01/04/2016 15:48:12 ¶ ●

## Episode 85 - The April Monologues

Cecil: Once again, the turning of the seasons. Nearly imperceptible here, a shading of the desert heat. But we feel the change in the thrum of our bodies, in the texture of the sand.

There is rain, once in a while. If not here, then somewhere else, surely.

Wild spring has stepped in for her stolid winter sister. It is April, and something is different. It is April, and the days have depth and vibrance.

It is April.

And so, dear listeners, Night Vale Community Radio is pleased to present The April Monologues.

Faceless Old Woman: Chad. Oh, Chad. I’m beginning to understand and…I wish I did not.

You used to wear nice shirts. You cut your hair regularly. Sometimes, while you slept, I would come in to keep it orderly and presentable for the next morning. You would shower, and shave, and dress for your internship. So plain and well kempt and precious, unaware of the Faceless Old Woman Secretly Living In Your Home.

And then, one day, you did not return home.

You love your home. You rarely leave, not even to be with other people. You play video games, and watched police dramas, and read books by comedians. You’ve always loved your solitude, and I have always thought you were special in how completely ordinary you seemed. Few young men are exactly what one thinks of when one thinks of a young man.

You were it, Chad. And I always looked out for you.

Remember that terrible roach problem you had? You tried all kinds of traps and poisons, but nothing worked? Only one day you returned home to find thousands of roach corpses scattered across your floor, each one with its legs tied and its head removed, and there was a hand-scrawled note that said “They’ll not bother you again.”

That was me. I did that.

Well, I didn’t kill the roaches, that was the exterminator you called. He was, very thorough at his job. But I wrote the note, Chad. That note was me.

We had a good way about us. I lived secretly and facelessly in your home, and you…well, you kind of did, too. Only, metaphorically.

But then one night you didn’t return home.

I saw in your emails (I loved reading your emails, Chad, so compellingly bland) you had to go check out a used and discount sporting goods store. Something for your work. But that store was not what it claimed to be, and you didn’t return home for months. The landlord came by in your long absence, but I scared her off with this terrifying noise I can make using only a leather belt and a bird.

You left your home, and I protected it for you.

But when you returned, things were different. Oh, how different! Your crisp button shirts all unbuttoned and wrinkled, dangling on hooks like dried pelts from a misguided hunt.

These days you rarely notice the little things I do. Like when I painted the inside of your bathtub black, or glued blurry photos of spiders into the bottom of your mugs. You don’t even play video games anymore. You wear hoods and light candles. You drew a star in the middle of your floor, which…actually, I can totally get behind.

Your emails, which were once so wonderfully calm and full of mailing lists, and then social invitations, and social invitation rejections, and food delivery receipts, the tale of a stagnant nothing of a man, so perfectly lovable in his comfy inertia…now they are terse, coded messages to a girl I think you are destroying.

“Found a door. Come over,” this one says.

“He is here, and he is good,” this one says.

“Candles are growing again,” this one says.

I do not like these candles you have that grow when lit, and melt when not. And I certainly do not like him.

What you brought to us here in this little town, my town, the town I secretly live in, what you summoned…I stopped secretly living in your house because I was afraid of it. But now I have returned because I feel – unusual for me – some obligation to do something, to prevent this coming disaster.

Listen to me. It is five in the morning and you are asleep, but I am at your ear quietly asking you – telling you – I’m begging you really, Chad. Did you ever think that I would beg you? Beg anyone? I haven’t begged since I was a child aboard that wicked ship. Those men didn’t listen either, Chad, which is the reason I lived at the bottom of the ocean for so many years before this place, this desert, this town, this apartment…

Chad, what happened to you in that store that wasn’t a store? What did they turn you into? What have you brought into this reality? Do you even know the destruction that awaits this town? Not just this town, perhaps the world? That is not a door you have opened, Chad.

When is a door not a door?

When it is a chasm.

I know you cannot see or hear me, for I live secretly, but I beg you. If somehow my voice seeps into your dreams and sticks in your memory, you must undo what you have done, before it is too late. You must–

Chad? That creature, that monster you summoned is here. It is staring at me with eyes that could never be mistaken for human. It’s walking toward me. How does it see me, Chad? No one sees me!

Chad?!? It is licking my hand! Stop it! It’s bringing me a tennis ball! The puppy is bringing me a ball! I will not play fetch with you, hound!

How do you see me, you monster?

Chad? We must undo–

GET AWAY FROM ME!

You must undo what you have done. It means nothing but ill will to this town, to this world, and most importantly, from my perspective, to a Faceless Old Woman That Secretly Lives In Your Home.

Stop staring at me, you unholy beast! There, beagle, go fetch your stupid ball!

[Static, with Disparition’s “Song for the Other Side” playing faintly]

Cecil: Growth turns our thoughts to decline. Each new sprout brings to mind the decay out of which it grows. Each thing leads to its opposite. Every moment contains multitudes. Every second is the history of the universe, if taken at its composite parts.

Let us take this moment at its composite parts. Break down this day into each person’s thoughts. We return you now to The April Monologues.

Michelle Nguyen: I’ve been thinking lately about loneliness. Not because I’m lonely, I just like to be ahead of the curve when it comes to thinking about things. Ugh, obviously I’m not lonely. I’m Michelle Nguyen, owner of the coolest (and only) record store in town, and I’m not lonely! I’m just, like, a performance artist, and my medium is solitude.

I’ve been listening to a lot of hopcore lately. It’s my new favorite genre. It’s recordings of a person hopping.

*Thump* *Thump* *Thump*

…but soft.

*thump* *thump* *thump*

Totally great. You wouldn’t have heard of it. Because I made it myself, and I’ve shared it with no one. It’s a recording of me hopping. I recorded that and I’m listening to it. It’s the new thing.

Maureen came by. Nervous, jaw clenched, hair parted, hands fluttering, stopping, restarting, sighing Maureen. She was looking for something new to listen to, said things were stressful at her internship. She had to led an army, or whatever? And she needed something that would relax her.

I suggested easy listening, like Slayer or some silence, but she said she was tired of all the top 40 stations playing no sound at all. Silence is too mainstream, and she wanted something new.

I’ll be honest, I actually like silence. I shouldn’t; it’s, like, so popular, but my favorite silence is the hum of a dryer from the next floor down. I also like the swish of a highway that you thought was too far away to hear, but now that it’s so quiet you can hear it, distant and dissipating. Like, the sizzle of foam on a wave.

I gave Maureen Leonard Cohen’s new album, the one where he talks in a gravely voice and women sing along behind him. She rolled her eyes and walked out. I think she liked it.

Hold on.

Welcome to Dark Owl Records. Hey, Larry. Oh you want the new album by the Beatles? How original. Well, all the dubstep stuff is upstairs.

It’s like that old joke: I listen to Bach often but never the Beatles.

*thump* *thump* *thump*

I love this hopcore recording! I made it on the old beige carpet of the back office here at the store. I did it in socks so it would be extra quiet. You have to hold still, like, even hold your breath to hear it. But it’s there.

*thump* *thump*

You have to really pay attention to notice me, but I’m there.

I don’t actually listen to Bach often. What a sellout! Did you see his HBO special? Ugh! I didn’t, but I bet it was bad.

It’s a quiet time for record sales. Usually it’s really busy, which is annoying. I hate it when people who are, like, “Please, I want to pay you a lot of money for physical albums!” It’s like, get in line, you know? Get in that line. The one leading to the cash register. I’ll ring you up when it’s your turn.

But I’ve let the temporary staff dissolve back into mud for the season, and I won’t have to mutter the incantations to bring them back to life for another month or two. It’s just me, behind the counter. Me, like always.

I’m all I need. I’m the ultimate underground hit. No one’s heard of me. No one’s listening. Just the way I like it.

Yes, I know this is a one story building, Larry! I was being metaphorical. I don’t actually have any Beatles albums. It’s like the old joke: I listen to Bach often, but…

He left. His loss.

Maureen came by. Steady, jaw tight, hair loose, hands swinging, shuffling, restarting, sighing Maureen. She said she liked Leonard’s album, but she had heard it enough now. What else did I have?

I never thought I’d do this, but I gave her some of my favorite recordings of bees. I love those recordings! But I’ve listened to them enough times now that I don’t ever need to hear them again. It’s like, the sound became part of me, and I know it better than the recordings do, you know?

Hmm, maybe you don’t know. Probably not. You’re probably still listening to that Woody Guthrie single on repeat, because you just listen to whatever “big music” tells you too.

Oh, this is my favorite part of the hopcore recording. It’s the part where the thump of my hopping gets so quiet that it isn’t any sound at all. It’s a silence. And you have to know I’m there to recognize me in the silence. That I’m still hopping, even though you can’t hear it. Listen:

[Silence except for Disparition’s background music and, presumably, Michelle Nguyen hopping silently]

That’s me in there, in that no sound at all. They say music is made up of the spaces between the notes, and that life is made up of the moments when your eyes are close because you’re blinking. And that books are made up of blank pages that everyone pretends have words on them so they’ll seem smart.

I’m the blank. And the space. I’m the pause. I’m the gap.

Hold on, I have a customer.

I don’t actually have a customer; I just need a moment to myself. This is me, greeting someone. This is them, feeling like just because they’re in a record shop they’re entitled to, like, music, or whatever.

Ugh, that person is the worst! Hold on, someone is actually coming in.

Oh! It’s…I'll– I’ll be back.

Maureen came by. Satisfied, jaw loose, hair up, hands idling, striding, stopping, restarting, sighing Maureen. She said she loved the bees recording. She wanted something like it, but even more so. Similar, but so different that it would startle her.

I knew exactly what she meant with that thirst, but I didn’t know how to satisfy it. There’s only so much music, you know? And there’s so much human desire.

Well, you are not going to believe this. Probably, like, you won’t even understand. I gave her the recording of me hopping. I know that, like, ruins it because now someone else has listened to it, but somehow I don’t mind if Maureen hears it. I think, maybe even I like that. I hope she comes back soon.

I mean, don’t get me wrong. I love it when the record store is empty, when there are none of those annoying customers clamoring for music to listen to. Being alone is the best.

But I also kind of like it when Maureen comes by. Her being here is cool too, I guess.

I just have to figure out what album to show her next. Only, there’s so much good music, you know?

[Static, with Disparition’s “Book of Arrows” playing faintly]

Cecil: Each leads to the next. The seasons are a corridor we perceive through, and the door at the end of the corridor is black and depthless. Appreciate the warmth of this narrow corridor.

How small this world is! And how small we all are for living in it. And how joyful a smallness can be.

So let us return, for one last time, for one last small time, to The April Monologues.

Steve Carlsberg: I try to be helpful. I know I can’t always fix everything, I know my limits (and they are many), but still…I try to be helpful.

So when the kid came by, I did my best.

He was scared, sure, because he could see them too. The glowing arrows in the sky. Dotted lines and arrows and circles…see, the sky is a chart that explains the entire world, and he could see it! That’s a terrifying thing if you aren’t prepared for it.

Oh, he was shaking so bad. His ball cap was pulled low over his face.

“Steve!” he said. “Steve Carlsberg! I know you can see them too. Help me!”

And I tried. I…I– I tried to be helpful.

I like the evenings, when it’s quiet. In parts of the world, the big cities, things don’t change much from morning to afternoon to evening. The same even light, the same people in a hurry. But here, every time of day has a different tone and shade.

In the mornings, before anyone else is up, the desert is golden, and the horizon light illuminates every detail on the mountains to the west.

I feel bad for the folks who don’t believe in mountains, who won’t see, even when shown.

Then the birds come and hop around outside the kitchen window. Oh, I like to watch them as I make coffee. My brother-in-law, he never sees the birds on account of he likes to grind the coffee himself, and the pounding of his coffee hammer keeps all the birds away. But me? I don’t mind the pre-hammered stuff. It’s a soft trade for the birds.

And then the afternoon, when the light deepens and widens, and the mountains turn to blue cutouts against a white-blue sky!

And then the sunset, loud and fragrant, like sunsets usually are.

And then the evening, a vast, quiet empty. Just me and Abbey and Janice, floating, and island of a family in the rich darkness of the desert nothing.

The kid was so scared! Oh, boy. But he had it in him. He tries to be helpful too, I can tell! And so it wasn’t enough to know. He wanted to do something about it.

He said that he’d been sent to a sporting goods store that they thought might have been a front for the World Government. I know that place. The World Government isn’t the half of it! Go in that sporting goods store, you’re gonna find a real racket!

Ha-ha-ha-ha! I love puns!

But yeah, that place holds the core of it. And this kid, he goes in there and he sees it! And once you’ve seen it, once you know, you can’t ever not know. You can’t become who you once were after you’ve become what you are now.

Glowing arrows in the sky, dotted lines. He understood, like I understand.

The folks that run Night Vale, they think they have control. But you can’t control what a person knows! The more you think you have that contained, the more it eludes you. You might as well try to control the weather.

[Brief discordant music]

And they try to do that, too, using cloud seeding, drones, and laser arrays. But it never works out the way they planned.

“What can we do about it?” the boy kept asking. Poor kid.

I wish my brother-in-law took better care of his interns at the radio station. Didn’t send them to places they had no right being, like sporting good stores run by the World Government. But it’s not up to me. I suppose Cecil can run his life the way he wants, and he won’t ever hear from me about it. Not like the other way around, I suppose.

The kid understood how the world worked. He could see the structure of it and, oh, bless him, he wanted to fix it! To make it right again. And he wanted me to tell him how.

“Not much we can do but understand,” I told him. “Not much to do but know.”

But he wouldn’t accept it. He wanted to follow those glowing arrows in the sky like they were a map to somewhere, and not a labyrinth in which a monster lives.

“Listen,” I said. “Listen, Chad,” I said. “I think, in time, you’ll feel better. Hey, maybe get a puppy!” I told him. “We had a puppy infestation a few years back, hell on the insulation and some load-bearing joists, but it was just the cutest thing!”

“Yes,” he said. “Summon a puppy!”

“Well,” I said, “Sure, or just get a puppy. Like, ‘adopt’ is probably the word you’re looking for,” I said. “Adopt a puppy, sure. They smile, and wag their tails, and roll around, very cute!” I said.

“This is how we will change things,” he said. “Summon a puppy. The World Government will never see it coming!”

And he thanked me and walked away.

Oh, well. At least he’s not a station intern anymore. I’m sure he’ll be fine. What’s the worst that could happen? Ha-ha.

I sat out on the porch the rest of the day, just thinking, watching the wide light of afternoon narrow back down to the west, until I could smell the sunset coming. And then I went inside. It was Abby’s turn to make dinner, and it looked delicious! Oh-ho!

Maybe I should get a puppy, too. Add one more to our island of a family. A puppy could be just the thing. Janice would love it!

But not a puppy like that kid has now. I think, perhaps, that that’s no puppy at all. Maybe it was a mistake, my conversation with him. But what can I say? I try to be helpful.

Cecil: And so we reach the end of The April Monologues. There is much that could be said. I will say none of it.

Today’s proverb: Put your [static] in, take your [static] out. Put your [static] in and [static] all about.

15/04/2016 11:27:02 ¶ ●

## Episode 86 - Standing and Breathing

I believe the children are our future. They are also our past and our present. This is how children work in linear time.

Welcome to Night Vale.

Mayor Dana Cardinal announced that last night’s air raid sirens were nothing to be alarmed by. Nor are the missing street and highway signs, nor are the angry people who were assigned to hold the signs and wave them about, using the maritime telegraphic language of semaphore, and who are now standing around dumbfounded and empty-handed. Nor should we yet concern ourselves with mailboxes, which have all been filled with what postal workers hope is just hair gel.

Following a meeting with the sheriff and the City Council, Mayor Cardinal says she believes this all to be the work of pranksters – perhaps the return of the feral dogs, who once defaced several concrete walls with libertarian street art – but the mayor and the Secret Police are not ruling out more sinister activity.

Sheriff Sam added, while whittling a piece of balsa into a polar bear, that it’s “definitely these foreigners, moving here from Desert Bluffs.”

The City Council said nothing. They mostly stood around behind the press conference podium texting and giggling. All of them had fresh haircuts, crisp upturned polo collars, and manicures.

The mayor said she would work closely with Sheriff Sam to find the culprits, but in the meantime, there’s no need for alarm.

Sam added that there was a need to remove all the foreigners.

More on this story as it develops.

But first, an update on the trial of Hiram McDaniels. Unable to find a jury of peers for a literal five-headed dragon, the court agreed to create artificial intelligence to simulate what five-headed dragon peers would be like, and then place that A.I. on the jury. For this project, they hired expert computer programmer Melony Pennington, who joins us now by phone.

Welcome to my show, Melony!

Melony: Welcome to your show! I mean hi, hello. It turns out you welcomed me, it doesn’t make sense to welcome you. Sorry, my mind was, you know, the expanse. The vast. The out there. I mean my mind is elsewhere. My mind is everywhere.

Cecil: Wonderful! And how are you–

Melony: Do you ever look at the stars? The stars. You know, the stars. Not each star, but some of the stars. I mean every single one of the stars at once. I mean the whole night sky added up. Do you ever look at the sum of the stars? The night sky, as an equation? Beauty as a math problem? Which it is – everything beautiful is math. Everything beautiful is a problem.

What was your question?

Cecil: Umm, how are you doing?

Melony: Oh. I’m fine.

Cecil: Melony, you sound familiar.

Melony: Do I sound familiar? You just said that, so I guess I do. You must have met one of my programs…or not met, none of them are sentient. You can’t meet things that have no sentience. Well, I guess you could be like, “Hi there, pile of rocks, I’m Melony,” just to see what happens. I suppose there is no set dogma for social engagement.

Oh, I wish I had a dog.

Have you ever met a rock?

What’s your name again?

Cecil: Well, mmm…I'm–

Melony: What I’m saying is that I probably sound familiar because all of my programs have the same voice as me. That’s how computer programming works.

Cecil: Have you ever programmed a computer that broadcasts on a radio station, specifically one that recites random numbers?

Melony: Oh, yes! The local numbers station, WZZZ. Yes, that was one of my early programs. And those numbers and chimes aren’t random, they’re encoded messages to foreign spies. Also a few pudding recipes and a funny cryptology poem or two.

Cecil: So you designed Fey, the voice of WZZZ!

Melony: Oh, the WZZZ program has no name, and absolutely no sentience. Not every program is sentient. That WZZZ program only recites numbers and tones. That’s all it does, and all it ever will do. It doesn’t know it exists.

Cecil: About that…see, there was a thing that happened a couple years ago…

Melony: Ugh, listen to me babbling on. You had me on to talk about the trial.

Cecil: Yes. Well, I understand there has been some controversy around the ethics of making a jury of peers from artificial intelligence, rather than actual five-headed dragons.

Melony: Oh, there are a lot more problems than just ethics. What are ethics, even? How can you quantify what is right? I mean, let’s assign a number on how ethical a computerized jury is.

Cecil: I’m gonna say it’s a low number, like 1.5 or 2.

Melony: But let’s make it on a scale of 0 to 3. So that’s pretty good! Everything’s going fine! Ethically speaking, anyway. But the programming has been tough. Have you ever even tried to program a computer?

Cecil: I barely know how to turn one on. Say, as long as I have a real computer expert on, do you have some basic computer tips for me and our listeners?

Melony: Oh! A public service like that would be really ethical, like a 2.5 or even a 3 on the ethicability scale. What a good idea! Here are some basic tips for the computer novice who’s hoping to one day write code that advances us closer to the singularity.

Tip 1: Computers can make you angry. Anything can make you angry. Computers are anything.
Tip 2: Is your computer plugged in? That’s probably illegal. You need a license to plug in a computer.
Tip 3: Computer programs are a lot like humans. They’re full of bugs – mostly theoretical, and invented by overly caffeinated lonely people in dark rooms.
Tip 4: Did I say that thing about the stars already?

Cecil: Yes, I…

Melony: Oh, good!

Tip 5: Create a strong password. The most secure password possible is (you’ll never guess this!) where the O is replaced with a zero, and the Ls are replaced with zeros, and all of the other letters are replaced with zeros. A string of 19 zeros is the most secure password.

Cecil: I added an exclamation point at the end of my password.

Melony: Exclamation points are impossible to hack! You are very secure.

Tip 6: There are two main types of computers. The first are PCs, or persona computers. Personal computers know your name, and things about your life, and are casual and friendly. Sometimes they’re overly personal and you end up having to say, “This is all too much. Back off, computer.” The second type of computer is the house cat. These are ambulant robotic quadrupeds used by the Secret Police to monitor our domestic behavior and try to understand why people like to stroke robots and talk in high voices to them.

Cecil: This has been very helpful!

Melony: Ah! Thank you for saying that! I love to be helpful! This trial has been so challenging, and everyone is upset. These days, I don’t feel helpful. These days I feel kind of useless and it gets me down.

Cecil: Aww. I know that feeling. You know, sometimes when I’m sad, I like to sing old hymns to myself.

Melony: Me too! Which one’s your favorite?

Cecil: ♫ I got the eye of the tiger, a fighter ♫

Cecil and Melony singing together: ♪ Dancin’ through the fire, ‘cause I am a champion, and you’re gonna hear me roar! ♪

Cecil: Oh!

Melony: Whoo! That’s my favorite passage from the Old Testament! [Sigh] I feel better already.

Cecil: Aww, thanks, Melony.

Melony: I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name. Goodbye!

Cecil: The mayor’s office reports that perhaps their earlier call for not being alarmed was a bit premature, and that we could all stand to be a little more alarmed. Several dead animals have been found all over town – on sidewalks, in trees and fields, animal corpses everywhere.

This has happened before, listeners. Many of you remember the glowing cloud (all hail) that passed through Night Vale years ago, dropping dead animals on all of us. And since that first terrifying and bloody visit, the Glow Cloud (all bow before the mighty Cloud) has since settled down as a citizen of this town, even joining the school board, as the Glow Cloud’s child attends Night Vale Elementary.

It’s hard to believe that the Glow Cloud (all praise the malevolent Cloud who rules my every puny desire, et cetera, et cetera) would return to such dreadful acts of violence against animals…and rooftops. But again, it’s hard to know why anyone does anything.

John Peters – you know, the farmer? – standing out in his freshly-sown field of imaginary corn near his pastures said he saw a couple of mangled squirrels and expired possums.

He added, “I seen them strangers too, the ones what don’t move 'cept for their breathin’? Just breathin’ and breathin’ and sometimes getting a little closer than you think they were a second ago, despite not lookin’ like they were even movin’.”

He also said he finally received a card from his brother Jim, who left town nearly 40 years ago to fight in the Blood Space War. The message inside simply read, “Happy 12th birthday, little brother! Only three months into my mission, and I am already missing you something fierce, Johnny!”

John covered his face and pointed to one of the strangers out on the edge of the corn field.

“Yeah, it’s definitely them strangers what’s killin’ these animals.”

John then began weeping and clutching the birthday card – on it, a farmer caricature holding balloons, and a caption reading, “I love you, 'cows’ you’re my brother” – tightly to his heaving chest.

And now, a word from our sponsor.

Today’s show is brought to you by Papa John’s. At Papa John’s we make pizza with only the freshest ingredients, using old-world recipes passed down from our family’s many generations of pizza makers. Nearly all of these pizza makers are still alive, making pizza and passing down recipes. They live in the back. We’re running out of room for them.

We’ve long given up on thinking they’d eventually die. Why don’t they die? I mean, we love them, but there are close to 50 people in our family dating back to at least the 1800s, their bodies aging and failing, but never…you know…dying.

Perhaps it’s our secret recipes causing that.

You’d think so, but it’s not. Because a few members of our family have actually passed away…although, now that we’re thinking about it, those were public executions for treason back during the first World War. And another couple were car accidents.

Maybe it is the sauce?

Either way, visit your local Papa John’s. Order a delicious pizza. How hard can it be? Immortality, we mean.

Papa John’s. It’ll be fine.

And now, a look at traffic.

They met through a mutual acquaintance. They shook hands and met eyes. Over food and drinks, and among friends, they laughed and told stories.

Occasionally their eyes lingered. Occasionally one looked away first. They shared a brief but quiet and private moment on the front porch. It was getting late. People were leaving. It was a new moon that night. Neither would remember that part.

One of them said goodbye as they headed to their car. The other said goodbye back. They hugged, both thinking in that short embrace about the other’s body against their own, about the topography of forgiveness, and the geography of tomorrow.

“See you again soon, I hope.”

“Yes, you too.”

They parted as the one drove away. Later, the other drove away. It was a fun party with good friends, good food and drinks. They would remember the laughing and the stories. They would not remember the moon or the name of the other. It wouldn’t come up again.

They later met other people, and still other people. Later, they would drive home, and drive home. They never met again. They both lived meaningful lives: laughing drinking, eating, and driving home.

This has been traffic.

While officers from the Sheriff’s Secret Police are now responding to a series of power outages and broken water mains, witnesses have reported a strange sight at the city’s Dog Park. Hooded figures, which are sometimes glimpsed inside the Dog Park, were all lined up outside the Dog Park, as if standing guard. A long row of dark cloaks and hoods, humming and chanting.

Witnesses kept a great distance from this scene, simply noting the hooded figures were all of equal height and imposing stature, spaced evenly around the forbidden municipal park.

The sidewalks in front of them were empty, except for one young couple – and their dog – who walked slowly past the sentries, unperturbed by the presence of these eldritch figures, emanating a crescendo of white noise. Witnesses watched the couple stroll past the park, turn a corner, and disappear from sight.

The witnesses reported that just around that corner, where the couple had walked, was a different person – a stranger, staring right back at the witnesses. They did not recognize the person, for the person had no noticeable features.

The stranger did not appear to move, except for its steady breathing.

No single witness saw the stranger move, but suddenly it was closer to the crowd of onlookers, merely feet away from them.

One of the witnesses said, “We should run away.”

Another agreed, “Yes, let’s run away.”

They did not go anywhere.

And now, let’s check in on the weather.

[“Well Dressed” by Hop Along]

If you can hear me, Night Vale, it is because you are one of those still with electricity, or whose home is not on fire.

Oh, breaking news, there are a bunch of fires across town. They are spreading from home to home. Fire chief Ramona Encarnación said that she believes the fires were started by the neglect of common but dangerous things like kitchen ranges, candles, cigarettes, and blood stones.

Encarnación said these strangers are appearing at doorways, and in windows, and inside showers, and from behind refrigerators, just staring and breathing and otherwise not moving. Upon seeing these strangers, the residents of those homes became frozen in fear, and thus incapable of tending to their flammable items.

“Never leave a blood stone unattended, Night Vale!” Encarnación cautioned.

Mayor Dana Cardinal finally relented to the sheriff’s request to try to round up the strangers. Sheriff Sam responded with a jumping heel click, and a “You won’t be sorry, mayor!” as they ran out to start making arrests.

Sam has long held that the strangers are just troublemakers who’ve moved here from the collapsed town of Desert Bluffs, our former neighbors. But upon arriving at several of the burning homes, Sam began to have a change of mind…or belief.

These strangers were not from Desert Bluffs at all. These strangers, Sam now believes, are something else.

“They are not from here,” Sam said. “Not here meaning Night Vale, but…HERE.” Sam then indicated the broadness of the term 'here’ by swinging their arm slowly to indicate the entirety of the tangible world we all pretend to know and understand.

The Secret Police, instead of arresting or detaining or…even getting near the strangers, began to move the petrified residents of each of these homes safely away to an undisclosed location. Which, I assume, means the same thing as a safe location, since the Secret Police are law enforcement professionals…?

The strangers never moved, other than their steady breaths, even when they sometimes appeared dramatically closer than they were before.

“The strangers seemed to have no goal other than to threaten our well-being, Night Vale,” Sam explained wordlessly, using only a long ribbon and floor dance routine to express the dire situation we are all facing. “My Secret Police and I will to serve and protect you. Secretly, of course. This is off the record. In the meantime, stay in your homes, and lock your doors. If you see a stranger, keep moving, and call us. We’re an unlisted number, actually, so…maybe email,” Sam said with a flick of their ribbon and a double somersault.

Night Vale, I…I think back to the words of Little League coach and ghost Lucia Tereschenko. “They’re no longer coming. They’re here. And we cannot stop something that wants nothing.”

And I think of the image of that young couple and their dog, blithely passing the row of fearful hooded figures. No doubt it was Maureen, and that boy, and that beagle. Maureen is such a good kid! And that beagle? So, so cute! So CUTE! Ugh. But I fear for whatever it is she and that boy and that dog are involved in.

Heed our sheriff tonight, Night Vale. Stay safe in your home. Get away fast of you see one of them.

Stay tuned next for words, ordered intentionally and confidently, saying something, understanding nothing.

And, as always, goodnight, Night Vale.

Ooh! Maybe lock those windows, too.

Goodnight.

Today’s proverb: Call me old fashioned, but I believe there should be only one continent.