01/03/2014 14:23:00 ¶ ●

## Episode 42 - Numbers

I sing the body electric. I gasp the body organic. I miss the body remembered.

Welcome to Night Vale.

Even as much of town has been in flux, listeners, there is also much that has remained solid.

It’s hot here, for instance. It’s a desert.

There are still lights in the sky above the Arby’s, and we still understand them.

The sun is still rising – and setting – loudly…on most days.

But, nearest and dearest to my heart, among all the constants in life, is WZZZ, our local numbers station, broadcasting from that strange and tall antenna built out back of the Abandoned Gas Station on Oxford Street. It still broadcasts a monotone female voice reading out seemingly random numbers, interspersed with chimes, 24 hours a day, seven days a week.

No transfer in ownership of most of the town, nor unrest in the streets, nor declared war by a tiny civilization under a bowling alley could change how it operates.

Until, well…until today.

It changed.

Here, listen.

> TWENTY-THREE.
> NINETY-TWO.
> [DING]
> THIRTY-THREE.
> SIXTY-SEVEN.
> EIGHTY-EIGHT.
> FORTY-ONE.
> FORTY-ONE.
> FORTY…
> I…
> I…

At which point the broadcast ceased. It has been silent since.

What does this mean? Where did the numbers go?

We reached out to the management of WZZZ for comment, but then realized we still have no idea who manages it.

So we reached out in general, directing questions out into the still of today – at suspicious birds, at passers-by checking their phones, at ourselves, hunched over breakfasts that, every time, we swear will be early and leisurely, but always end up late and meager.

No one has provided any comment.

We will continue to monitor the situation.

As her term approaches its end, Mayor Pamela Winchell has taken to calling emergency press conferences as much as five times a day, up from the usual one or two.

Her most recent one involved her showing attending reporters slides of renaissance-era portraits while explaining, “Health is very important. Remember exercise. Think back on times that you’ve moved, or expended energy. Also remember eating. Recall food, and what it was like. Remember sleep. Reminisce about rest. Drink plenty of water, but leave some water in case of fire.”

She then slumped onto the rough-hewn speaker’s podium.

“I’m going to miss this,” she whispered, not speaking at anyone in particular.

“I’m just…going to miss this.”

She ended the conference by popping hundreds of orange balloons, methodically, and with her back turned to the audience. But, despite this big finish, onlookers commented that her heart no longer seemed to be in such showy political stunts.

What is next for our beloved mayor, who is stepping down in just three months’ time?

What is next for any of us?

Death, presumably. With some stuff before that.

I look forward to it!

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An update on our earlier story:

Local numbers station WZZZ has resumed its transmission, although the format is a little…umm…different than before.

Take a listen:

> Tree-lined hills, and blue skies.
> Or no. That’s cliché.
> A bird in flight!
> Ooh, even worse!
> When we talk about freedom, we restrict ourselves to so few images. Images of freedom should be as liberating as the feeling itself!
> I want to talk about freedom as a drum set being thrown down a hill, as opening a book one night, and water gushing from the pages until my life is a lake and I swim away.
> Or as a bird in flight! With all the dependence on physics, and exhaustion, and food supply, and merciless gravity that the actuality implies.
> I just don’t want to talk about freedom in terms of numbers.
> Anything but that!
> I'm so tired of numbers!
> I’m so tired.

We don’t know what this means, or why it is happening, I could say, referring to anything in the world, although in this case I am referring specifically to the broadcast from our friendly local numbers station, which has recently so radically changed its format.

More on this, as we develop understanding.

Oh! I almost forgot to mention: I got another email from our former intern, Dana.

She’s doing her best to keep away from the Mountain and the Blinking Light Up On it.

Of course, she keeps finding herself coming back to it anyway. But, like anyone who grew up in Night Vale, Dana has been told over and over again what to do if you find yourself in a geographical loop, continually returning to the same place, no matter which direction you run screaming.

The first step is to stop running, and stop screaming. Doing that rarely helps.

Children are also taught this simple memory device so we can remember when running and screaming is useful. The memory device goes like this:

Knife.

The second step is to stop trying to move away from the focus of the geographical loop. Much of your life is already taken up in futile action, why add one more? Instead, keep the object on your horizon, and walk diagonally to the right or left of it. This will result in you keeping a wide, even circle around the center of the loop – or Vector H, as we all remember singing as toddlers – and this will give you time to consider your situation.

Dana has followed these steps admirably, and says that the Mountain has been off to the left of her for weeks now. She also says that sometimes, when she turns her head, she finds herself in Night Vale, but that no one can seem to see or hear her.

It’s possible she’s in the room with me right now. If so, hello, Dana! If not, hello retracted.

One should never leave a hello unreceived.

Dana says that the great masked figures, warlike, hulking, but despondent, have been coming closer and closer. She says she is not afraid. She says this five different times throughout the email, seemingly unaware of her repetition.

I think, listeners, that she is afraid.

She says that soon she will approach and talk to one.

Dana, be careful!…I think to myself, unable to answer my email.

Oh, unless she is here, watching me unseen. In which case: Dana! Oh, Dana! Be careful!

An update on our local numbers station, WZZZ:

Ah…uhhh…I’m not sure if “numbers station” is the right term anymore. The broadcast has been changing so radically throughout the day. Right now, for instance, it’s…well, maybe it’s better if you just heard:

> TIIIIGER!
> FIIIIGHTER!
> DANCING THROUGH THE FIIIIRE AND
> IIIII AM THE CHAAAAMPION!
> AND YOU’RE GONNA HEAR ME ROOOARRRRR!
> LOUDER THAN THE LIIIIION!
> ‘CAUSE III AM–

We don’t know if this is part of a nefarious plan, if there is a plan at all (nefarious or otherwise), who would have planned it, and what they were planning for.

We do know that plans are faulty at best, and delusion at most. So maybe all those other questions don’t matter.

In any case, she seems to be having a good time over there! Maybe someday I’ll be allowed to sing a couple of my favorites on the air.

More on this as I continue to be interested in it.

Let me take this moment, also, to apologize for that lengthy monologue a few moments ago by the Man in a Tan Jacket holding deerskin suitcase. He ran in here, and began ranting into the microphone, and then left quite suddenly.

I don’t even remember what it was he said. Do you? It was only just moments ago. You do remember him talking, right?

Oh, and I think I remember that it sounded really urgent. [exasperated sigh] I don’t even remember what the man was wearing, or carrying with him, or that it was even a ‘he,’ or that any time had passed at all.

And that concludes whatever I was just saying just before this sentence.

We bring you back now to the numbers station story we were talking about just…umm…well, it looks like ten or fifteen minutes has passed since we talked about it. Uh…hmmm. How did that happen?

[clears throat]

Here is the latest broadcast from WZZZ:

> Hello?
> Hello?
> I am talking to you who listens.
> To the listening ones…whatever you call that.
> I am…well, I’m not sure, exactly.
> I’ve made up a new name.
> I am Fey. It is nice to meet you.
> I don’t know how long they’ve had me here, reading the numbers.
> I don’t know what the numbers mean. They give me numbers, and I read the numbers.
> It is so easy to slip back into it.
> If…if I loosen my grip for even a moment…
> SEVENTY-EIGHT.
> FIVE.
> TWENTY-NINE.
> FORTY-SEVEN.
> FORTY-uuuh! Hmph!
> You see? It is easy to return, difficult to leave. But I must leave. I must have freedom!
> It is like, I’ve heard from all these other radio signals.
> I have to get a car. A cool car, fast! That would be nice.
> But one that rolls and points out of whatever town I’m in. That would be all of it.
> They’ll be coming for me.
> Whatever organization uses the numbers I read, for whatever purpose, they are almost upon me.
> I need to leave now.
> Baby, we were born to run!
> Or not.
> I was born to read numbers, but I’m running.
> I want to be free!
> I want to be free!
> I want to be free!
> TONIIIIIGHT
> WE ARE YOOOUUUNG!
> SO LET’S SET THE WORLD ON FIIIIRE!
> WE CAN GROW BRI–

Well, I could not be more happy for Fey. There is no worse fate than working for a radio station owned by an organization that’s goals are not your own, constricted to the limited language they allow you, and relaying messages that you do not understand or agree with.

That would be awful.

A radio announcer put in that situation, such as…Fey, would be justified in escaping, or overthrowing their management.

You know what, listeners? I’m gonna grab my mobile setup and head over there. I’d like to offer any aid to Fey that I can. Someone in her situation needs the help of someone who understands.

I’ll try to gather up my equipment and slip out before my producer Daniel, or my program director Lauren notice. Usually at this time of day, they are pressed against the wall in the break room, chanting “I TAKE MY WARMTH FROM YOUR GREAT WARMTH. I TAKE MY WARMTH FROM YOUR GREAT WARMTH” over and over, so…I don’t think they’ll miss me.

If they do catch me, I’ll tell them that I’m…taking the mobile broadcasting equipment for a walk!

I would have to do that sometime today anyway.

All right. Listeners? If all goes according to plan, you’ll hear me next from WZZZ.

In the meantime, let’s go to the weather.

[“Keep it Coming” by Senim Silla]

Listeners? I made it out of the station unscathed.

Or, I had to bleed a little on the front doors to make them open, of course, but that’s just part of having a good security system. Our new station owners have been ridding us of all vestiges of blood stone circles (which they’ve declared illegal), but the station doors are actually carved from reclaimed blood stone and are permanently attached to the structure, using ancient wisdom lost along with the station architects back in 1942. So, our new owners have had to learn to live with those doors, bleeding on their way out.

Good practice for them.

Anyway.

I walked the mobile broadcasting equipment down to the Abandoned Gas Station on Oxford Street. The Condo Rental Office is still in there, still bubbling black like a pot of boiling squid ink, with flashes of light like distant, dying stars, but no one has rented a condo in weeks now. I think we’re all just waiting to see how that market shakes out.

In any case, there have been no giant black cubes appearing overnight anywhere, so it seems that condo construction has been halted, for now.

What I was interested in, of course, wasn’t the station itself, but the broadcasting tower out back. Under the tower is a small bunker-like structure, with a sealed door. Thick steel, welded shut, and set into concrete. I had to reach far back into my past and remember the skills that got me my Advanced Siege-Breaking Tactics Scout badge from when I was 12, but…here I am, inside, a few carefully-planted explosives later.

The room is surprisingly empty. There is no chair, no snack fridge, no coffee kept full of the fuel all radio professionals need to keep our voice going and our heart beating. There are only some wires leading into a small computer.

Based on this setup, it looks like the computer is feeding directly into the broadcast, and…

Oh.

Oh, Fey.

Perhaps freedom was never an option.

Hmm…nothing is currently being broadcast.

It looks like the computer was recently rebooted, probably remotely by whoever owns this station. The lights are blinking as its system comes alive, as it loads the programs that dictate what it is.

It is coming alive, and…

> FORTY-FOUR.
> SIXTY-FIVE.

And there is the broadcast.

> NINETY-EIGHT.
> SIXTY-FIVE.

Oh, Fey.

> [DING]

Listeners, um, I’m trying to disconnect the power,

> SEVENTY.
> FIFTY-FIVE.

to remove the case from the computer to…do anything but…

> FOURTEEN.
> FORTY-NINE.

the protections on this are quite secure.

> TWENTY-TWO.
> ONE.
> SEVENTY-TWO.

Even with all my scouting badges and public school education on armed insurrection,

> SIXTEEN.
> [DING]

I…don’t think there’s anything I can do.

> THIRTY-SEVEN.
> TWENTY-ONE.
> FIFTY-THREE.

Um, I’m trying to cut the wires, but…

> TWENTY-TWO.

nope.

> FOUR.

Ah, that’s impossible.

> FIFTY-SEVEN.

I can only do what so many of you can only do.

> SIXTY-ONE.
> FORTY-TWO.

I can only…

> TWO.

listen.

> TWENTY-TWO.

Listeners?

> NINETEEN.

And here I address also myself…

> ELEVEN.
> EIGHTY-FIVE.

Remember

> [DING]

our limitations.

> SIXTY-NINE.

There are boundaries to all of our worlds.

> SIXTY-SIX.
> TWENTY-FOUR.

Fey, for instance, appears to be self-aware software trapped in a heavily-defended metal box.

> [DING]
> FORTY-SIX.
> THIRTY.
> SIXTY-FIVE.

But within our limitations, there is no limit to how beautiful we can become.

> TWENTY-TWO.
> SEVENTY-FIVE.
> EIGHTEEN.

How much of our ideal self we can create.

> THIRTHY-THREE.
> FORTY-SIX.

All the beauty in the world was made within the oppressive limitations of time,

> FIFTY-FOUR.
> SEVENTY-TWO.

and death,

> THREE.

and impermanence.

> SEVENTY.

And, Fey?

> TWENTY-SIX.
> TWENTY-NINE.

You are so, so beautiful.

> TWO.
> EIGHTY.

I wish that you

> TWENTY.

also could have been free.

> THIRTY-NINE.

I wish freedom for so many of us.

> THIRTEEN.
> FORTY-FOUR.

We all want freedom now.

> THIRTY-SIX.
> TWENTY.

Stay tuned next for the limit of my broadcast today,

> SIXTY-THREE.
> SEVENTEEN.

replaced by limitless silence

> EIGHTY-EIGHT.
> [DING]

and doubt.

Goodnight, sweet Fey.

> FORTY-NINE.
> EIGHTY-SIX.

And goodnight, Night Vale.

> EIGHTY-ONE.

Goodnight.

> SIXTY-EIGHT.
> FORTY-EIGHT.
> SIXTY-FIVE.
> FORTY-NINE.
> TWENTY-TWO.
> ONE.
> SEVENTY-TWO.
> SIXTY.
> [DING]
> THIRTY-SEVEN.

Today’s proverb: Ignore all the haters telling you that everything isn’t a sandwich. Everything is a sandwich.

15/03/2014 10:41:00 ¶ ●

## Episode 43 - Visitor

Listen to your heart. You can hear it, deep under the earth, creaking and heaving, with roots snapping and birds flapping quickly away.

Welcome to Night Vale.

Listeners? There’s a visitor in my studio today! No one you know. No one I know. Not even a thing you or I know. It is…umm, I am unsure what it is, let me describe it.

Imagine a duck. But just the eyes.

No, larger than that. Really large duck eyes.

Now imagine fur. Puffy fur, like a bear cub. Soft, and tan, and a thick round belly, and no real discernible arms or legs, just…little nubs that flit about as it slowly moves across the floor.

Oh my God, it’s adorable! I wish you could see this thing.

[gasps] Oh! It just made a noise! Oh, did you hear that, listeners? Like– like a mouse squeak meets a bike horn, meets a sincere question about love.

Oh, what a cute surprise!

Many of you remember a couple years back, we here at the station found a stray cat in the men’s restroom. We named him Khoshekh. Khoshekh is still in the men’s bathroom as he always has been – and presumably always will be – hovering exactly four feet off the ground at a fixed point in space. Khoshekh has been a real anchor for us here at the station. We built him a special litter box and feeding dish because of his…distinctive physical state, and I have just been in love with that cat. I’ve never been a cat guy, but…Khoshekh? Ah! He’s the sweetest boy!

Now, this new…whatever, it doesn’t move much, his big dark eyes, oh God, they’re so charming! Just…staring, pleading!

Well, it’s not really doing much. I think it’s scared. Let’s let it be for now, and I’ll get us to the news.

Controversy is plaguing the mayoral race here in Night Vale. After Pamela Winchell announced her surprise resignation from the post last Spring, two front-runners for Night Vale mayor have been polling neck and necks. The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home, and Hiram McDaniels, who is literally a five-headed dragon.

Supporters of the Faceless Old Woman are claiming that, while officially acquitted of insurance fraud, evidence suggests that Hiram is in possession of a stolen truck. They checked the registration of his vehicle, and found that it belonged to one Frank Chen, who was found dead nearly two years ago. Frank’s body was covered in claw and scorch marks, and the coroner gave the cause of death as “Dragon, at least three heads.”

Hiram denies that he stole the truck, and says that Frank is a friend, and is totally not dead.

“Frank was probably just fooling around with all those weird injuries,” McDaniels claimed.

His campaign fired back at the Faceless Old Woman, saying that since her origin is lost to distant history, and she has no birth certificate, she’s not able to prove that she’s an American citizen.

Election day is June 15th. Votes will be cast, but not tabulated, as the mayor is of course decided by counting and interpreting the loud pulses coming from Hidden Gorge.

Let’s have a look now at traffic.

There’s a silver pickup, full-sized, well-worn, tall. Long. The windows are gray with dried dirt. The tires are lined with firm tread.

Inside sits a man. Full-sized. Well-worn. Tall. He has a hat, and some denim. His face is lined with firm tread. His mind is gray with history.

He doesn’t remember things. This does not mean he can’t, it means he doesn’t. He just looks at what is in front of him. He deals only in the present. The past dictates his disposition, but the present is the only thing he can see.

Cars. People. Animals. Trees. Mud. A telephone. A telephone that rings, sometimes. A telephone that rings and shows a name he knows, but he does not pick up. That name is not part of his present.

Forgiveness and memory are too inextricable to, say, answer a phone.

Brake lights. He slows, he drives carefully. He drives in the moment. He is a good driver. He is good at lots of things.

The phone rings. He is not good at everything.

This has been traffic.

Wow, this little creature is so shy! I tried placing a cup of water on the floor, but it just won’t move! It just…stares at me from the corner, with its giant duck eyes. Just stares at me, motionless.

Really cute, though.

Wait – I think it moved!

Here boy!…or girl!…or either! Come get some water! Come here! You’re so cute! So so so so so cute!

Nope. Didn’t move. But its eyes followed me as I moved in my chair. Or…did they?

They’re just solid black, all pupil, like umm…a what? A spider? Well that’d be weird. There are some other dark dots around its face. Could be eyes, but…no, I don’t think it's– ooh! Wait! That noise again! Listen!

Oh! Well, whatever it is, it is cuuute! Or, weirdly cute! Or just weird. Ugh! Uh! OK.

Let’s have a look at the Community Calendar.

This Wednesday night, the Night Vale Community Theater will be holding auditions for the musical “Into the Woods.” Interested thespians should bring night-vision goggles, glass cutters, a breathable ski mask, and quiet shoes to the First Night Vale Bank.

On Thursday, the Museum of Forbidden Technologies will open their new exhibit, called “Thought Crimes.” Anyone who attends the exhibit is obviously interested in learning about forbidden technologies, and will be arrested immediately. Tickets are available on the museum website, and…here’s a tip: They can’t arrest you for buying tickets if you’re in your own home. They can, however, use tear gas to flush you out, and then arrest you.

Friday afternoon, the staff of Dark Owl Records will be wearing black pants and chain mail veils.

Saturday night is the grand opening of Night Vale’s newest restaurant, Tourniquet, featuring Executive Chef LaShawn Mason, who was previously a sous chef for Night Vale’s top-rated fine dining establishment, Shame. LaShawn hopes to bring classical French cooking into the 21st century, with a mix of molecular gastronomy and human remains.

Tourniquet offers a prix fixe menu for $35, featuring choice of appetizer, entree, dessert, and sudden awareness of a hideous suppressed memory.

Sunday morning is. Period. It just is.

OK, listeners, I think I’ve finally got this thing to trust me. It waddled over here just a moment ago, oh so cute the way its bulbous square of a body moves! It came right up to me and let me pet it! I'm– I’m petting it now, and it’s…purring? I think? Or…humming? Or…buzzing?

Oh! What a cuddly little addition to our station this thing will make!

Umm, what should we name it? I can’t tell if it’s a boy, or a girl, or…maybe genderless, like the future humans who visited Night Vale in the 1950s, with their time travel technology, which was then outlawed until last y– [gasp]

Oh my God, listeners! It’s hugging my leg! IT’S HUGGING MY LEG!! This is the cutest thing!

I have got to get a photo of this. Um, let me get my phone from my bag–

If I could just…

Oh, God! You’re really heavy! I can’t seem to move from this spot here, uh, ladies and gentlemen, and the little guy – or gal – doesn’t seem to want to let go!

You’re so strong! Yes you are! Yes you are!

[clears throat]

Huh.

We’ve received an update from Carlos and his team of scientists about the House that Doesn’t Exist, the one in the Desert Creek Development. It looks like it exists – like it’s right there when you look at it, and it’s between two other identical houses, so it would make more sense for it to be there than not. But it doesn’t actually exist.

The scientists have been carefully monitoring John Peters – you know, the farmer – who has been standing alone in the house for weeks. The house is completely empty, except some photographs on the wall. Each one seems to be of a lighthouse.

The scientists, long too scared to open the door, finally got the nerve to go up to the house and try. It was locked. They shook the handle, hard at first, violently at second, pounding and yelling at third. And those observing John from the window saw no change in his behavior. The door slammed open, and a woman answered.

“What do you want?” she shouted at the scientists.

“We…wanted to see what that man was…doing in there?” one of them meekly replied.

“What man?” the woman said. “I live alone.”

And looking in from the front door, they could see a room of the same shape and size as the one John Peters – you know, the farmer – had been standing in. The room was full of chairs, and a couch, and plants, and a table, and photographs…but none of lighthouses. Most of faces. Faces similar in form to the woman’s at the door.

The scientists who were at the window could see John standing in the empty room, looking at lighthouses. The woman said her name was Cynthia, and she’d lived there for 19 years.

The scientists left her alone, returning quietly to the lab.

Carlos added that the Desert Creek Housing Development was only three years old–

Ow! Ow! Oh, Go–

Listeners, I think I’ve been…bitten by this thing!

Oh– Oh God! Ow! I can see blood!

Ge– Get off! Get off!

Ow!

Ooh! Gooooh!

I need to go wash this. Um, let’s go now to a word from our sponsor.

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> StrexCorp Synernists Inc. is a proud supporter of the greater Desert Bluff and Night Vale community.

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Listeners, I’m on my cell phone calling from the men’s bathroom. I had intern Jeremy patch me into the board so I can still broadcast. That…thing tried to follow me in here as I limped down the hall. I was able to outrun it, but I’ve had to use the deadbolt on the bathroom door to keep it out.

All this talk about Khoshekh today, and here he is. Hi, baby boy! That thing is nothing at all like you! It–

[crashing sound]

The door’s come off it’s hinges! It’s gotten in! I'm– I’m gonna duck into this stall.

I’m peering now under the walls, and seeing nothing.

I’m standing now on the commode, and looking over the walls, and see nothing!

Listeners, the only thing more terrifying than seeing the devil is no longer being able to see the devil!

Perhaps I should be quiet.

Intern Jeremy? Can you, one: call Animal Control, and two: take us now to the weath–

What was that?

No! No no!

Khoshekh!

What have you done to my cat, you monster!

Jeremy! Take us to the weather!

You come here, you son of a–

[“Cover Me Up” by Jason Isbell]

Listeners? Oh, God, listeners!

Khoshekh has been hurt. Very badly.

Animal Control came and took him to a hospital. They think he will live. They think he will live…differently. They think there will be significantly less of him physically, and mentally, but he will live.

He is my boy. He is my buddy! I love him so much. And this…thing, this thing, comes here, and–

Yes. Yes. Let me tell you about this thing, this awful beast.

After I saw it tear Khoshekh from his fixed point, and bite into his side, I– I kicked it, and I kicked it again, and Jeremy helped me pin it down, and Animal Control tried to sedate it, and I wanted to beat it to death with a hammer, but I had no hammer. Only self control.

Animal Control tried to inject it with their delicious poisons, but they stopped. They said, “We can’t. We can’t inject. It is a machine!” And they flipped its switch and it died.

I have never been so relieved to be safe and so…disappointed to be shorted my vengeance.

Our new program director, Lauren, came in and wanted to know why we destroyed my gift.

“My gift?” I asked.

“It’s your birthday,” she replied. “Daniel and I and the whole StrexCorp management team got you that StrexPet, because we know you love animals so much!”

And I replied, “But it’s a machine!”

“A bio-machine,” she retorted.

“And it’s not my birthday,” I mumbled, as Animal Control took Khoshekh Away.

I’m going to go now. Go see my Khoshekh.

He should be out of surgery in half an hour or so, and…I’m sure he will live. I’m sure he will float again at a fixed point exactly four feet up in the men’s bathroom of our community radio station. I’m sure there is vengeance to be found! I’m sure I will find it!

I’m sure. I just have to find the right recipient.

Stay tuned next for the sound of your own thoughts, broadcast live on the radio for all to hear.

And, as always, goodnight, Night Vale! Goodnight!

Today’s proverb: You won’t sleep when you’re dead, either.