the old whittler, who has for the first time today, moved from the porch of his general store. He stands now upon a stage, a round platform on the center of a great amphitheater, which he personally carved deep into the cracked, red rock of the desert floor. The people of Night Vale gather and sit on wood plank rows, which curve in a semi-circle around the old man on the stage. Each person in attendance holds in their hands a whittled object given to them as they entered the audience space. The items are all different, esoteric, and unique, each item and unexpected gift of the whittler. Each item the very thing they have always wanted, even if it was never what they thought they wanted. They hold gently their presents, protecting them with their very lives. The whittler, with his straw hat still shading his keyhole eyes and riverbend mouth, stands before the people of Night Vale who sit in an arena of his own making, each cradling a beloved statuette of his own making. The old man reaches out and takes the hand of his bride. She, of course, is of his own making as well. She is craved of weeping cedar. Her veil, though entirely wood, is somehow translucent, and her sorrowful eyes are faintly visible behind the intricate work of the whittler’s blade. The old man whistles once again, and the crowd whistles along with him. They know the song now. It lives in them like longing, like blood. Like a soul. They know every word of the wordless (-) [0:16:51], and the notes of loneliness spread across the Scrublands to the mountains’ edge and echo back in the key of hope, with a lilt of contentment and satisfaction. They will only be happy when he is happy and he is, indeed, happy. As the whittler clutches the hand of his newly carved betrothed, the clouds part, revealing the happiest thing of all: The weather.

[“Embroidery Stars” by Carrie Elkin http://carrieelkin.com/]

Into the Scrublands I went, myself already as happy as I could ever be for I was with my own true love, my husband. I journeyed to see the whittler for myself, as an effort of journalism, a chronicler of interesting events. I wanted for nothing. My happiness cannot be improved. Or so I believed.

When I arrived, the whittler more than 100 feet a way, and through a mass of thousands, greeted me with a nod so unobtrusive, I believed it to be a trick of the eye. But from the distance, I could see the whole of the universe in those dark eyes under dark shadow, behind the final violet of sunset. I knew he meant me.

Carlos and I stepped to the podium, and the old man opened his palm to reveal an original carving just for me. I had hoped it was a Nintendo Switch, but it was a [sea plane] [0:23:05]. Carlos, like a child on Santa’s lap, cooed and asked the old man for a superconductive supercollider. And the old whittler, his burlap cheeks heavy with gravity and history, reached into the breast pocket of his (-) shirt and handed Carlos a tiny wooden rose. Carlos hugged his rose to his chest, and I my (sea plane). The whittler took the hand again off his bride and gazed upon her, her veiled eyes met by his boundless stare. They stood like that for more than an hour, not speaking. The only sounds were the cicadas chirping and the crowd whistling.

But the tune faded, and soon only the cicadas cut through the silence of a still desert twilight. And one of us, Larry Leroy, stood and walked on to the stage. He touched the old man’s shoulder. The old man did not turn. He did not speak. He collapsed into black ash. Then his bride, then the seats beneath us, it all gave way to crumbling nothing. Then the buildings and roads and even the general store turned into ash. Finally, every one of our object dissipated, like Eurydice almost free from Hades. A gentle cool breeze arrived to sweep our hope away.

We returned home, wordless, with occasional whistles of the whittler’s tune, once again in a sad and lonesome key. Our cherished gifts, we told ourselves, were nothing more than baubles, ephemera, however blessed or magical. They were mere things, not love, not family, not true love, they were objects, toys. Props. Distractions. They were everything we have ever wanted, because we could hold them, see them, touch them. We can no longer do that, but we can remember what it was like. The rough of the wood against the soft of our hand.

Stay tuned next for our new game show: “Name all the nouns!”

And as always, good night, Night Vale, Good night.

[applause] [long silence]

Mara Wilson: I am the Faceless Old Woman who secretly lives in your home. Hello. You don’t know me, but I know you. I know you very well. I’ve been going through your medicine cabinet. You take too much Advil. Do you realize how hard that is on your digestion? I know a couple gelcaps and a glass of water before bed can alleviate a morning hangover, but it also puts you in a bad mood, because you don’t get good sleep with all that extra stress you put on your guts. You know what’s a better hangover cure? Not drinking like it’s the last day of community college. I replaced your vodka with clear Windex, and your Advil with Ipecac. This won’t help your hangovers, but it certainly will be more entertaining for me. I don’t sleep, so I need better late night entertainment than Netflix. I’ve already watched every episode of “Money Heist” and “Criminal Man” and “Planet documentary”, I have to spice it up a little bit.

Which reminds me, sorry about the tarantula incident last week. And here I’m speaking specifically to you, Tony. Yes you, in the shirt. The one hoping I’m not talking about you. I’m not sorry you woke up with a tarantula covering your face, nor that it bit you, causing your eyelids to swell up like Kinder eggs filled with purulent discharge instead of toys. I am sorry that I forgot to turn the flash off of my camera, which alarmed both you and the spider, and I never got a good photo. I’ve been building up my portfolio for an art exhibit I call “Gross Things on a Sleeping Tony”. It’s going up June 1, exclusively in your living room.  I’ve already gotten “Open-mouthed Centipede Bouquet” framed. You’re gonna find this show absolutely terrific.  Wait no, not terrific, what’s the word? Terrifying.

Tony, you’re one of my favorites in Night Vale. I know you hate your direct marketing job selling high interest credit cards to twenty-somethings, but the benefits are great. You have health care, a 401k, and you get to take advantage of people less fortunate than you. Everything is its own reward. But I’ve read your poetry, you love poetry. To be fair, there isn’t a big job market for poets, but you need to explore what makes you happy. I tattooed one of my favorite lines of poetry on you last month. It’s by Mary Oliver. “Instructions for living a life. Close your eyes. Be scared. Good luck.” And then I drew a little butterfly next to the words. I’m not the best artists, though, so it kind of looks like a radish or a sarcoma. Doesn’t matter, you still haven’t noticed. It’s just right below your right shoulder blade, don’t try to find it now, it’s still healing and given that I used the metal rod from that fondue set in your closet as the needle, it’s possible it’s infected. Better to leave it alone.

Tony, look at me. Imagine where my eyes would be. You have a lot to work through. I’m here to help you, I really am. I’ll prove it by giving you some advice. If a venomous arthropod is on your face, don’t scream.

Anyway, it’s not you Tony who’s bothering me, it’s the new people. They are elderly, like me, and they just moved into a house in the center of Night Vale. Or maybe this is decades from now, time is a little hazy for me. I’ve never been in this house nor noticed it before they moved in. it’s a one bedroom and there are three of them. I thought polyamory, but they have three separate beds and they never speak to each other, rarely look at each other, and never leave the home. The first night I secretly lived in their home, I realized they never slept either. They brushed their teeth, put on pajamas and get into bed. But they all lie there, eyes open, through silent hours of darkness.

I tried whispering to them but got no response. Usually when I reveal myself in the dark, I get the thrill of witnessing horror dawn across a person’s distorted mouth and bulging eyes as they see my faceless face pressed up against their own. One of the best parts of visiting new residents. But not these three. For once, I’m the frightened one.

Speaking of frightening, did you get your taxes (-) [0:08:20] on time Alex? You, you’re Alex. You with the shoes. I had to file for an extension. I don’t owe any money because I have no income, but I’m over 200 years old, never got a social security number, have no permanent address and I wasn’t born in this country, it’s a lot of paperwork. And Alex, you know your Wi-Fi is terrible and I was having a hard time downloading the forms I needed, so I just wrote my name on some yellowish-black Boston lettuce you’ve left in the crisper for the last three weeks. But the leaves kept falling apart, I think more like melting. After about 20 minutes, I got frustrated and just made myself a salad. Also, I used the last of your parmesan cheese, but don’t worry, I replaced it with dried skin I’ve been collecting from your bed sheets. Don’t be grossed out, Alex. Same texture and nutritional value, you won’t know the difference. I got the idea from a Food Network’s “Beat Bobby Flay”, where this one winner tied up Bobby and ran a (micro-) [0:09:17] across his forehead to make a chimichurri sauce.

I love that show, but I’m a bigger fan of HGTV’s “House Hunters”, the desert dystopian version. That’s where I met you, Addie. Yes you, with the face. You were shopping for a new home here in Night Vale. You told the realtor - who was inside of a living deer, its belly horrifically distended and quivering with every one of the agent’s words and gesticulation – that you wanted three bedrooms, a back yard, and something close to an outdoor community space. The first home, the yard was not in good shape, lots of (- remains) [0:09:55] and the lawn was glowing, perhaps from underground radiation testing. It was well under your budget, but you would have had to spend your savings on fixing it up. Also, in the bathroom mirror you saw, crawling across the ceiling, a faceless old woman devouring what looked like a rat. You didn’t need to worry about a rat infestation, Addie. It was a chipmunk. The second home was a condo right in the heart of the arts district. You loved the design: a simple large black cube, no doors, no windows, no interior. A true closed floor plan, so popular these days. But you weren’t sure there was enough room for entertaining, or anything else at all. The house you selected was perfect. Three bedrooms, a Jacuzzi en suite, and a large patio backyard. Plus it was right in the middle of town next to a community dog park. Although you would be disappointed later to learn that your dog had been arrested for domestic espionage after peeing inside the park’s forbidden walls. I think you made the right choice, Addie, but I can’t help wondering every time I watch “House Hunters”, who is this person running away from? You left Queens to move to Night Vale. Queens is where your family lives, where your best friend lives, and your girlfriend of two years. Are you afraid of stasis, Addie? Of being loved, of commitment? You might be afraid of that pinkish ooze coming out of your ear, might wanna see an ENT about that. Or if not an ENT, an entomologist.

Speaking of putting woodboring beetles inside orifices, I tried a similar thing with the elderly room mates who recently moved to town, or will move to town many years from now, again time is strange to me. But these room mates are also so strange. When I went to put a beetle into one of their ears, I noticed a lot of scar tissue there, making the hole too small. In my haste, the beetle scurried away and I got kind of desperate and just made a bunch of spooky moans and hisses like this: [moans, hisses] but not one of the three responded to me. They continued their meaningless pantomime of sleeping, and in the morning they got up and each went quietly about their days. One of them made coffee, but did not drink it. They then went to the window and waved at their neighbor, Susan Willman, who was on her porch stretching before her morning run. Susan looked at the figure in the window next to her and froze. She stared in terror, then darted back into her home and locked the door. Susan has always been unfriendly. I ran her bed sheets through her office shredder as a reminder to be more open and loving toward the world.

The other two room mates climbed into the shower at the same time. I’m not one to get off on others’ sexual activities, I just thought I might see something new, something human here. But no, they stood side by side, cleaning their cold gravity-defeated bodies, not once looking at each other let alone speaking. A squelch and a squish and grey water falling around yellow toenails. They toweled off, but when they hung the towels up, those towels were completely dry.

I’m used to being the one who does inexplicable and disturbing things. Last year during the community players’ production of “Romeo and Juliet”, I decided it would be more fun if they used actual poison. But it was a last minute idea, so the only poison I could find was Borax. Which just gave the two kids playing the leads several unhappy hours in the bathroom on the night after the show ended, so I don’t know. I could have made a stronger directorial choice. But so could the actual director, I get that Shakespeare plays are long, but he cut out all the best parts like the train robbery, and also Tybalt winning his bowling league. Although I did appreciate that they left in Juliet’s famous line: “Good night, good night, your blood and guts and marrow, which worms shall eat inside your grave so narrow.” It’s a classic story. Kids these days just don’t try to fake their own deaths anymore.

Oh. And Morgan. Yes Morgan, I’m talking to you, you with the fingernail sand the teeth. I need to explain something to you. You tip 20 per cent. You can afford it, stop using it as a measure of how much you approve of the restaurant service. A 20 per cent tip is not  bonus, it’s a fee. Restaurant owners don’t pay their staffs, instead they make the diners pay their employees through this idiotic notion of capitalist meritocracy. I don’t care how bad the service, tip them. You have money, Morgan. I would also tell you to stop asking to speak to a manager every time your Long Island Ice Tea is a bit like, but I got out your tongue last month, so they wouldn’t understand you anymore anyway. Do you know what a cut human tongue tastes like, Morgan? Yes you do. You just don’t know that you do. Remember Applebee’s last week? You ordered soup. It was a beef base with  little onions and little perfectly sautéed flecks of your own tongue that you had used to lash out at a manager the last time you ate there. You could blame them for poorly expediting your orders, but really the onus is on you for going to Applebee’s. Which serves neither of the items its name promises. It’s false advertising. It’s like an egg cream soda, or Taco Bell.

Speaking of eating, the elderly room mates made lunch together, but not for each other. They were all in the kitchen at the same time making separate meals in silence. They sat around the dining room table together and ate. They carved and stabbed and pushed foods quickly into their mouths, but their eyes were empty. One of them began to spit out their food. No one seemed to care or notice. They all began to vomit, but not with muscular heaves of shoulders and necks, the vomit spurted out like water from a hand pump, their torsos and heads perfectly still. After each bodily rejection of food, they would start shoveling it back to their mouths, repeating the same process. Eventually one of them stood up and threw their plate into the kitchen window, glass bursting everywhere. That person leaned into the hole and began punching the jagged shards out with their clenched fists as blood poured out of their forearms and wrists. They screamed mournfully into the suburban street. Neighbors and passers-by passed only briefly, as if they had barely heard the sad howls spreading across the valley. Susan’s lemon tree next door died instantly and all the lemons fell with wet plops to the ground. The fruit pealed open and inside of each was a fleshy crimson pulp, like meat that has been ground for too long. The other two room mates kept eating and vomiting, not even noticing the shattered glass being subsumed by the growing pool of blood on the floor.

You know, I wasn’t always like this, faceless or old. Secretly living anywhere. Once I was born upon warm water. The smell I remember is sharp citrus and the peppery sting of grass. The salt funk of ocean. I was once a child. I grieved once. I smelled blood. Once I was a thief. I lived among thieves, I saw empires rise and fall, centuries cast themselves upon infinity as fruitlessly as waves upon cliffs. Once I was a recluse. I lived amongst bandits and farmers, I spoke a different language then. I’ve spoken many languages.

Once I was under the sea. That was a quiet time. I lived amongst the coral and dead-eyed fish. Once I was a wanderer. I’ve seen the (head) [0:18:14] waters of the Mississippi and I’ve seen the cobbled streets of Paris and I’ve seen the empty arches of Franchia. But I’ve never seen anything like those three room mates. Of all the things I've been – child, thief, recluse, wandered, faceless old woman who secretly lives in your home, I’ll tell you this: I’ve never been more scared.

Fear is in the unknowing and the mystery. Fear is seeing everything about an old woman except her face. Fear is the uncertainty of her secretly living in your home. Fear is not the spider you see on the wall. It’s the spider you no longer see on the wall when you look back again.

In the unnerving din of shattered glass and mournful howls of that house, I found the loose thread that unraveled this mystery. The room mate who screamed had no tongue. And one of the others had an ear swollen shut from a previous surgery. And the other had a red mark, like a radish or sarcoma adorned with poetry drawn upon their shoulder blade. I realized I knew these three strange room mates. They are you, Tony, the special tattoo I gave you. And they are you, Addie, with your oral scar tissue from the beetle I jammed in there. And you, Morgan, with your tongue removed and digested. The three of you do not exactly live together in that home, not at the same time. You are living three different lifetimes in that same space. You do not speak or respond, because you are dead. Each of you alone in that house together, or you will be, time is confusing for me. Decades from now after you die, your souls will be trapped in the house, because something in this world is unresolved for you. You know this, paranormal neuroscience is required for all high school freshmen. But what they don’t teach you is how to resolve it. I know how and when each one of you die. I wrote it down on the back pages of your journals. Iv’e done this for everybody, but nobody ever reads it, because while people always think they’ll write every day, after a few pages they fall off the wagon and never see the lsat pages of their journals. Except Jonathan Franzen. He didn’t seem bothered by what he read. But he did cross out all my adverbs and added some Oxford commas. In case you’re wondering how Jonathan Franzen dies, here’s the answer: he doesn’t.

I am the faceless old woman who secretly lives in your home. You might find this ambiguous, after all the word “home” is singular. So whose home is it that I secretly live in? Listen, some things in this tangled world are simple. I live in your home, and your home, and your home, I live in all of your homes simultaneously. I am many. [echo] I am many. I am one. [echo] I am one. You all live such different lives, teeming, that’s what you are: teeming. And I am there watching you.

You, Tony, you dream of being a poet. Resolve the unresolved. The worst that can happen is crushing disappointment and public mockery, and eviction when you can’t pay your rent. Many more awful things after that, get to it!

And you, Addie, you fled your previous city to escape a murder charge. Strangely, you didn’t commit the murder you were charged with, but you have committed murder. Weird choice to go on “House Hunters” as a wanted fugitive, but maybe it was a good first step to healing your soul.

And you, Morgan. You have an idea that could save us all, an epic defining idea, one of the greats, but you don’t know which one. You have so many ideas. I can tell you this: most of them are not important. One of them is vitally important. Good luck. Also, tip 20 per cent.

And you, I forgot your name, you tweet too much. We all tweet too much, but that doesn’t let you off the hook. That’s why I ate your phone. You can thank me later. You can all thank me later. Because you all will be seeing me soon. I think that tonight is the night to let slip my secret. You’ll soon see me fumbling wet and gray from out of the bathroom mirror, or folded up strangely loose skin and mashed bones in the bottom drawer of your dresser. Or you will see me scuttle on your walls, the hair hanging down from my faceless face. Or you will look out your kitchen window and there will be someone standing in your driveway, and it will be me, and there will be no one in the driveway and instead, I will be next to you in the kitchen. Faceless and so very very old. Won’t that be nice?

I’m the Faceless Old Woman who secretly lives in your home. And your home. And your home. And every home. And I will be seeing you very, very soon.

[music, applause]