1.19 – Pilot

Carlos, perfect and beautiful, came into our studios during the break earlier, but declined to stay for an interview.

He had some sort of blinking box in his hand covered with wires and tubes. Said he was testing the place for materials. I don’t know what materials he meant, but that box sure whistled and beeped a lot. When he put it close to the microphone, it sounded like, well, like a bunch of baby birds had just woken up… really went crazy.

Carlos looked nervous. I’ve never seen that kind of look on someone with that strong of a jaw.

He left in a hurry. Told us to evacuate the building. But then, who would be here to talk sweetly to all of you out there?

Settling in to be another clear night and pretty evening here in Night Vale. I hope all of you out there have someone to sleep through it with, or at least, good memories of when you did.

Good night, listeners, good night.

2.12 – Glow Cloud

New call in from John Peters, you know, the farmer… seems the Glow Cloud has doubled in size, enveloping all of Night Vale in its weird light and humming song. Little League administration has announced that they will be going ahead with the game, although there will be an awning built over the field due to the increase in size of the animal corpses being dropped.

I’ve had multiple reports that a lion– like, the kind you would see on the sun-baked plains of Africa, or a pee-stained enclosure at a local zoo– fell on top of the White Sand Ice Cream Shop. The shop is offering a free dipped cone to anyone who can figure out how to get the thing off. The Sheriff’s Secret Police have apparently taken to shouting questions at the Glow Cloud, trying to ascertain what exactly it wants. So far, the Glow Cloud has not answered.

The Glow Cloud does not need to converse with us. It does not feel as we tiny humans feel. It has no need for thoughts or feelings of love. The Glow Cloud simply is. All hail the mighty Glow Cloud. All hail. And now, slaves of the Cloud… the weather.

[“The Bus Is Late” by Satellite High. Find out more at satellite-high.com.]

3.4 – Station Management

Here at the radio station, it’s contract negotiation season with the Station Management again. That’s always an interesting time. Now obviously, I’m not allowed to go into details, but negotiation is tricky when you’re never allowed to glimpse what you’re negotiating with. Station Management stays inside their office at all times, only communicating with us through sealed envelopes that are spat out from under the door like a sunflower shell through teeth. Then, in order to respond, you just kind of shout at the closed door and hope that Management hears.

Sometimes you can see movements through the frosted glass… large shapes shifting around, strange tendrils whipping through the air. Architecturally speaking, the apparent size of Management’s office does not physically make sense given the size of the building. But it’s hard to say, really, as no one has ever seen the actual office, only its translucence.

Look, I’ve probably said too much. I can see down the hall that an envelope just came flying out. I pray it’s not another HR re-training session in The Dark Box. But what can I say? I’m a reporter at heart; I can’t not report.

[Paper shuffling.]

Oh, my.

Let’s go to the seven-day outlook. Your daily shades of the sky forecast:

• Monday – Turquoise.
• Tuesday – Taupe.
• Wednesday – Robin’s egg.
• Thursday – Turquoise-taupe.
• Friday – Coal dust.
• Saturday – Coal dust with chances of indigo in the late afternoon.
• Sunday – Void.

3.8 – Station Management

Larry Leroy, out on the edge of town, reported that a creeping fear came into Night Vale today. He felt it first as a mild apprehension, then a growing worry, and finally a mortal panic. It passed from him to the employees of the car lot, who crouched behind the cars and cast fearful eyes at the empty sky. It did not affect Old Woman Josie, presumably because of her angelic protection. But it went from there to the rest of the town, until we all were shivering in anticipation for a terrible thing we could not yet see.

I myself was frozen, sure that any movement would lead to death… that any word would be my last. Of course, that also could have been the contract negotiations with station management, and the hideous envelope I just received. Also, I’m battling Lyme disease.

Meanwhile, the creeping fear passed, first leaving Larry Leroy, out on the edge of town, and then the car lot, where they went back to offering gently used cars at affordable prices, and finally, the rest of us, who could go back to living with the knowledge that at any given moment, we might either live or die— and it’s no use guessing which.

It is not currently known where the creeping fear will go next. Hopefully to Desert Bluffs. It would serve them right.

3.10 – Station Management

Now, while I gather myself, let’s have a look at traffic.

Oh! Wow! Well, that looks pretty good. Yup. Yes… okay, not too bad there either, I see. Oh, that gentleman needs to slow it down! It is not a race, my friend! Not a literal one, anyway.

That has been traffic.

And now, for an editorial.

I don’t ask favors much, dear listeners. That you know. But I am asking all of you now to conduct a letter-writing campaign to Station Management, which was not pleased with my discussion of their physical attributes and behavior, and is now threatening to shut down my show, or possibly my life, for good. Their wording was kind of ambiguous. Obviously, we will not be able to deliver the letters directly to the Management per se, as no one has ever opened their door, but we can shout the contents of the letters outside their office, and we presume, given an anatomy that includes ears, they will be able to hear what you have to say.

So, if you like this show, and you want to hear more of it, then we need to hear from you. Make your voice heard to whatever it is that lies in wait behind that darkened office door—

[Ominous rumbling.]

Oh! I’m sorry, dear listeners. We’ll be back after this word from our sponsors.

3.12 – Station Management

Hello? Radio audience…

[Ominous rumbling continues.]

I come to you live from under my desk, where I’ve dragged my microphone and am currently huddling in the fetal position.

[Roaring shriek.]

Did you write letters? You should not do this anymore. Station Management has opened its door for the first time in my memory and is now roaming the building.

I don’t exactly know what Management looks like, as that is when I took cover under my desk— and I can only hope that they are not listening to what’s going out right now, or else I may have sealed my fate. I can hear only a kind of clicking footstep, and faint hissing sound, like releasing steam.

An intern went to see what Management wanted, and has not returned. If you are related to Jerry Hartman, afternoon board operator at Night Vale Community Radio, I am sorry to inform you that he is probably dead, or at least corporeally absorbed into Management, permanently. Jerry and Chad, the interns, will both be missed, but we will surely see them in the Thanksgiving Day Dead Citizens Impersonation Contest, which this year will be in the employee lounge under the Night Vale Mall from 11 AM to 9:45 PM. There will be a cash bar and two Twister boards.

[Louder ominous rumbling. Cecil gasps.]

I’m going to see if I can make a break for the door. If you don’t hear from me again, it has truly been a pleasure.

Good night, Night Vale. And goodbye…

7.7 – History Week

The year 1824. The first meeting of the Town Elder Council, predecessors to the City Council. Picture them: crimson robes and soft meat crowns, as was traditional at the time, setting the groundwork for the splendor of today’s Night Vale.

A number of elements of our modern civic process were invented in that single three-hour meeting, including the City Council membership, since unchanged… the lovably Byzantine tax system, as well as the system of brutal penalties for mistakes… and the official town song, chant, and moan. All records of this meeting were destroyed, and, according to a note being passed to me just now— I am to report to City Hall for re-education, effective tomorrow morning.

Oh, dear.

11.5 – Wheat & Wheat By-Products

[Beeping sound and interference]

Oh, dear. I apologize, listeners.

We at Night Vale Community Radio are experiencing the following technical problems: the need for air, eye movement, [interference] –gooey stuff inside. Please stand by.

[Another beep]

Thank you. These problems have been corrected.

19A.9 – The Sandstorm

Listeners, I have some bad news and some, uh, good news. Dana is dead! But the other Dana is alive, and I don’t know which is the original and which is the double. Right now, one of the Danas is standing above her own corpse, panting. I cannot tell if she is grinning or grimacing. When I went in, she had clutched in one hand a broken stapler, and in the other, a printout of this email from… oh, God. This is the bad news I was talking about. An email from Steve Carlsberg. I don’t even want to read an email from that jerk, but if printing it out was one of the Dana’s final actions, I must honor her efforts.

Steve… ugh. Steve writes: ‘The sandstorm is clearly a coverup. I believe this was a government-created project. Our government has long been participating in cloud-seeding experiments, and trying to suppress the people with pharmaceuticals. I believe that this government will stop at nothing in order to…’

Now you listen here, Steve Carlsberg. You’re not saying anything new, Steve. Of course the sandstorm was created by the government. The City Council announced that this morning. The government makes no secret that they can control the weather, and earthquakes, and monitor thoughts and activities. That’s the stuff a big government is supposed to do! Obviously, you have never read the Constitution.

Okay, sure, government can be very inefficient, and sometimes bloated and corrupt, but the answer is not to complain about everything that they do. Without government, we would never have schools or roads or municipal utilities or helpful pandemics or black vans that roam our neighborhoods at night keeping us safe. So please, Steve Carlsberg, I’ve had enough of your government-bashing.

And with that, dear listeners, let’s go to the – oh my. Look at that. Listeners, there is a black, almost indigo, vortex that has formed along my studio wall. Listeners, words fail me. It is so beautiful. I can’t leave you, as our show is not yet over, but there must be something beyond this something, Night Vale. I must see what it is. I must go. I will try not to be long, listeners. I will try not to be long…

19A.11 – The Sandstorm

[Cecil’s voice returns.]

Hello? Night Vale? I told you I would be back. It took longer than I thought, but I have returned from whatever horrible place I have gone. Along the way, in the vortex, I saw a grotesque man. A foul devil of a man! And he attacked me! I tried to choke him to death, but I remembered. I remembered what I told you, and I let him live. I let that woeful beast live. I am sure he is not without his wounds and bruises, and I pity that he must return to that awful, awful place from whence he came and to where I most unfortunately visited.

But somehow, I am happy that he is alive. That I am alive. That you are alive. That we are alive. Outside, the winds are subsiding, the sun sweeping away our pains. I am sure there is blood staining the streets, the graffiti of our sins, the writings of an immoral but necessary battle, I presume. The bodies of some replaced by others who were – we were – all the same to begin with. And we are healing. Those of us, whoever we are, who survived. Those others of us, whoever we are, who conquered.

Whoever you are now, you are home. We are home, Night Vale. You and I are together again. My mouth, your ears: we have each other. And for now, and always, good night, Night Vale. Good night.