Someone once said that life is a journey. This is true. Life is a long, strange, twisting road to a destination that we cannot hope to imagine.
Welcome to Night Vale.
[theme song plays]
Listeners--
Well, I was going to report on the strange illness affecting some of our townspeople, but one of the station interns is approaching. She looks concerned.
Yes? What is it?
Listeners, Intern Leanne tells me that she has a peculiar itch on the back of her neck. It has been there for several days, she says, and it is not only on the surface of her skin, but deep beneath it, invading her muscles and veins and sending deep, stabbing pains to her very bones.
This is probably nothing to worry about. You know what? I bet the Sheriff’s secret police are running tests on the tracking devices they have planted deep beneath our skin again! As all of you know, they regularly send an electronic pulse through these tiny, computerized chips, just to make sure they’re working. This is completely ordinary, though it can cause a little pain and itching if you’re not used to it.
See, Intern Leanne? This isn’t even news! Everyone experiences some unbearable itching and agonizing pain from time to time, but you don’t hear us complaining about it.
More importantly, a mysterious illness has been noticed in Night Vale. This illness has infected several baristas in the Barista District, causing mustaches to twist in strange, horrible patterns and knitted ties to become stained red with blood. It seems to take the form of a rash that causes flesh to become mangled in bizarre and terrifying ways.
Many citizens have been doing what we all must do when we see a sick person… that is, screaming and locking them in the nearest basement! Good for them, I say. It’s always hard to be a Good Samaritan in troubling times like these, but these citizens have risen to the task.
In other news, as citizens die of the Rash, several dark, shadowy figures have been spotted hovering nearby. These are different from the dark, shadowy figures we normally see out of the corners of our eyes, which are either the Faceless Old Woman who secretly lives in your home, members of the Sheriff’s Secret Police, or hallucinations created by our own fevered minds. These shades seem far more hostile. They watch us with bright eyes, pale in the midst of their great darkness, like black stains upon our bright desert air. They watch us in silence, waiting.
Meanwhile, the illness seems to have spread to several more people. Some of the baristas who were infected first have started to change, morphing into twisted, broken, horrifying creatures.... more so than usual, I mean. They pound on basement doors, screeching, nails scratching at the wood. We don’t know how long our basements will hold them, but we must hope it will be long enough.
Former mayor Pamela Winchell has called an emergency press conference in response to this impending disaster. “It’s not that bad,” she insisted, strapping a green gas mask over her face. “It’s just like the last few mutant problems we’ve had. We’ll be fine if we follow the City Council’s Apocalyptic Plague Protocol.”
The City Council’s Apocalyptic Plague Protocol is, of course, inscribed on the front teeth of every Night Vale citizen. To view it, open your mouth and look in a mirror, or ask your dentist to read it for you. I attempted to reach the City Council itself for comments, but merely received a message that the Councilmembers have gone on vacation to Antarctica for an indefinite amount of time. “Call us when you solve the Rash problem,” said the message, which had been carved on the inside of my shoes.
Pamela also said that the shadowy figures in the Abandonded Lot District were probably a more aggressive form of ghost and therefore nothing to worry about. Every child learns Advanced Spirit Banishing in kindergarten. Night Vale would have a very poor school system indeed if they didn’t.
Listeners, the illness is transforming citizens all over town. Normally, some terrifying force invades Night Vale from the outside, but this is different. These are our friends and our family who hunger for our flesh and rip at out basement walls. We are well defended against outsiders, dear listeners, but today we are not fighting outsiders. We are changing, Night Vale, we are changing terribly, and I am afraid...
Intern Leanne is complaining about her itch again. She is shouting from the other room. She is screaming. She is shrieking garbled words in a choked, half-human voice.
Sheesh. It’s just an itch, Intern Leanne. Get it together.
[crashing noises]
Listeners, Intern Leanne is tearing through the station. I fear she has become something horrible… something inhuman, twisted, and unimaginable. Even know I can hear the slap of mangled appendages and the snap of bones. She is coming, dear listeners, she is coming this way, and now, fearing for my life and for all our lives, I take you… to the weather!
[Music plays.]
Well, Night Vale, once again, we have survived.
Instead of rushing towards me, the thing that was once Intern Leanne barreled headlong into the bathroom, where it met Khoshekh and his many kittens, who, sensing danger, puffed up their adorable little spine ridges to defend their home. The creature that was once Intern Leanne was no match for these brave, blessed felines, and though the station’s floor is soaked in blood and viscera, the danger here has passed. Intern Derek, who is wearing one of the station’s many gas masks, is mopping it all up. Good job, Intern Derek.
Which reminds me: To the friends and family of Intern Leanne… loss, valued member of our community, et cetera. I’m sure you know the drill.
Even now, I am getting reports that the Sherriff’s Secret Police, aided by a vague yet menacing government agency, have successfully overpowered the other mutants. They have carted the creatures off to wherever the people who vanish forever in the middle of the night go, where they will trouble our town no more.
Surprisingly, the shadowy figures were banished before our brave local kindergarteners were given a chance to try! A tall being named Erika informed me that they and their compatriots, who were certainly not angels, had taken care of it. “Those were just ghosts. Or whatever,” Erika told me.
Once more, our town has been saved. Perhaps we should not focus on the hardship we underwent today, but the courage and strength our citizens showed in overcoming it. Once more, we have triumphed. We have proved, yet again, that we will stand strong in the face of an uncaring universe.
Stay tuned next for the sound of a nonexistent river rushing along a riverbed that has been dry for centuries, and as always, good night, Night Vale. Good night.
