01/04/2017 15:00:04 ¶ ●

## Episode 105 - What Happened at the Smithwick House

If you could press a button that would give you a great deal of money, but it would cause someone you don’t know in a distant part of the world to die, then you would have a good model for how our current economy works.

Welcome to Night Vale.

To start off, the story that everyone is talking about. In the interest of the common good, I feel I must report to you what happened at the Smithwick house.

Mr. and Mrs. Smithwick lived in a neat two-story home on Butterfield Lane. They had two small children, Lisa and Jake. Their lives were mostly normal.

Mr. Smithwick was a gloomy man. He had an anger inside of him. He hadn’t used this anger to do anything, but Mrs. Smithwick could smell it, and the children could smell it. They were always very careful around Mr. Smithwick. Sometimes it would be a day, just any day, and they would turn to find him looking at them with a blank stare, and they would feel as though teetering on the edge of something wild.. and final. And then they would look again and it would just be stolid Mr. Smithwick going about this day.

Even the neighbors could smell it. There was always something dark hanging over the Smithwick house. They never consciously thought but always felt. And because of this, they stayed away. Mrs. Smithwick was often lonely since few neighbors would talk to her. Mr. Smithwick was never lonely. He did not have the capacity for loneliness.

One day, Mrs. Smithwick discovered she was pregnant. An accident. And how would they care for a third child? But they would. There would be no choice. Dutifully, Mr. Smithwick began to prepare a nursery in what had previously been a guest room. He moved out the furniture that had only ever been used for guests once - a visit from a cousin three Thanksgivings before, never repeated.

He was in the process of painting the room a soothing green, when he first saw the hole in the wall opposite the wall. He called in the other members of the family, because the hole was.. so truly odd. Perfectly square and opening onto a tunnel that was also square. The tunnel’s sides were a cool damp concrete, leading away into darkness. On the other side of the wall was the outside of the house, but the hole seemed to lead somewhere very distant, although it was too dark to see.

A soft breeze came from the hole. It was too small to enter, only about a foot on each side, so the family stood in the unfinished nursery looking at the hole. Mr. Smithwick thought he could hear from far in the distance of its depths a soft humming.

More soon. But first, as many of you probably heard, two weeks ago I was arrested, after my explanation of the secret hierarchy of.. angels. Ahem. I was dragged in front of the City Council and informed I would be sent through a lengthy re-education and brain reconditioning program, before I would be allowed back on the air. But then I got City Council chatting about how Station Management is doing, their relationship is on a little bit of an icy patch again. And I see Station Management on a daily basis, so it was pretty easy to draw the Council into a series of questions about what Management’s mood has been like and how many hapless employees of the station have been lured to the Management’s office, and relieved of their life energy. Finally, the Council forgot what they had called me in to punish me about and let me go. So here I am, speaking to you once again.

By the way, there is a difference between a rough patch and an icy patch in a relationship. A rough patch is where there is a great deal of arguing and disagreement, a (chostle) [0:06:59] to both parties’ lives. An icy patch is where outwardly all seems to be smooth, but there is no actual connection made. Simple sentiments skitter off in unintended directions and both parties feel like they’re lurching without control towards destinations they had not foreseen. The angels, meanwhile, continue to fight for a legal acknowledgement of their existence. They’ve been protesting outside City Hall, blocking the entrance. Now this has made life extremely difficult for City Hall employees. The employees are unable to get inside the building, but since angels do not legally exist, these employees are also unable to accurately describe the reason for their absence from work. The angels have called on our unions, including the Steelworkers’ Union, the Taxi Drivers’ Union, the Tree Shrub and Moss Union, to join them in a general strike until the denial of their basic identity is finally purged from the books of law.

And now your Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner. Today, we will look at birth stones. If you were born in January, your birth stone is the garnet. If you were born in February, your birth stone is also the garnet. You have to fight with January to see who gets to have the garnet. Whoever wins gets to be born. That’s how birth works. If you were born in March, your birth stone is, that’s right – the garnet. This is going to be a brutal battle for that stone.

If you were born in April, your birthstone is flat and gray and sits next to a pond. It is dusty and warm in the sunshine, and if you put it against your cheek, it would feel like taking a long walk on a nice day.

If you were born in May, your birth stone is cemented into the wall of a rich person’s indoor shower. This stall has several different shower heads and built-in surround sound speakers, and your stone is near where the person’s butt usually goes. I’m sorry to have to inform you of this.

June, your birth stone is this one that I have in my hand. If you want it back, then you need to listen very carefully and [creepily] do everything I say.

July, you don’t have a birth stone, you have a birth rock. It’s in a park in San Diego and children sit on it to tie their shoes. August, your birth stone is in space! A shard broken off of an asteroid that is spinning away from the sun. Thousands of years from now, your birth stone will leave the solar system.

September, your birth stone was swallowed by a little boy who is very sorry about having swallowed a stone. Swallowing a stone is uncomfortable and dangerous. A lesson that little boy is learning now.

October, your birth stone was buried by drifting soil thousands of years ago. It will never again be uncovered.

November, your birth stone is falling from a great height. Soon it will land. I hope it will not land on anyone but then, life has no guarantees.

December. Your birth stone is a dump truck. You may correctly notice that this isn’t a type of stone, but you may also correctly notice that at least you didn’t get stuck fighting over a garnet.

This been the Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner.

And now back to what happened at the Smithwick house.

A few days after the discovery of the hole, Mrs. Smithwick disappeared. She did not pack any of her clothes. There was no sign of violence. She was just… gone. The children, Lisa and Jake, did not cry. They were too shocked to cry. They realized without realizing that they had passed through a threshold that there would be no way to ever return. Mr. Smithwick called the police, who investigated thoroughly. He tried to tell them about the hole, still in the wall of the unfinished nursery upstairs, but they were uninterested in that. They wanted to know where he had been last night and if he could prove it.

He had been with the children. They said so as well. The police didn’t like it. But they couldn’t find evidence of a crime, let alone evidence that any specific person had done a crime, and so they left. Mr. Smithwick took the children to school on his way to work. He made dinner that night. He felt as though he should be searching for his wife, but something in him did not seem to find that urgent. Instead, he went into the nursery, painted a green he now found overbearing.

The hole was where it had been before. He listened closely. Yes, still the humming from deep in the darkness. He bent over and looked, but in the depth of its perfectly square tunnel he could see only shadow. Then, there was a gurgle, a movement coming toward him. And he stumbled backwards, and a stream of clean fresh water begun to pour from the hole.

And now, traffic.

I have never seen snow in person, and yet I can taste it. I know its bite, but I have never felt it. We go places we never go. We achieve what we do not achieve. This is the power of imagination. Is imagination a blessing, or a prison? Would I be more driven to seek out snow if I could not imagine snow? If I could not project in my stomach what a ride down a hill might feel like, would I be compelled to seek out a slope and a sled? Does imagining make me less likely to act?

Here is what I think. Imagination might hold us back, but the exchange is worth it. By imagining, I can experience things that not only haven’t happened, but couldn’t happen. For instance, I will imagine an event now.

A.. creature with a long.. forehead and, wide golden eyes on the planet.. Zardaz, in a galaxy that is not even visible from our galaxy, this this creature who is named.. Ersdawn is on trial for the crime of having viewed the sacred animal. Tom..pet of the queen of Zardaz, when asked to defend themselves, Ersdawn looked over the assembled citizens of Zardaz. All six of them. It is an inhospitable planet, and their population is very low. [grandly] “Have we not all, at one time or another, viewed tom, the sacred animal? Have we not all?” Ersdawn asks. It turns out they have not all. No one has ever seen tom before, not even the queen, and the queen is annoyed at this. And Ersdawn is tossed off a cliff, and the population of Zardaz.. is now five.

What would our lives be without the ability to imagine nonsense like that? Anyway, there’s a patch of falling snow on Route 800 that scientists cannot explain, given that the rest of the region is currently in the usual early spring heatwave. I have never seen snow in person, but can imagine exactly what that snow looks like, and so feel no urge to go check it out.

This has been traffic.

More on what happened at the Smithwick house. The children were gone. They had not attended school in days. Mr. Smithwick could not say where they were. He expressed utter confusion. The police did not believe this and arrested him. He sat quietly in his cell, and when they were forced to let him go because there was no evidence of his involvement, he quietly went home.

The neighbors avoided him, but they had always avoided him. The police left a car outside his house indefinitely. He went about his days as he always had. He made breakfast, he went to work, he made dinner, he went to bed. His wife and children were missing. He did not look for them. Instead, he went each evening to the nursery, where the hideous green paint on the wall now seemed an act of violence upon him. And he sat crosslegged on the floor, looking at the hole. The air coming from within was cold, like air from a cave.

One evening, after several weeks of this, he stood and reached his arm into the hole. He felt something soft rush his fingers. He cried out and tried to grasp it. It felt like.. the faintest touch of a hand. He stretched his arm as far as it would go, and found a finger hold. He pulled it. What he had felt in the tunnel moved easily with his pull. To his astonishment, his arm emerged holding the branch of a tree, several feet long, covered in leaves the same shade as the wall. He sat back down. He did not try to reach into the hole again.

Soon, the rest of what happened at the Smithwick house, but now..
the weather.

[“You Cannot” by Erin McKeown, erinmckeown.com]

Mr. Smithwick no longer went to work. He did not make breakfast or dinner, he did not sleep. He sat in the nursery and looked at the hole. From deep in the tunnel, he heard humming. The neighbors noticed that he didn’t go out anymore, and they assumed the worst about this. they confirmed with each other that there had been something heavy and strange about the man. They agreed that this had all been a matter of time.

Time did not matter to Mr. Smithwick anymore. He didn’t notice if it was day or if it was night. Inside the tunnel, leading away from the unfinished nursery, it was always the same: dark and cool. When no one had seen Mr. Smithwick for several days, the police in the car outside decided to investigate. Earlier this week, they searched the house but.. There was no trace of Mr. Smithwick. All of his things were still there, and there was no sign of violence, he was just.. gone. One of the police officers wandered into the nursery, where the green paint on the walls resembled a person turning ill. It did not appear that anyone had been in the room for days. There was no hole in the wall.

Evidence was searched for, and evidence was not found. The Smithwick house stands empty, with all of the family’s things still inside – furniture and clothing. Even the food, rotting in the refrigerator. The neighbors still shake their heads and say that this just goes to show… Although none of them understand what it went to show.

And that is what happened at the Smithwick house. If there was anything to be learned from this, I… refuse to learn it.

Carlos has called in to the station to let me know that he is thinking quinoa balls for dinner. Also to remind me that the “Dancing on the Stars” finale is tonight and also to say that what happened at the Smithwick house happened a long time ago, and he has no idea how it happened. Again. And I told him that this is definitely the first time anything like this happened in Night Vale, I mean haha ah, I would have remembered something this weird happening in our quiet little town. But he insisted that he studied the Smithwick case already almost four years ago. He doesn’t understand how the whole incident could have repeated exactly as it happened before. Reality doesn’t allow for that, he said.

Well. I suppose there’s no accounting for reality.

Stay tuned next for a look back at your life, featuring the most embarrassing moments and biggest failures, hosted by your own brain. If you miss this showing, don’t worry! It plays on a nightly repeat.

Good night, Night Vale, good night.

Today’s proverb: you are what you eat. That’s very confusing phrasing. Let me simplify: you consume your own flesh. Much clearer.

15/04/2017 18:49:43 ¶ ●

## Episode 106 - Filings

Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are near?
Tell me more about your special bird powers.
Welcome to Night Vale.

It’s been a long couple of weeks, as the city-wide emergency sirens that signal illegal public acknowledgement of angels have been blaring almost nonstop. But in spite of these archaic laws, I’ve been shouting “You’re an angel!” at beings who look like angels and then making my most friendly finger-pointing gesture.

The beings who call themselves angels because… that’s what they are, have begun filing the paperwork for official existence. The angels are still at the Hall of Public Records downtown waiting in line. They have made it to the front of line three different times, but each time, they were told they were missing a key form of ID or pre-application paperwork, or that the cameras could not record their image. They weren’t told his using words, the Records Hall clerk just stabbed their paperwork repeatedly with scissors and then got a massive nosebleed, which is how they know their application was declined.

Other citizens waiting have grown restless. As they do not acknowledge the existence of angels, the next person in line keeps walking up to a seemingly empty window, only to be brushed away by a clerk, or an angel. These citizens have begun shouting and crumbling and curling into little balls and sobbing, as large glowing cracks appear in the ceiling.

It’s been several days of waiting in line for the angels. We’ll check back in on them soon.

Oh, I have a new intern, listeners. He’s a fine-looking young man with a beautiful voice, I think he’ll have a great future in radio. I’ve been trying to ask him his name or who hired him. I certainly don’t remember beginning the search for a new intern, he just appeared this morning and started working without a single word. Which is the most professional behavior for anyone beginning a new job. Well, he seems hard at work, even if every time I address him he doesn’t notice me. It’s great having a competent replacement for Kareem, even if I have no idea how this new intern got here and who he is. As long as the filing is getting done.

Alondra Ortiz, daughter of Josefina Ortiz who passed away last month, has carried on her fight against the angels. The angels are claiming ownership of Old Woman Josie’s estate, since they lives with her and helped her build the many artistic monuments and cultural foundations around town. Alondra said she doesn’t care if angels are acknowledged or not. If they want to be recognized, fine, but Alondra and her lawyer, Emilio Tavarez have filed motions to maintain ownership of Alondra’s mother’s home, belongings, money, and memories. Just because a bunch of imaginary tall people with wings helped Josie change the lightbulbs from time to time, Tavarez said, that’s no reason they are considered next of kin. Tavarez told judge Siobhan Azdaq: “If they don’t exist, we must get kissed.” Judge Azdaq replied: “Emilio, it’s been four years. I’m remarried. We’re done, OK?”

The angels have hired five-headed dragon Miriam Adelman as their counsel, who issued a literally scathing response. Alondra is now suing Adelman and her team for medical bills resulting from second degree burns. Alondra has already put Josie’s home up for sale. She is willing to offer rebates for pre-existing damage, such as a series of large glowing slits in the walls that lead to rooms that aren’t… possible, according to the official floor plan, nor the laws of physics. These rooms range from a 17th century ball room to a crow’s nest on a modern nazy destroyer to the space shuttle. Plus, anachronistic people keep wandering in and out of these portals. She added, “On second thought, since the house has more usable square footage than originally anticipated, and because there appear to be current renters”, she’s raising the sale price.

So I just sent my new intern to go pick up some lunch. Or at least I said, “Excuse me young man whose name I don’t know yet who I only think works here, can you go grab me a cobb salad with extra whipped cream and pencil shavings from the Missing Frog Salad Bar? He didn’t say yes, nor did he ever seem to see or hear me, but he did look really frightened and ran from the room crying, which was such a polite and respectful gesture to his superior. What a nice young man. Dresses kind of weird though, so early 80’s, with his double Windsor striped tie, polyester coat and aviator goggles, just like we all wore back in the day. I supposed most things eventually come back in fashion. Well, I can only assume he heard my lunch order. I’m starving.

Faceless Old Woman: You’re starving? Try not having a mouth.

Cecil: Oh my god, you scared me. [chuckles] Listeners, we have an unplanned visit from the Faceless Old Woman who secretly lives in your home. Or I guess in this case, your radio studio while you’re still on the air.

FOW: Cecil, we need to talk about the Distant Prince.

Cecil: Few dare to speak at him, so as not to draw his attention. What do you know?

FOW: His harbingers are here. They are prepared to announce his arrival with their long, toothy beaks. They’re stomach-eyes see all. They’ve been rehearsing this announcement in their room at the Hampton Inn on Route 800. They’ve been writing and rewriting their grand pronouncement and teaching it to the court shriekers to shriek out to all of Night Vale.

Cecil: What does that mean?

FOW: What, “shriek”? It’s like a painful yell. Like this: [disturbing scream]
Meanwhile, the mangled servants are gathering the ears of important Night Vale politicians.

Cecil: Gross.

FOW: Right? And they will sew the ears onto the walls of the Hampton Inn continental breakfast bar and use them as portals into many dimensions at once. Their plan is to destroy time itself and collapse Night Vale into a dead singularity.

Cecil: Why do they want to do this?

FOW: It was suggested to him by a nice young woman from out of town.

Cecil: What young woman?

FOW: She.. she.. [music distorts, evil voice] The woman from Italy brings fun and jest, consuming all souls until none are left. Distant Prince and she plan the terrible plot: destroying all that is until all is not. I met her in dreams and found a dear friend, a woman a mortal mind can’t comprehend. No guard controls her, no physics can hold her, she’ll set the world on fire but leave you all colder. [music distorts back to normal] Yeah, she and I are best friends now. She’s a lot of fun, really good poet. I gotta go. Steve Carlsberg is back home, and I wanna stand behind him in the mirror when he bends down to wash his face. His shrieks are the funniest.

Cecil: Oh aha hahaha, dumb old Steve! Be nice, OK?

We are getting reports that a dense fog is now pouring from a giant glowing slash in the sky above the Rec Center. Some pteranodons have flown out of it, as well as a commercial airliner. And those who entered the fog reported hearing shouts, blood-curdling streams, and even the echo of drums. But there’s also the Battle of the Bands sound check happening right now at the Rec Center, so it’s probably just that. Either way, keep a close eye out for these apparent tears in the fabric of our reality. Also, go check out the Battle of the Bands. I think Diane Crayton’s son Josh and his boyfriend Grant are organizing that event.

And now a word from our sponsors. Today’s show is brought to by a grey pigeon, whispering to you from your neighbor’s backyard. The pigeon – his name is Alfonso – is telling you that you are the one true God. [serene voice] And that he wants you to bring it a body part. A human body part. Doesn’t matter which part. Just do it. [ominously] Soon. [serenely] “Time’s almost gone. The Bible was wrong,” the pigeon added, suddenly from your right shoulder. “There never was a beginning.”
This has been a word from our sponsors.

Reports continue from the last few weeks of people all over Night Vale experiencing false realities. The most believable visions are those of tall winged beings roaming the streets and asking to borrow 10 bucks. City Council is issuing daily press releases, claiming the existence of angels is impossible and illegal. City Council is threatening to no longer speak to anyone who acknowledges the so-called angels. “You are uninvited to our birthday party,” today’s press release reads. “Too bad, there will be karaoke and minigolf. Your loss, angel acknowledger!”

A series of fissures in reality have begun to open up, revealing truths that should never have existed. Like the 12th century Scottish castle sitting atop the stables over on Galloway. Frances Donaldson at the Antiques Mall reports suddenly knowing how to play the piano, when before she only knew how to play keyboard. Larry Leroy out on the edge of town came home to find his wife, Chrysette, mowing the lawn. But he was never married. He last saw Chrysette in high school, when they were both in the lurching band together. And fired chief Ramona Encarnacion said she found a rock in the shape of Harry Styles’ liver. “I don’t know how Harry is getting by without his liver,” Incarnassian said. “Or given how much mud was on this thing, how he was ever getting by with it.”

Night Vale, beware the untruths which attempt to dismantle our town. Stay vigilent, read your journals, look at your photographs. Do your best to remember what is real.

Oh man, speaking of real, I’m real hungry. I wish my intern would get back soon with my salad. It’s been forever since he… Oh, wait. He left his wallet behind. Well, strike one, new intern. How are you supposed to buy lunch if you don’t take any money? Hope he has some cash in his pockets.

I’ll be so annoyed if lunch is late. Ah, this is a pretty nice wallet. Trifold, ooh photo pages, human leather, money clip. I used to have one just like this. maybe let’s find out more about you, kiddo. Let’s see. Bowling league card. Ooh, I love bowling. Young reporter’s league membership. Wow, it’s after my own heart. Photos of him with a young man he could probably be related to and, is that my… who are you? Where’s your driver’s license? Oh God. This can’t.. this can’t be.
This here… just…

Uh, OK, here’s the weather while I sort this out.

[“All or Nothing” by the Dream Masons]

My new intern never made it back. He never left, or maybe, was never hear at all. Or maybe still is here after all these years.

After finding his… my… ID in his wallet, I ran out after him. But before I even got out of the building, I found him in the restroom. The door was slightly cracked and the light was on. I heard a voice, a familiar young voice. “Leonard said if I work hard, maybe I’ll be a radio presenter myself some day,” said the voice. I was so frightened but still I looked into the washroom, and he was standing in front of a mirror looking right at himself. I never look into those things, or at least I haven’t in a long time.

“I think the radio station is fun,” he said. “I think the radio station is hidden. I think the radio station is like a dark planet lit by no sun. I think, therefore I soon won’t be,” he said. I wanted to cry out to warn him. My mother told me to stay away from mirrors, and I knew he was in danger. I opened my mouth and tried to step in the room, but I could not speak, could not move forward.

“I’m looking in the mirror,” he said. “The mirror is not covered,” he said.
“Stop! Don’t look into the mirror!” I tried to say, but nothing came out of my mind, only spit and inaudible wheeze. Tears stung my eyes. I waved frantically, trying to catch his attention.

“The flickering movement is just behind me,” he said, and then he looked right at me in the mirror. His eyes grew wide and wet. He said, “I…” He said again, “I…” and then he choked. Then he screamed, then I screamed, only again no sound came out. He fell to the floor, and for a moment, I remembered. I remembered blue lights and blood in my throat, and the dark planet lit by no sun and then I forgot it. Or at least what it looked like or, only that it was, or never was or it still is.

His wallet was no longer in my studio, his… my… driver’s license was no longer in my hand, my familiar teenage intern was no longer lying on the ground. The mirror he was looking into is now shattered into thousands of intersecting cracks like parched desert dirt.

I approached the mirror, hoping to see a face I knew: a young man’s face I just barely remember. But I only saw a multiplicity of me, a man divided, unrecognizably under razor-sharp grounds, and behind me a glowing slash in the bathroom wall. When I turned, the whole in reality was gone. Only plain gray subway tiles.

I don’t know what is real. Myself as a younger intern, the Woman from Italy, these holes in reality. Harry Stiles’ liver. Harry Stiles. Are any of these things real?

One thing I know is real were the angels. After hours of waiting in line, their paperwork has been officially filed, with the Hall of Public Records, and a hearing date scheduled sometime between the last Friday of this month, and the last Friday of 2023.

Night Vale. Reality is failing us. And strange forces are gathering. The Distant Prince, the Woman from Italy. The dragons. Huntokar.

I don’t know what we can do to save a failing reality, I only know, uh… We can make real that which we acknowledge and accept. Angels are real, Night Vale. The actuality of people we rarely see or interact with may seem unimportant as fissures in our world, threatening to collapse anything we know but – if you see an angel, tell them you see them. Tell them they are real. Point at them and shout: “You’re. An. Angel!” we can only make real what we accept as real,. Tell them, OK?

Good night,
Night Vale,
Good night.

Today’s proverb: Good things come to those who wait. Good things come slithering down the unctuous brown stone walls to those who wait alone in the dark pit.