Welcome To Night Vale Transcripts and More

Transcripts of episodes of the Welcome to Night Vale podcast, plus selections based on topic. Disclaimer: Welcome to Night Vale is owned by Joseph Fink, Jeffrey Cranor, and Commonplace Books; I am just a fan. These transcripts are meant for the hard of hearing or those who otherwise prefer to read. Please support the podcast! (Links below.)

[welcometonightvaletranscripts]

Welcome to Night Vale Episode Six Transcript

The Drawbridge

Rabbits are not what they seem to be. Welcome to Night Vale.

We've had some power outages reported throughout Night Vale in the last couple of hours. If you're experiencing one, well then you can't hear me, can you? The Night Vale municipal utility department said that they are still working to determine the cause of the outages, which are roving back and forth across town in a continuous motion, like a great pacing beast. Those whose neighborhoods have been hit by the outages reported the shriek of hawks overhead, and that when the lights came back on, they felt that perhaps they were different people, their memories and identities were the same as always, but suddenly felt like costumes that didn't fit exactly, as though it all were actually brand new to them. As though they had been switched out with someone who was exactly like them. As though all that was familiar would ever after be strange. Keep some flashlights with spare batteries and a childhood photo album by you tonight, just in case.

The revitalization of the Old Town Drawbridge experienced another setback this week, as engineers determined that the furniture upholstery used to construct the bridge towers soaks up water and creates an unstable foundation. This week's collapse was the third in as many months. Construction crews have tried building the bridge tower base supports from corrugated cardboard, non-dairy creamer, and ceramic bowls. Nothing has worked. Engineers are asking for help in determining how proper bridge towers are made. If you have any tips, please write them on notebook paper and mail them to Bridge Magic, LLC, PO Box 1616. Do not use cursive or long words. Clearly labeled drawings are preferred.

Ladies and gentlemen, it's that time of year again. Time for our annual pledge drive. Sorry to have to do this, but, you know, Night Vale has a lot of community-supported radio, and the thing about community-supported radio—it's supported by listeners like you. As well as Guatemala and some teamsters, who are, sometimes, just too generous. Any amount you can give will help us continue our community programming. A dollar, or two, or even plasma. Take WZZZ, our local numbers station, broadcasting from that strange and tall antenna built out back of the abandoned gas station on Oxford Street. Did you know that it broadcasts a monotone female voice reading out seemingly random numbers interspersed with chimes twenty four hours a day, seven days a week? As you can imagine, that kind of work doesn't bring in a lot of money—unless it does. To be honest, here at Night Vale Radio we don't know exactly what that station is for, or what master it is serving. But I do know that it is a vital part of this community, and we should pitch in to help it. We welcome your support. Give us a call! We don't have a number; just whisper, "Forsaken Algonquinia" into your phone receiver, and angels, or Facebook, or something, will deliver an appropriate contribution from your bank account.

More on the Drawbridge debacle. It was turmoil in city headquarters this morning. Following this latest in a long line of municipal failures, the city council has come under fire from concerned citizens for wasting taxpayer money on inefficient services that go over budget and over schedule. One critic, who wished to remain anonymous, said, "We don't even have a river or bay in Night Vale. There would never be a boat to necessitate a drawbridge!" He continued to…you know what? Forget it. I can tell you right now that that was Steve Carlsburgwho said that, and he is such a spoilsport, that Steve! Have you ever noticed how he never replaces his hubcaps? It's laziness, pure and simple. Laziness. I just can't let him ruin our town by denying Night Vale a drawbridge when he can't even care for a tan Corolla!

The Night Vale Daily Journal has announced that, due to spiraling printing costs, they will be replacing the print edition of the paper with a special new Imagination Edition. Editor Leanne Heart explains, "Instead of confining our customers to the outdated modes of ink on paper, we are allowing them to choose the news that interests them by imagining whatever news they want. This will not only save costs, but allow customers to experience the news as a full-color, full-motion experience taking place in a mental world that is tailored to their needs." Subscription to this edition will be compulsory and automatic, and will cost a mere $60 a month.

This Friday, at Night Vale High's Memorial Stadium, it's the annual softball showdown between the Night Vale Fire Department and the Sheriff's Secret Police. Proceeds from the game will go to support development of nuclear weaponry for a strongly religious Indonesian militia that is looking to overthrow their heretical government, as well as to the Make-A-Wish foundation. So, even if you don't like softball, come on out and support a couple of great causes. Last year's game ended in a rout, as the secret police hit three home runs in the eighth and ninth innings. The firefighters claimed that there was some foul play involved—pun intended, dear listeners—as their entire bullpen was assassinated in the middle innings with blow darts. Those murders remain unsolved and completely uninvestigated. Our hearts go out to the families of the deceased relief pitchers. Rest in peace. It should be a fun one! Expect a real revenge-minded fire department to take the field on Friday. Tickets are only $10, or $5 if you bring enriched yellowcake uranium. Black helicopters will be mind-scanning the town on game day, hunting down those who do not attend. The first 500 fans receive surgically applied working gills.

Notice: there is no digital, static-y hum coming from the dog park, Mayor Pamela Winchell announced today. The mayor stressed repeatedly in her ninety-second impromptu press conference that there is no unbearable, soul-tearing sound that rips at the sinews of your very being coming from the dog park. Mayor Winchell continued with a plea for all Night Vale residents to understand that there could not possibly be a deeply coded message emanating from a small, fenced-in patch of municipal grass and dirt. Citizens are not even supposed to be consciously aware of the dog park, so they could not possibly be receiving a menacing and unearthly voice instructing listeners to bring precious metals and toddlers to the dog park. “Dog park," she repeated. "That could never, ever be real," the mayor shouted, pounding the podium with her bleeding fists. There were no follow-up questions.

And now, a word from our sponsors!

-long, drawn out moaning-

And now, traffic.

There's a stalled car on the northbound on-ramp to the eastern expressway just south of Route 800. Commuters should have little delays, as highway patrol is fiercely denying this report. In fact, police representatives have just issued a statement claiming that there are no cars anywhere, and, "What are you doing, talking about them, talking silly lies, you silly people, there are no cars! What is this fiction? Oh, please, did you seriously believe for a second? Wait. Wait, you thought that cars were real?" The highway patrol continued, "Oh, that is rich." All other roads seem clear. Expect delays, of course, at the drawbridge construction site, because it is years away from being competently finished.

Here are this week's horoscopes.

Virgo: go see a movie today. It's a great escape! Especially from all this pollution and dangerous UV radiation. Say, is that mole new?

Libra: your dreams will be filled with prophetic visions. Write them down. Hopefully, there are some lottery numbers or sports scores in there.

Scorpio: curse you. Curse your family. Curse your children. And your children's children. Vile, vile Scorpio.

Sagittarius: eat well today! You've earned it. And by it, I mean massive food allergies. And by earned, I mean acquired. I should proof this stuff before I read it out loud. Let's try that again. You've acquired massive food allergies. Yes, much cleaner. Eat well!

Capricorn: those were not contact lenses you put in this morning. Best not think about this again.

Aquarius: the white ball will be under the middle shell. Trust the stars. Invest all your money in this lucrative street game.

Pisces: you’ve won a brand new car!

Aries: you will feel a haunting sadness about times gone by. Today's smell is wheatgrass and toast.

Taurus: today is your annual Crime Day. All Tauruses are exempt from laws today.

Gemini: you will meet someone today who will have no effect on your life, and who you will immediately forget. Retain hope for a possible future.

Cancer: I've gotta pay my phone bill, and also get some more milk. That wasn't me talking—that is what the stars say today. Interpret it as you will.

Leo: it's better that I don't read this aloud. Better that you not know. Tell your family that you love them.

That has been this week's horoscopes.

Good news for radio-controlled airplane hobbyists. Those unidentifiable black metallic trees that suddenly appeared by the library back in June and caused all airborne objects above thirty feet to catch fire? Well, they've finally been cleared away, as a new strip mall and parking lot are being developed. The Night Vale Airport, local birdwatchers, and that nice epileptic couple who run the Emergency Services helicopter are just pleased as pleased can be about the news. Several petitions, however, have cropped up from neighborhood improvement organizations. Juanita Jefferson, head of one such organization, Night Vale Or Nothing, said, “…treeeeees…they are us…” Jefferson then paused for several minutes without blinking and whispered again, "…treeeeeees," before collapsing into tears and loud moaning. Jefferson was then taken by helicopter to Night Vale General Hospital, where she is reportedly in stable condition. This morning, Jefferson's lawyer issued a statement saying: "My client fully recognizes the irony of this helicopter trip, but she stands by her earlier pronouncement, 'Trees, trees; they are us.’"

Meanwhile, I hear from trustworthy informants that there will be a Pinkberry at the new strip mall. Delicious!

This just in on Drawbridge Gate. The city council said that, in response to this week's collapse, they will increase the project budget by twenty million dollars over the next fourteen years—the new timeline for the bridge. Money for these extra expenses will come from school lunch programs, a 65% hotel tax, and a $276 bridge toll, which will be discounted to $249 with E-Z Pass.

And now for a station editorial.

Large, expensive projects are not uncommon in Night Vale. We are a patient but resilient little city. We have big dreams—sometimes scary, unforgettable dreams that repeat on the same date every year and are shared by every person in town—but we make those big dreams come true. Remember the clock tower? It took eight years and twenty three million dollars to build, and despite its invisibility and constant teleportation, it is a lovely structure that keeps impeccable time. It's a classy signature for Night Vale's growing skyline, unlike that hideous sports arena Desert Bluffs built last spring. Desert Bluffs can't do anything right. That's where Steve Carlsburg belongs! God, what a jerk.

And now, the weather!

(Aye, Dio)

Apparently, the Sheriff's Secret Police agree with me about old Steve Carlsburg, dear listeners. We just received a report from a reliable witness that two days ago, Steve was whisked into the back of a windowless van, only to reappear earlier this morning wearing thick head bandages and eating Styrofoam shaped like an ice cream cone.

I want to take this moment to thank all of you out there, for all of the generous donations that you may or may not be aware that you just made. During this show, we have raised just a hair over $45,000, which includes a $45,000 donation from a certain anonymous world leader. I can't tell you who—let's just say, muchos gracias, El Presidente! –speaks Spanish- Thank you again for your involuntary support of community radio. We couldn't do it without the support of listeners like you, in conjunction with unethical contributions from nefarious organizations. And with that, I leave you alone with your thoughts, folks. Stay tuned next for Zydeco Note By Note, a special two-hour verbal description of what zydeco music sounds like. Buenos noches, Night Vale. Goodnight.

Proverb: Lost? Confused? Lacking direction? Need to find a purpose in your life?

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Welcome to Night Vale Episode Five Transcript

The Shape in Grove Park

Close your eyes. Let my words wash over you. You are safe now. Welcome to Night Vale.

Local historians are protesting the removal of the Shape in Grove Park that no one acknowledges or speaks about. While their protest has been hampered by the fact that none of them will acknowledge or speak about it, they did, through a system of gestures and grimaces, convey the message that, whatever the Shape is, and whatever its effects on neighborhoods, it is a Night Vale landmark and should be protected. The Shape itself offered no comment, only a low moaning gelatinous quiver. The city council would not provide any reason for the removal, but did say that any work in Grove Park was making way for a new swing set, picnic area, and bloodstone circle, which we all can agree are good contributions to the community.

The Night Vale Green Market Co-Op announced today that, after fifteen years, they will begin selling fruits and vegetables. Green Market board president Tristan Cortez said that recent customer surveys indicated that shoppers have grown tired of empty pickup trucks and vacant tents lining the City Hall parking lot every Sunday morning in the summer and fall. Cortez said that research indicates that consumers are more likely to buy products if they are available and for sale, and that Green Market & Grocery shoppers tend to purchase food items. Cortez said that the decision to sell food at the Green Market was a controversial one, as many board members and Co-Op shareholders feel fruit and vegetable sales will interfere with their ongoing secretive domestic espionage operations. When reached for comment, our source within the Secret Police only breathed heavily into the phone while tapping and as-yet uncracked code into the receiver.

Michael Sandero, starting quarterback for the Night Vale Scorpions, has reportedly grown a second head. It is not currently known whether this is a result of the previously reported lightning strike, or just another odd coincidence in the kid’s odd life. People in the know say that the new head is better looking and smarter than the first one, and even Michael’s mother has issued a statement indicating that she likes it much better than her son and that she will be changing the rankings on the public Which of My Children I Like Best board outside her house. Sandero could not be reached for comment, probably. We didn’t try.

Friends, listeners—there’s a real tarantula problem here in Night Vale. Many residents have called in to report that illiteracy, unwanted pregnancy, and violent crime are on the rise in the tarantula communities. Animal control is addressing these concerns through after school programs called ‘Teach a Spider to Read. Stop the Madness.’ Those interesting in volunteering should stand in their bathtubs and weep until it is all gone. Nothing left. You can let go now. Let go. Shhhh. Let go.

And now a message from our sponsor.

Tired of your home? Sick of comfort? Come to the hole in the vacant lot out back of the Ralph’s and huddle with Us. Who are we? Good question. Come to the hole in the vacant lot out back of the Ralph’s and huddle with Us. Why do we want you to come? Why did we spend money for this airtime? We understand you are confused. But—hole, vacant lot, Ralph’s, huddle, Us. For the low-low price act today. Or tomorrow. Not Wednesday. Wednesday is no good for Us. Anyway, we’re almost out of airtime, so just come on down to the hole in the vacant lot out back of the Ralph’s and huddle with Us. Or else.

Back to our regularly scheduled programming. Ladies and gentlemen, the rumor mill is abuzz. We’ve had a celebrity sighting in our little burgh! Old Woman Josie and one of her angel friends reportedly saw Rita Hayworth getting gas at the Fuel ‘N Go over by the bowling alley. Rita Hayworth, ladies and gentlemen! Right here in Night Vale. Can you believe it? Old Woman Josie said Rita was looking a bit older, moderately obese, and considerably more Hispanic, but the angel assured her it was indeed Rita. He is an angel after all—he would know, right? Wow! Rita Hayworth. Right here in Night Vale. Just imagine.

Update on the Shape Formerly in Grove Park that no one acknowledges or speaks about. It seems the city council, in their superhuman mercy and all-seeing glory, have chosen to move the Shape directly in front of our own radio station, where it is continuing to be what can only be described as…indescribable. The Shape was not available for comment, as I could find no one willing to speak to it, or even meet my eye when I mentioned it. It has occurred to me that I may be the only one able to see it. Now that I think about it, I have also never bothered to actually check whether this mike is attached to any sort of recording or broadcasting device. And, it is possible that I am alone in an empty universe, speaking to no one, unaware that the world is held aloft merely by my delusions and my smooth, sonorous voice. More on this story as it develops, I say, possibly only to myself.

The Night Vale Community Theatre is holding auditions for its fall show Once On This Island. Interested thespians should bring a headshot and résumé to the Recreation Center auditorium on Thursday night. All auditionees must perform a one-minute monologue and sing one song. Bring sheet music if you would like piano accompaniment. Auditionees will also be required to do a cold reading, and give blood and stool samples along with mandatory radiation testing following the auditions. Do not sing anything from South Pacific. People of color are urged to audition, as Night Vale Community Theatre is an equal-opportunity employer. Also, actors with long-range sniper training, Fortran computer programming, and top-notch wilderness survival skills are a plus. Final casting will be announced in secret via dirigible. No one can ever know.

Update on the Green Market situation from earlier in our broadcast. Everything is exactly the same as when we last reported on it. There is no new information.

Listeners, do you ever think about the moon? I was sitting outside last night looking at the moon and I thought, does anyone actually know what that thing is? Have there been any studies on this? I went to ask Carlos, but he hasn’t been seen much since that treacherous Telly’s vile haircut. The moon’s weird though, right? It’s there, and there, and then suddenly it’s not. And it seems to be pretty far up. It is watching us? If not, what is it watching instead? Is there something more interesting than us? Hey, watch us moon! We may not always be the best show in the universe, but we try. This has been today’s Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner.

Speaking of which, the Night Vale school district has announced some changes to the elementary school curriculum. They are as follows: in response to parent feedback, history class will focus more heavily on textbook readings and traditional exams, rather than live ammo drills. Geology is adding a new type of rock on the grounds that it’s been a while since anyone has done that. The type of rocks is Vimbee, and it is categorized by its pale blue color, and the fact that it is completely edible. Points will be awarded to the first student to discover a real-world example of it. Math and English are switching names. Their curriculum will stay exactly the same. Astronomy will now be conducting star gazing sessions only with blindfolds on every participant, in order to protect them from the existential terror of the void. Also, Pluto has been declared imaginary. All classrooms will be equipped with at least one teacher physically present for the entire instruction period. Astral projection will no longer be used in any classroom situation. Finally, in addition to the current foreign language offerings of Spanish, French, and Modified Sumerian, schools will now be offering Double Spanish, Weird Spanish, Coptic Spanish, Russian, and Unmodified Sumerian.

And now, a continuation of our previous investigation into whether I am literally the only person in the world, speaking to myself in a fit of madness cause by my inability to admit the tragedy of my own existence. Leland, our newest intern, recently brought me a cup of coffee. He is no longer in my field of vision, but I do still have the cup of coffee, which is well made and is given me the needed pick-me-up to continue considering this terrifying possibility. Is it possible that I only imagined Leland, and forgot making myself this cup of coffee? But then, who would have grown this coffee? Where was this coffee cup procured from? Oh, Leland’s back in the room. He’s waving at me—hello, Leland—and he’s saying…wait, what was that, Leland?

I see. He’s saying that the Shape has turned a molten red and is causing small whirlwinds in front of our radio station doors. There is apparently a sound of a great many voices chanting as though it were an army giving out a battle cry before raining down destruction on our arid little hamlet. Oh? He has stopped shouting, and is now writing furiously on a piece of paper. I have to say, Leland’s existence, as well as his finally speaking about the Shape that no one else would speak about, has reassured me greatly about my lonely and solipsistic vigil here at this microphone. He is handing me the note—thank you, Leland—lemme see here. Ahhh. It says that the city council believes the reason for the violent reaction of the Shape Formerly in Grove Park that no one acknowledges or speaks about is because I have been acknowledging and speaking about it, which has made it angry. They urge me to stop speaking of it, and never do it again, and in exchange they’ll move it somewhere else so we can get our front-loading zone back. After brief consideration, I have decided to accept the council’s offer, because they are trustworthy leaders looking out for our better future, and also because Leland just got vaporized by a strange red light emanating from the station entrance. To the family of Leland, we thank you for his service to the cause of community radio, and join you in mourning his loss.

And, without further ado, nor ever again mentioning anything we shouldn’t, let’s go to the weather.

(Jerusalem, Dan Bern)

Hello listeners. In breaking news, the sky. The earth. Life. Existence as an unchanging plain with horizons of birth and death in the faint distance. We have nothing to speak about. There never was. Words are an unnecessary trouble. Expression is time wasting away. Any communication is just a yelp in the darkness. Ladies, gentlemen, listeners, you. I am speaking now but I am saying nothing. I am just making noises, and, as it happens, they are organized in words, and you should not draw meaning from this. The service for Leland will be lovely. We will throw flowers and weep. He will be buried in the break room as is the custom. His family will come and moon about the coffee as though we have answers. We do not have answers. I am not certain that we even have questions. I have chosen to not be certain of anything at all. This is Cecil, generally, speaking to you, metaphorically, for Night Vale Community Radio, and I would like to say in the most nebulous terms possible, and with no real-world implications or insinuations of objective meaning, goodnight, listeners. Goodnight.

Proverb: A million dollars isn’t cool. You know what’s cool? A basilisk. 

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Welcome to Night Vale Episode Four Transcript

PTA Meeting

The sun has grown so very, very old. How long cold, fading death? How long? Welcome to Night Vale.

Our top story: last night’s Night Vale PTA meeting ended in bloodshed, as a rift in space-time split open in the Main Street Recreation Center Auditorium, setting loose several confused and physically aggressive pteranodons. The glowing portal remained open and shrieked incessantly, an unholy sound that witnesses say resembled noisy urchin children caught in a combine harvester, and then slowed down and amped up through some kind of open source, easy-to-use audio editing software. The pteranodons mostly attacked women with glasses. Authorities are still unsure why, as Night Vale’s only flying dinosaur expert, Joel Isenberg, still has not recovered from last year’s bout with throat spiders. It took most of an hour to corral the panicked beasts back into the vortex and resume the meeting, which had mostly been upon recent lunchroom price hikes, and had devolved into name calling because Susan Wilman called Diane Craton’s son Josh ‘a bit tubby,’ and that ‘maybe he needs a financial incentive to eat less.’ In this reporter’s opinion, Susan Wilman is dangerously obsessed with the New York Times bestselling Freakonomics books. Dangerously so. Fortunately, no one was injured or killed in the incident, although experts from Timothy’s Auditorium Repair Contractors Inc. estimate close to $50,000 in damage has been done to the Rec Center Auditorium—and that cost includes free storm windows and a complementary seasonal installation consultation.

It’s election season again, and you know what that means! Sherriff’s Secret Police will be coming by to collect certain family members so that everyone votes for the correct council seats and there’s no confusion. These family members will be held in a secure and undisclosed location, which everyone knows is the abandoned mine shaft outside of town. But, don’t let the name fool you, listeners: it’s been used for years for so many kidnappings and illegal detentions that the abandoned mine shaft outside of town is actually a pretty nice location these days, featuring king-sized beds, free Wi-Fi, and HBO. Also torture cubicles, but I don’t think anyone’s going to make the council use those. Remember, this is America. Vote correctly, or never see your loved ones again. This message brought to you by the city council.

The Night Vale Daily Journal today announced that, due to the recent economic downturn, they will start running ads on the front page. Any business interested in running on of these Platinum Premium Ads should contact editor Leanne Heart. Heart mentioned that they have also created a write-your-own-news-story program for interested citizens. Because every writer has been laid off, the Daily Journal now needs these community contributions to supply Night Vale with important news and features. The first Platinum Premium Ad runs next Monday, and features the terrified face of an infant primate with a superimposed spoon that has been stone-sharpened to a rough point, and the tagline ‘Better Use Tide.’ Heart also said that last year’s explosion that decimated the Daily Journal’s distribution plant is still totally an accident, and would like her insurance rep to call her back. Please. Call her back.

This just came across the wire: the Secret Police have issued a new statement shedding more light onto last night’s PTA meeting incident. The noisy portal and subsequent dinosaur attack, that brutally interrupted discussion of swing set repairs on the elementary school playground, stayed open long after Recreation Center employees thought they had rounded up all of the ancestral avian beasts, and authorities warn that there is still at least one more pteranodon on the loose. Citizens should cover themselves with a low-SPF sunscreen and hide in a tiled bathroom.

Several curious handball players in the court next to the auditorium actually popped their heads into the portal just to see what was on the other side of the vortex, and came back dramatically changed. The players aged several thousand years in what bystanders experienced as only a few seconds. Those handball players now straddle the unenviable border of millennially wizened and cripplingly insane. Since psychologically and emotional damages are no longer considered valid claims by the greater medical insurance community, we are still reporting zero injuries. We’ll update you as further details surface in our special ongoing and very special coverage of Pteranodon Attack Gate. Are we safe from dinosaurs? No way.

City council has asked me to read the following message. If you notice strange auras around any of the following objects in your house: blender, showerhead, dog, husband, wife, table, chair, doorknob, baseboard, vacation souvenirs or photos, collectibles of any kind, especially those depicting or involving horses, DVDs, especially Cliffhanger, There’s Something About Mary, and The Wire 4th season, and any bagged lettuce from California or Mexico, please, report to the council for indefinite detention.

Speaking of the city council, it voted this week to remove the large, lead-plated door from the northeastern-most crook of Radon Canyon. You know, the area pulsing with green light and soto voce basso humming. Proponents of the measure said the large yellow emblem and red lettering that spelled out ‘DANGER. PLUTONIUM. DO NOT OPEN DOOR. RISK OF DEATH,’ were at worst an offensive eyesore and, at best, a hacky sci-fi cliché. Many Night Vale citizen attended the meeting, including, it was said, several angels—although no angel is admitted to have been present for the city council meeting or any other event ever, for that matter. Old Woman Josie agreed with the measure, adding that lead is a health hazard, and that the old door was nothing but a ticking time bomb. According to the meeting minutes, Josie said, “That old door. Oooooohhhhh, that door. Someone’s gonna get some kind of lead poisoning.”

Carlos, beautiful Carlos, tragically shorn of his locks, reportedly was the only dissenting voice—but it is not clear he actually opposed the measure, as the minutes only report him stating, “There is no time. No more time,” into a black rectangle in his hand, and then running, winded, from the community hall. According to Old Woman Josie, he was still absolutely perfect, and smelled of lavender chewing gum.

More breaking news on the pteranodons. We humbly offer the following retractions from our previous reports: Secret Police are now reporting that the offending beasts were not pteranodons after all, but pterodactyls. Also, pteranodons aren’t even dinosaurs as this station previously stated, just winged reptiles that lived about seventy million years after pterodactyls. Finally, earlier we reported a death toll of zero, when in fact the number is closer to 38. We regret these errors.

It’s almost football season, and the Night Vale Scorpions are gearing up for a defense of the high school division title. But really, as long as we beat Desert Bluffs, fans and hooded figures alike will feel just fine. Coach Nazr Al Mujahib told reporters he’s particularly excited for the progress junior quarterback Michael Sandero made during the off-season, after that sentient lightning bolt struck him and give him the strength of two jeeps and the intelligence of a heavily concussed Rene Descartes. But, if Night Vale is going to beat their bitter rivals this year, and stave off the government-administered pestilence the follows a losing season record, Sandero will have to improve his accuracy. Last year, Sandero only completed two out of 130 pass attempt—most notably, because he was in advanced staged of cerebral palsy, and because his throwing hand had been removed due to several overdue library books. Apparently, the off-season lightning strike had healed Sandero of his terminal ailments and court-ordered amputations, and he’s ready to take on Desert Bluffs, which is probably the worst team ever. God. They’re dreadful.

And now, an editorial.

Let’s talk for a moment about apartment building etiquette. Now, I myself live in an apartment building, and there is a compassion and acceptance you have to have for a certain level of annoyance. It’s people in close proximity to each other, and so there will be some things that you don’t like, and still have to let go. But, other things are absolutely unacceptable! For instance, a certain level of strange radiating light or heat on shared walls is expected, but any oozings or visible membranes are rude and thoughtless to all of your neighbors. Gibbering, howling, and chants in long-dead languages are the kind of thing that is fine at 1pm, but absolutely not fine at 1am. We are all in this together. Put your trash in the cans! Not in the hallway leading to the cans. Put on some clothes when standing in front of your windows, and keep any rituals or crazed experiments to hours in which no one is trying to sleep. It doesn’t have to be hard.

We have a very unexpected treat today, dear listeners. Live in the studio we have one of the mysterious hooded figures often seen around town. We did not actually invite him here; he just was waiting for us when we unlocked the studio this morning. He has not moved, nor spoken since then, and I’ll be honest: I am only guessing that he is a he, because physical attributes are hard to determine under these robes, and the face is entirely hidden in shadow as empty and as black as the void of space. But hey, we’re doing radio! He’s in a radio station. Let’s see if we can get an interview.

Mr. Hooded Figure, how are you doing today?

-static-

Huh! Okay. Care to comment on the recent expansion of the forbidden dog park?

-more static-

Any comments at all? Anything you’d like to tell the ordinary folk of Night Vale about your organization?

-static getting louder-

Listeners, I’m sure you can here this. It’s not a problem with your radio or our transmitters. The hooded figure is making those noises in our studio. It’s pretty deafening, actually. Alright! I don’t think he’s going to stop, and he’s started to levitate, so, let’s go to the weather.

(Closer, The Tiny)

Ladies and Gentlemen, we have just received word from Secret Police that the rip in space-time that opened at last night’s PTA meeting has been sealed at last. The final missing pterodactyl has been returned to its own timeline in either prehistoric or alternate universe Night Vale. The creature’s lifeless body was found a dozen yards outside of the dog park entrance, stripped of all flesh, and with most of the organs inverted and strung around its exposed skull, like an old fashioned soft meats crown, as worn by the 18th century religious leaders who settled our fair burgh. The dinosaur’s body was returned to the vortex, the gateway closed, and the PTA meeting rescheduled for next Tuesday at 6pm. That meeting will continue to address the important issue of backpacks, and whether or not they are causing autism. There will also be a memorial service for the 38 parents and teachers who lost their lives in the attack, followed by a raffle. Remember, winners must be present at the time of the drawing to claim their prizes.

City council and Secret Police have issued a reminder that Night Vale citizens of all species and all geologic eras are not to enter, look at, or think too long about the dog park. This reminder, they say, is completely unrelated to anything that may or may not have happened today.

Coming up next, stay tuned for our one-hour special, “Morse Code for Trumpet Quintets.” And listeners, Night Vale is an ancient place, full of history and secrets…as we were reminded today. But it is also a place of the present moment, full of life, and of us. If you can hear my voice speaking live, then you know: we are not history yet. We are happening now. How miraculous is that. Goodnight, listeners. Goodnight.

Proverb: What has four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and three legs in the evening? I don’t know, but I trapped it in my bedroom. Send help.

[welcometonightvaletranscripts]

Welcome to Night Vale Episode Three Transcript

Station Management

The Arctic is lit by the midnight sun. The surface of the moon is lit by the face of the Earth. Our little town is lit too, by lights just above that we cannot explain. Welcome to Night Vale.

The Night Vale Daily Journal has announced that they will be cutting back their publication schedule to Monday through Thursday only, due to the economic downturn and a massive decline in the literate population. The Thursday Daily Journal will now be called the Weekend Edition, and on Sundays, newspaper kiosks usually filled with important newsprint will be filled with 2% milk. When asked why milk, the Journal’s publishing editor Leanne Heart said, “It is important that we maintain an unbiased approach to news reporting.”

The Night Vale Business Association is proud to announce the new Night Vale Stadium, next to The Night Vale Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area. The stadium will be able to seat 50,000, but will be closed all nights of the year except for November 10th, for the annual parade of the mysterious hooded figures, in which all of our favorite ominous hooded figures—the one that lurks under the slide in the Night Vale Elementary playground, the ones that meet regularly in the dog park, and the one that will occasionally steal babies, and for reasons no one can understand, we all stand by and let him do it—all of them will be parading proudly through Night Vale Stadium. I tell you, with these new facilities, it promises to be quite a spectacle. And then, it promises to be a vast, dark, and echo-y space for the other meaningless 364 days of the year.

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 shaped 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 retraining session in the Dark Box. Uhhhhhg. But what can I say. I’m a reporter at heart! I can’t not report.

-papers 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.

The city council has asked me to remind everyone about the new drive to clean up litter. Night Vale is our home. And who wants to leave trash all over their home? Put it in the garbage can, listeners. And if you see any trash around, pick it up, and throw it away! Do your part. Unless the trash is marked with a small red flag. The council has asked me to remind you that any litter marked with a red flag is not to be picked up or approached. Remember the slogan: No flag? Goes in the bag. Red flag? Run.

Listeners, we are currently fielding numerous reports that books have stopped working. It seems that all over Night Vale, books have simply ceased functioning. The scientists are studying one of the broken books to see if they can understand just what is going on here. The exact problem is currently unclear, but some of the words being used include ‘sparks,’ ‘meat smell,’ ‘biting,’ and ‘lethal gas.’ For your own safety, please do not attempt to open a book until we have more information on the nature and cause of these problems. The city council has released only a brief statement, indicating that their stance on books has not changed, and that, as always, they believe that books are dangerous and inadvisable, and should not be kept in private homes.

Another warning for Night Vale residents. Sources say that the Used and Discount Sporting Goods Store on Flint Dr. is a front for the World Government. This is based on extensive study of the location, and also because it has a black helicopter pad on which black helicopters regularly depart and land; fairly unusual for a used and discount sporting goods store. We sent our intern, Chad, to try buying a tennis racket, and have not heard back from him for several weeks. This brings me to a related point. To the parents of Chad the intern: we regret to inform you that your son was lost in the line of community radio duty, and that he will be missed, and never forgotten. May you all feel blessed to have the family that you have, and if you’re looking for sporting goods, check out Play Ball right over by our own community radio station! Play Ball is only a front for the Sherriff’s Secret Police, and so can be completely trusted.

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 at the car lot, who crouched behind their 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 contracts 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 will 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.

Two hawkeyed listeners sent in reports that Carlos, our curious scientific visitor, was seen getting his beautiful, beautiful hair cut. He was having his gorgeous hair shorn! Cut! Cut short! So very short from his perfectly shaped brilliant head. Listeners, I am not one to gossip even if it is a local celebrity, but please explain to me why Carlos would strip away, decimate, any part of his thick black hair—not to ignore the dignified, if premature, touch of grey in the temples. What treacherous barber should agree to such depravity? Who takes mere money, or even soulless joy, in depriving our small community of such a simple, but important, act as luridly admiring Carlos’s stunning coif? Reports from two intrepid sources are that it was Telly the Barber. Telly, who likes sports, and has posters of combs. Telly the Barber seems to be the one who betrayed our community. Telly the Barber. It is Telly the Barber at the corner of southwest 5th St. and Old Musk Rd. with the red and white spinning pole and the sign that says, ‘Telly’s.’ Telly is about five foot nine with a small mustache and a thick potbelly. He talks with an accent, and sneers. Telly the Barber cut Carlos’s beautiful hair. According to reports. Telly.

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

Oh. Wow! …Well, that looks pretty good. Yup. Yeeeess. 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’m asking all of you right 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. There wording was…kind of ambiguous. Obviously we will not be able to deliver the letters directly to the management per say, as no one has ever opened their door, but we can shout the content 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.

-dramatic crashing-

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

This segment has been brought to us by Big Ricco’s Pizza. Listeners, we are proud to have Big Ricco’s as a sponsor of our show.  You will not find a better pizza joint in all of Night Vale then Big Ricco’s. Just the other night, I stopped by Big Ricco’s. I was in the mood for a delicious pizza slice, and since Big Ricco’s is the only pizza place in Night Vale that has not burned to the ground in an unsolved arson case, and did I mention, is also the best pizza in town, I ordered a single Ricco’s slice with two authentic toppings. And boy, was I satisfied. The flavor was scrumptious. The taste was also scrumptious. And it was warm, the pizza slice! I have been told that even the hooded figures eat there; the wait staff look like they avert their hollow gazes quite a bit. Even the city council offers its ringing endorsement of Big Ricco’s. All Night Vale citizens are mandated to eat at Big Ricco’s once a week. It is a misdemeanor not to. Big Ricco’s Pizza. No one does a slice like Big Ricco, folks! No one.

And now, sweet, sweet listeners…the weather.

(Bill and Annie, Chuck Brodsky)

-muffled crashing and roaring-

Hello, radio audience. I come to you live from under my desk, where I have dragged my microphone, and am currently hiding in the fetal position. Did you write letters? Then 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 know exactly 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 a faint hissing sound like releasing steam. An intern went to 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 corporally absorbed into management permanently. Jerry and Chad the interns will both be missed, but we will surely see them in the Thanksgiving Dad Dead Citizens Impersonation Contest, which this year will be in the employee lounge under the Night Vale Mall from 11am to 9:45pm. –light sob- There will be a cash bar and two twister boards. –sharp inhale- I am 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!

Proverb: There’s a special place in Hell. It’s really hip. Very exclusive. 

[welcometonightvaletranscripts]

Welcome to Night Vale Episode Two Transcript

Glow Cloud

The desert seems vast, even endless, and yet scientists tell us that somewhere, even now, there is snow. Welcome to Night Vale.

The Night Vale Tourism Board’s Visitable Night Vale campaign has kicked off with posters encouraging folks to take their family on a scenery-filled jaunt through the trails of Radon Canyon. Their slogan? ‘The view is literally breathtaking.” Posters will be placed at police stations and frozen yogurt shops in nearby towns, along with promotional giveaways of plastic sheeting and re-breathers.

And now, the news.

Have any of our listeners seen the glowing cloud that has been moving in from the west? Well, John Peters—you know, the farmer?—he saw it over the western ridge this morning, said he would have thought it was the setting sun if it wasn’t for the time of day. Apparently the cloud glows in a variety of colors, perhaps changing from observer to observer, although all report a low whistling when it draws near. One death has already been attributed to the glow cloud. But listen, it’s probably nothing. If we had to shut down the town for every mysterious event that at least one death could be attributed to, we’d never have time to do anything, right? That’s what the Sherriff’s Secret Police are saying, and I agree. Although, I would not go so far as to endorse their suggestion to run directly at the cloud, shrieking and waving your arms, just to see what it does.

The Apache Tracker—and I remind you that this is that white guy who wears the huge and cartoonishly inaccurate Indian headdress—has announced that he has found some disturbing evidence concerning the recent incident at the Night Vale Post Office, which has been sealed by the city council since the great screaming that was heard from it a few weeks ago. He said that using ancient Indian magics he slipped through council security into the post office, and observed that all the letters and packages had been thrown about as in a whirlwind, that there was the heavy stench of scorched flesh, that the words written in blood on the wall said, “More to come, and soon.” Can you believe this guy said he used Indian magics? What an asshole.

Here’s something odd. There is a cat hovering in the men’s bathroom at the radio station here. He seems perfectly happy and healthy, but it’s floating about four feet off the ground next to the sink. Doesn’t seem to be able to move from its current hover spot. If you pet him, he purrs, and he’ll rub on your body like a normal cat if you get close enough. Fortunately, because he’s right by the sink, it was pretty easy to leave some water and food where he could get it, and it’s nice to have a station pet. Wish it wasn’t trapped in a hovering prison in the men’s bathroom, but listen: no pet is perfect. It becomes perfect when you learn to accept it for what it is.

And now, a message from our sponsors.

I took a walk on the cool sand dunes, brittle grass overgrown, and above me the night sky, above me I saw. Bitter taste of unripe peaches and a smell I could not place nor could I escape. I remembered other times that I could not escape. I remembered other smells. The moon slunk like a wounded animal. The world spun like it had lost control. Concentrate only on breathing, and let go of ideas you had about nutrition and alarm clocks. I took a walk on the cool sand dunes, brittle grass overgrown, and above me the night sky, above me I saw.

This message was brought to you by Coca Cola.

The city council, in cooperation with government agents from a vague, yet menacing, agency, is asking all citizens to stop by the Night Vale Elementary School gymnasium tonight at seven for a brief questionnaire about mysterious sights that definitely no one saw, and strange thoughts that in no way occurred to anyone, because all of are normal, and to be otherwise would make us outcasts from our own community. Remember: if you see something, say nothing, and drink to forget.

The Boy Scouts of Night Vale have announced some slight changes to their hierarchy, which will now be the following: Cub Scout, Boy Scout, Eagle Scout, Blood Pact Scout, Weird Scout, Dreadnought Scout, Dark Scout, Fear Scout, and finally, Eternal Scout. As always, signup is automatic and random, so please keep an eye out for the scarlet envelope that will let you know your son has been chose for the process.

This is probably nothing listeners, but John Peters—you know, the farmer—he reports that the Glow Cloud is directly over Old Town Night Vale, and appears to be raining small creatures upon the earth. Armadillos, lizards, a few crows—that kind of thing. Fortunately, the animals appear to be dead already, so the Night Vale Animal Control Department has said that it should be a snap to clean those up. They just have to be tossed on the Eternal Animal Pyre in Mission Grove Park, so, if that’s the worst the Glow Cloud has for us, I say go ahead and do your daily errands. Just bring along a good strong umbrella capable of handling falling animals up to, say, ten pounds. More on the Glow Cloud as it continues to crawl across our sky. And hey, here’s a tip: take your kids out, and use the Cloud’s constantly mutating hue to teach him or her the names of colors. It’s fun, and it shows them the real-life applications of learning.

Alert: the Sherriff’s Secret Police are searching for a fugitive named Hiram McDaniels, who escaped custody last night following a 9pm arrest. McDaniels is described as a five-headed dragon, approximately 18 feet tall, with mostly green eyes and weighing about 3600 pounds. He is suspected of insurance fraud. McDaniels was pulled over for speeding last night, and the Secret Police became suspicious when he allegedly gave the officers a fake driver’s license for a five foot eight man named Frank Chen. After discerning that Frank Chen was actually a five-headed dragon from somewhere other than our little world, the Secret Police searched McDaniels’ vehicle. Representatives from local civil rights organizations have protested that officers had no legal grounds to search the vehicle, but they ceded the point when reminded by Secret Police officials that our backwards court system will uphold any old authoritarian rule made up on the fly by unsupervised gun-carrying thugs of a shadow government. The Secret Police say McDaniels escaped police custody by breathing fire from his purple head, and he was last seen flying and shrieking over Red Mesa. Secret Police are asking for tips leading to the arrest of Hiram McDaniels. They remind you that, if seen, he should not be approached, as he is literally a five headed dragon. Contact the Sherriff’s Secret Police if you have any information. Ask for Officer Ben. Helpful tipsters will earn one stamp on their Alert Citizen card. Collect five stamps, and you get stop sign immunity for one year.

And now, a look at the community calendar.

Saturday, the public library will be unknowable. Citizens will forget the existence of the library from 6am Saturday morning until 11pm that night. The library will be under a sort of renovation. It is not important what kind of renovation.

Sunday is Dot Day! Remember, red dots on what you love, blue dots on what you don’t. Mixing those up can cause permanent consequences.

Monday, Louie Blascoe is offering bluegrass lessons in the back of Louie’s Music Shop. Of course, the shop burned down years ago, and Louie skipped town immediately after with his insurance money, but he’s sent word that you should bring your instrument to the crumbled ashy shell of where his shop once was, and pretend that he is there in the darkness teaching you. The price is $50 per lesson, payable in advance.

Tuesday afternoon, join the Night Vale PTA for a bake sale to support Citizens for a Blood Space War. Proceeds will go to support neutron bomb development and deployment to our outer solar system allies.

Wednesday has been cancelled due to a scheduling error.

And on Thursday is a free concert. And…that’s all it says here.

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 die to the increasing size of the animal corpses being dropped. I’ve had multiple reports that a lion, like the kind you would see on the sunbaked 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 Sherriff’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, Satellite High)

Sorry, listeners. Not sure what happened in that earlier section of the broadcast. As in, I actually don’t remember what happened. Tried to play back the tapes, but they’re all blank, and smell faintly of vanilla.

The Glow Cloud, meanwhile, has moved on. It is now just a glowing spot in the distance, humming east to destinations unknown. We may never fully understand, or, understand at all what it was and why it dumped a lot of dead animals on our community. But, and I’m going to get a little personal here, that’s the essence of life, isn’t it? Sometimes you go through things that seem huge at the time, like a mysterious glowing cloud devouring your entire community. While they’re happening they feel like the only thing that matters, and you can hardly imagine that there’s a world out there that might have anything else going on. And then the Glow Cloud moves on. And you move on. And the event is behind you. And you may find that, as time passes, you remember it less and less—or not at all, in my case. And you are left with nothing but a powerful wonder at the fleeting nature of even the most important things in life, and the faint, but pretty, smell of vanilla.

Dear listeners, here is a list of things. Emotions you don’t understand upon viewing a sunset. Lost pets, found. Lost pets, unfound. A secret lost pet city on the moon. Trees that see. Restaurants that head. A void that thinks. A face half seen just before falling asleep. Trembling hands reaching for desperately needed items. Sandwiches. Silence when there should be noise. Noise when there should be silence. Nothing when you want something. Something when you thought there was nothing. Clear plastic binder sheets. Scented dryer sheets. Rain coming down in sheets. Night. Rest. Sleep. End.

Goodnight, listeners. Goodnight.

Proverb: Men are from Mars; women are from Venus; Earth is a hallucination; podcasts are dreams.

[welcometonightvaletranscripts]

Welcome to Night Vale Episode One Transcript

Pilot

A friendly desert community where the sun is hot, the moon is beautiful, and mysterious lights pass overhead while we all pretend to sleep. Welcome to Night Vale.

Hello listeners. To start things off I’ve been asked to read this brief notice: the city council announces the opening of a new dog park at the corner of Earl and Summerset near the Ralph’s. They would like to remind everyone that dogs are not allowed in the dog park. People are not allowed in the dog park. It is possible you will see hooded figures in the dog park. Do not approach them. Do not approach the dog park. The fence is electrified and highly dangerous. Try not to look at the dog park, and especially do not look for any period of time at the hooded figures. The dog park will not harm you.

And now the news.

Old Woman Josie out near the car lot says the angels revealed themselves to her; said they were ten feet tall, radiant, and one of them was black; said they helped her with various household chores. One of them changed a light bulb for her, the porch light. She’s offering to sell the old lightbulb, which has been touched by an angel. It was the black angel, if that sweetens the pot for anyone. If you’re interested, contact Old Woman Josie. She’s out near the car lot.

A new man came into town today. Who is he? What does he want from us? Why his perfect and beautiful haircut? Why his perfect and beautiful coat? He says he is a scientist. Well, we have all been scientists and one point or another in our lives. But why now? Why here? And just what does he plan to do with all those breakers and humming electrical instruments in that lab he is renting—the one next to Big Ricco’s Pizza? No one does a slice like Big Ricco. No one.

Just a reminder to all the parents out there. Let’s talk about safety when taking your children out to play in the Scrub Lands and the Sand Wastes. You need to give them plenty of water, make sure there’s a shade tree in the area, and keep an eye on the helicopter colors. Are the unmarked helicopters circling the area black? Probably World Government. Not a good area for play that day. Are they blue? That’s the Sherriff’s Secret Police. They’ll keep a good eye on your kids, and hardly ever take one. Are they painted with complex murals depicting birds of prey diving? No one knows what those helicopters are, or what they want. Do not play in the area. Return to your home, and lock the doors until a Sherriff’s Secret Policeman leaves a carnation on your porch to indicate that the danger has passed. Cover your ears to blot out the screams. Also, remember: Gatorade is basically soda, so give your kids plain old water, and maybe some orange slices when they play.

A commercial airliner flying through local airspace disappeared today, only to reappear in the Night Vale Elementary gymnasium during basketball practice, disrupting practice quite badly. The jet roared through the small gym for only a fraction of a second, and before it could strike any players or structure, it vanished again, this time apparently for good. There is no word yet on if or how this will affect Night Vale Mountain Lion’s game schedule, and also, if this could perhaps be the work of their bitter rivals the Desert Bluffs Cacti. Desert Bluffs is always trying to show us up through fancier uniforms, better pregame snacks, and possibly, by transporting a commercial jet into our gymnasium, delaying practice for several minutes at least. For shame, Desert Bluffs. For shame.

That new scientist we now know is named Carlos called a town meeting. He has a square jaw and teeth like a military cemetery. His hair is perfect, and we all hate and despair and love that perfect hair in equal measure. Old Woman Josie brought corn muffins, which were decent, but lacked salt. She said the angels had taken her salt for a godly mission, and she hadn’t yet gotten around to buying more. Carlos told us that we are, by far, the most scientifically interesting community in the US, and he had come to study just what is going around here. He grinned, and everything about him was perfect, and I fell in love instantly. Government agents from a vague, yet menacing, agency were in the back watching. I fear for Carlos. I fear for Night Vale. I fear for anyone caught between what they know and what they don’t yet know that they don’t know.

We received a press release this morning. The Night Vale Business Association is proud to announce the opening of the brand new Night Vale Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area. I have been to these facilities myself recently on their invitation, and I can tell you that it is absolutely top of the line and beautiful. Sturdy docking areas made from eco-friendly post-consumer material, a boardwalk for pedestrians, and plenty of stands ready for local food vendors and merchants to turn into a bustling public marketplace. Now, there is some concern about the fact that, given we are in the middle of a desert, there is no actual water at the waterfront—and that is a definite drawback, I agree. For instance, the boardwalk is currently overlooking sagebrush and rocks. The Business Association did not provide an specific remedies for this problem, but they assured me that the new harbor would be a big boost to Night Vale nonetheless. Maybe wait until a flash flood and head down there for the full waterfront experience.

The local chapter of the NRA is selling bumper stickers as part of their fundraising week. They sent the station one to get some publicity, and we’re here to serve the community so I’m happy to let you all know about it. The stickers are made from good, sturdy vinyl, and they read, ‘Guns Don’t Kill People; It’s Impossible To Be Killed By A Gun; We Are All Invincible To Bullets And It’s A Miracle.’ Stand outside of your front door and shout, “NRA,” to order one.

Carlos and his team of scientists warn that one of the houses in the new development of Desert Creek, out back of the old elementary school, doesn’t actually exist. It seems like it exists, explained Carlos and his perfect hair, like it’s just right there when you look at it. And it’s between two identical houses, so it would make more sense for it to be there then not. But, he says, they have done experiments, and the house is definitely not there. At news time, the scientists are standing in a group in front of the nonexistent house, daring each other to go knock on the door.

A great howling was heard from the Night Vale Post Office yesterday. Postal workers claim no knowledge, although passersby described the sound as being a little like a human soul being destroyed through black magic. The Indian Tracker—now, I don’t know if you’ve seen this guy around; he’s the one who appears to be of maybe Slavic origin, yet wears an Indian headdress out of some racist cartoon and claims to be able to be able to read tracks on asphalt—he appeared on the scene, and swore that he would discover the truth. No one responded because it’s really hard to take him seriously in that headdress of his.

Lights, seen in the sky above the Arby’s. Not the glowing sign of Arby’s; something higher and beyond that. We know the difference. We’ve caught onto their game. We understand the lights-above-Arby’s game. Invaders from another world. Ladies and gentlemen, the future is here, and it’s about a hundred feet above the Arby’s.

Carlos and his scientists at the monitoring station near Route 800 say their seismic monitors have been indicating wild seismic shifts, meaning to say that the ground should be going up all over the place. I don’t know about you folks, but the ground has been as still as the crust of a tiny globe rocketing through an endless void could be. Carlos says that they’ve double-checked the monitors and they are in perfect working order. To put it plainly, there appears to be catastrophic earthquakes happening right here in Night Vale that absolutely no one can feel. Well, submit an insurance claim anyway, see what you can get, right?

Traffic time, listeners. Now, police are issuing warnings about ghost cars out on the highways, those cars only visible in the distance, reaching unimaginable speeds, leaving destinations unknown for destinations more unknown. They would like to remind you that you should not set your speed by these aberrations, and doing so will not be considered following the flow of traffic. However, they do say that it’s probably safe to match speed with the mysterious lights in the sky, as whatever entities or organization is responsible appear to be cautious and reasonable drivers.

And now, the weather.

(These and More Than These, Joseph Fink)

Welcome back, listeners.

The sun didn’t set at the correct time today, Carlos and his team of scientists report. They are quite certain about it. They checked multiple clocks, and the sun definitely set ten minutes later than it was supposed to. I asked them if they had any explanations, but they did not offer anything concrete. Mostly they sat in a circle around a desk clock, staring at it, murmuring and cooing. Still, we must be grateful to have the sun at all. It’s easy to forget in this hot, hot, hot desert climate, but things would actually be slightly harder for us without the sun. The next time the sun rises, whatever time that turns out to be, take a moment to feel grateful for all the warmth, and light, and even, yes, extreme heat that our desert community is gifted with.

The city council would like to remind you about the Tiered Heavens, and the Hierarchy of Angels. The reminder is that you should not know anything about this. The structure of heaven and the angelic organizational chart are privileged information known only to the city council members on a need-to-know basis. Please, do not speak to or acknowledge any angels that you might come across while shopping at the Ralph’s or at the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex. They only tell lies, and do not exist. Report all angel sightings to the city council for treatment.

And now for a brief public service announcement. Alligators. Can they kill your children? Yes.

Along those lines, to get personal for a moment, I think the best way to die would be swallowed by a giant snake. Going feet first and whole into a slimy maw would give your life perfect symmetry.

Speaking of the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex, its owner, Teddy Williams, reports that he has found the entrance to a vast underground city in the pin retrieval area of lane five. He said he has not yet ventured into it, merely peered down at its strange spires and broad avenues. He also reports voices of a distant crowd in the depths of that subterranean metropolis. Apparently, the entrance was discovered when a bowling ball accidentally rolled into it, clattering down to the city below with sounds that echoed for miles across the impossibly huge cavern—so, you know, whatever population that city has, they know about us now, and we might be hearing from them very soon.

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 hear 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.

Proverb: Look to the north. Keep looking. There’s nothing coming from the south.

[welcometonightvaletranscripts]

Intro Post

New blog here, for transcripts of the fabulous Welcome to Night Vale podcast. I'll be doing each episode, plus collections of the 'all the times Carlos is mentioned,' or 'all the closing proverbs' variety. Please enjoy, and tell me about anything you want to see!

Non-related to Lia's fabulous transcripts, but done with their blessing. All of their transcripts can be found here.