Chapters Author's Note
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Flying Gelatin
Welcome to Night Vale
Hello and good evening, dear listeners, and welcome to Night Vale. It is days like these that I am ever grateful to live in our small desert town. The moon is bright and full, the sun is hot and relentless, and the glow cloud that rained dead animals on our small town has finally moved on.
This is the voice of Night Vale radio, Cecil.
To start things off, I am told this morning’s acid rain clouds cast mysterious lights on the ground for approximately four minutes. Geode Turner, a local farmer, sketched the shapes and colors they made before blood began hemorrhaging from his eyes. Several mysterious soldiers from an unknown but still nefarious government agency have been passing out fliers encouraging pony households to come outside, assuring everyone it is safe to let our children play in the alien geometrics. Nurse Cortex says Mister Turner will make a full recovery, despite him now speaking in a language not on record. Nurse Cortex assured me these symptoms will pass.
And now the news. A banner of Princess Celestia came to life after the acid rain fell. When the lovely two dimensional copy began knocking on doors and asking for help, the baker Whisk invited the paper princess inside for cupcakes. The princess said they were too sweet and needed to be in the oven for another two minutes.
Several griffonic patrols passed overhead today. When questioned, the Night Vale secret police demanded at gunpoint that inquirers return to their homes or previous destinations before placing several floodlights in the park. When the local gardener Sunny Day pressed for more information, she had a bag thrown over her head, was thrown into a carriage without windows, and had a padlock placed on the door for her own safety. What nice police, providing lights for lost griffons and caring so studiously for the elderly.
Has anyone seen the glowing cloud turning against the wind? Please do not be afraid; the secret police assure me that this was expected, as were the sounds of screaming, whistling, and laughing children it emits. Although the glow cloud’s occasional encounters with our desert hamlet incur madness and random acts of glow cloud worship at four percent more than the national average, I firmly believe it is harmless. The Night Vale meteorologists are currently under investigation for corruption for letting the police do their jobs for them.
The four delinquents that destroyed thirty lockers in the Night Vale gymnasium are currently cleaning up the blood leaking from Honey Darling’s house, the local candymaker, as a public service punishment. I have been asked by Honey herself to state she is willing to pay anypony five bits an hour or their own selection of sweets at the end of the day to clean the blood leaking from her walls, porch, and sacrificial daggers. Just think about it, parents. Rather than having your children sit inside doing nothing or unsupervised in acid rain puddles covered in alien lights, they can start earning their own keep and prepare themselves for the capitalist troubles of adulthood.
A rash of mistitled posters across town has warranted this public service announcement. There is a very real difference between the Night Vale secret police and the nefarious government agency that patrols the streets. The secret police is under the payroll of the sheriff and wears blue uniforms. The nefarious government agency is always staffed by bat ponies and the general consensus is that prolonged eye contact with them causes the pony to hear the sound of children’s lamenting screams. Remember, you do not want ponies getting your job description wrong. Treat others the way you wish to be treated.
While Night Vale remains in the middle of the Mild West Desert, several fossils of strange fish skeletons were discovered four miles west of town. Although originally encased in rock, the earlier acid rain melted the surface layer of stone. Mister Beaker and his amazing hair investigated and declared that they were an ancient race of fish/pony hybrids. There is no word about whether or not this event is related to the unearthed tentacle beast discovered in the neighboring town of Appaloosa.
Speaking of Beaker, he has asked me to revise his previous statement from yesterday. The acid rain cloud’s death count is not six as previously thought. The number is closer to negative twenty four. Against all odds, the recently deceased rose from Night Vale cemetery and returned to their homes. There is currently no scientific reason for the uprising and no permits for necromancy were approved by the City Council. Four risen ponies have joined together to sue the sheriff’s secret police for auctioning off their property after their supposed death. Strangely enough, the lawsuit was dropped at the same time four new plots of land were purchased in the cemetery.
Meanwhile, my source in the secret police alerted me that the griffon patrol was actually a flying gelatinous creature. My contact then started breathing heavily into the receiver before emitting a scream which I can only describe as “the soul being rent in twain by dark magic.” No word from Mr. Beaker about any relation between the gelatinous creature and his fish.
The Night Vale School Board claimed it will undergo review about rescheduling their live fire exercises during hours other than their recess hours, pending parent feedback. I have been told that parents who suggest that the live fire exercises should be moved will receive a complimentary carepackage from the board. Recipients are encouraged to open the package in small, flammable places devoid of any witnesses. You don’t want people getting jealous of your gift now, don’t you? This message is brought to you by the School Board.
Hmmm... intern Boom is passing me a notice right now.... Ah, very well. The City Council in their everlasting wisdom and infinite mercy have commandeered the underground replica of City Hall accessed via the sewer manhole on the corner of Bluff Avenue and 3rd Main Street. A city-wide mandatory radiation testing and blood tests for: blood-born pathogens, necrotic parasites, spontaneous combustion, stomach flu, and telepathic tampering will be held there as Night Vale secret police go door to door, rounding up ponies for testing. I encourage citizens to submit to the City Council’s friendly suggestion and the secret police enforcing their edicts, mostly because the City Council has never steered us wrong and Boom has been turned into a pile of ash by a strange green light emanating from the floor. And now it is gone. Listeners and parents of Boom, I wish to let you know of my thanks for his service to community radio and journalistic integrity. He was a competent, enthusiastic member of the team and will be dearly missed.
And now for sports. The Night Vale Vipers hoofball game tonight against the Appaloosan Tumbleweeds was postponed after an unnamed linebacker exploded into a cloud of red slugs. The slugs then proceeded to one by one latch themselves onto the throats of the opposing team until they were gathered up by the official and drowned in a twenty gallon cooler of Gatorade. The Tumbleweeds lodged a complaint of unsportsmanlike conduct and were awarded a penalty kick for each affected player. The Vipers are banned from the league for the rest of the year. What an asshole linebacker, ruining the fun for everyone else.
The Night Vale Council for Commerce and Tourism Board have both approved the plan to build a five hundred million bit hoofball stadium in order to both draw in revenue with games, and to have an area devoid of the exploding cacti so prevalent in the open, rocky wasteland south of town generally used for practice. Personally, I think this will be good for Night Vale and bring in some proper attention to the local businesses. Ever since the dog park, the secret police drive-in coffee shop, the abandoned mineshaft outside of town, and the mysterious shape in the middle of the center square fountain were destroyed in a series of mysterious arson fires, Night Vale has been sorely lacking in out-of-towners eager to sample local customs, landmarks, cuisine, and Honey’s delectable sweets.
Back to the news. The other intern, Daisy Showers, has finished sweeping up Boom for the traditional burial in the break room and handed me a notice. It appears the flying gelatinous creature has nested at the very top of the radio tower. The sheriff’s secret police and several hooded figures have surrounded the radio tower. I’m looking out the window now. My, there are a lot of them. I even see the paper princess outside. She’s eating a cookie. I’m not quite sure how. Now Daisy is telling me to leave my station, saying tendrils of black death ooze are slowly changing the halls into a twisted, noneuclidean hell world. Perhaps it might be best to leave for a moment. Yes, I do believe this is enough for tonight’s show. Yes, the door to my station is now turning into a viscous black gel. I know not what the gelatinous creature is doing to the station, but I believe it best to evacuate until Station Management says otherwise.
Now for some closing thoughts. I do love this little town of ours. Night Vale is an old town rich in history, despite that one hooded pony stealing children and no one being physically able to stop him, or the fact that Changelings avoid Night Vale due to some accusation of unicorn black sorcery. At least I think the figure is a he; it is quite difficult to see past the abysmal black void underneath the hood. Nevertheless, every town has their fair share of oddballs. The unicorns still read at the library despite the poltergeist. The earth ponies still harvest the dry, barren lands when not making trade deals with those suspicious Appaloosan hillbillies. The pegasi still stay on the ground to avoid the acid rain and glow clouds. We stick together, even through the worst of times and harshest of economic downturns. The wheel of time has finished turning one more day. Well done, Night Vale. We have survived one more cycle of the sun and moon. Goodnight listeners.
Goodnight.
I'm terrified of this place. However, I'm more scared of not being terrified of this place.
~Professor Beaker
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The Changeling in the Scrublands
The Changeling in the Scrublands
A soft wind blows through the empty streets, bringing with it the final cries of an empire lost to time. It bellows through the streets without reaching a single soul. No one is around to hear their lament, or no one is willing to bear such a burden...
Thank you for tuning in, dear listeners, and welcome to Night Vale.
To start things off, some corrections from past broadcasts. I know the last time you heard my lovely voice over the radio or beamed directly into your mind from the nearest government broadcast tower, I said my name was Cecil. That is not true, as my name, stated on my City Council-issued birth certificate clearly states—
Ahem... Sea Salt .
I received this fax from the Night Vale’s Secret Police that some bipedal creature broke into the radio station yesterday before the entire building was phased out of reality, likely the aforementioned Cecil. An unscheduled broadcast was issued by the unknown individual, along with all reports I had scheduled for that day.
Did you hear that? A man walked into the radio station, but he can’t have been a man. After all, the Secret Police assure me men do not exist. Humans do not exist. Who was this stranger, and what tales does he tell? Why was he here? Any individuals with information on this interloper are to report to the nearest Secret Police Mind Scan Station for mandatory reeducation in the Dark Box.
And now for the news. To start things off, the copy of Princess Celestia made entirely out of paper, the one Whisk invited in for some cupcakes, will now be hosting her own monthly bake sale next to the mysterious shape in town square. She hopes to raise enough money to take care of the vagrants that wander into Night Vale screaming about dark shapes hovering over our quaint little desert town. She is currently waiting on approval from the City Council. To give my own opinion on the matter: I applaud the paper princess' altruistic duties and encourage all citizens of Night Vale to participate in the bake sale. Someone save me a piece of rhubarb pie. What? I like it.
Hmmm... Normally I would reserve traffic for later in the broadcast if it becomes necessary, or at least until I have finished a fair portion of the local news, but I have just received a call from my lovely intern, Daisy Showers. Look, I don’t like to answer my phone or bring personal matters into the radio station once I turn on the microphone; I must keep some semblance of professionalism, but this is truly abysmal neighborly behavior. She saw a mysterious blue box that was impossible to look at or know about appear right in front of her, heralded by a thousand cries of unsaved souls. A chestnut-colored stallion exited the blue box, and Daisy commented that the insides were a non-Euclidean landscape that her mind refused to comprehend. Fillies and gentlecolts, I implore you. Find this criminal stallion before he commits further mischief. He has placed his blue box right in front of Honey Darling’s candy shop and is blocking traffic; the hooded ponies will soon begin their daily trek to the new dog park. I repeat, Mr. Chestnut Stallion: your mysterious blue box is blocking traffic.
The old dirt road leading into the barren, lifeless scrublands is backed up thirty minutes. When Night Vale residents exited their carriages to question the sheriff's secret police about the holdup, the stragglers were quickly escorted to plush, air conditioned prison transports for the time being. A changeling has been spotted in the scrublands. Now I don’t know about any of you, but I believe this bodes ill for Night Vale. We are all well aware of the recent assault on Canterlot Keep. The sheriff's secret police have dispersed information, along with their daily dispersal of mandatory behavioral control supplements, that Changelings are also capable of draining your loved ones of all life and hope, leaving them empty husks of their former selves that have been replaced by near-perfect replicas that loom over your sleeping form.
Now, I like to think of myself as an open-minded pony. My fabulous friend and confidante Mr. Beaker is himself a zebra has been a staple of Night Vale research, despite him not having any idea how he actually got to our berg in the first place. I like meeting new people, otherwise I wouldn’t have desired a job in radio in the first place. I love talking to listeners, both in person and through routine astral projections. I must admit a creature mentally enslaved to a hive mind does leave me concerned. What could a Changeling be doing here in Night Vale? Could it be simply lost? Did it stumble through the old oak door that opens to realms undreamed? No pony knows, dear listeners. If you have any information regarding this individual, leave a red carnation under the door mat and a secret police representative will be with you shortly. They are already in your house anyway.
And now a few word from our sponsors. Blush. Thread. Whale. Blood. Heart. Plus. Apple. Hat. Napkin. Pomegranate. Dust. Cap. Clock. Crown. Cape. Cast. Bone. Fork. Head. Water. Axe. Ears. Candle. Sunset. Hill. Cheese. Stage three has been set in motion. The board is set. Follow through with position beta and continue as planned.
Shop at Davenport’s Quills and Sofas in Night Vale today!
A recent shadowy group of government agents and professional dancers graced the town earlier this morning. While this itself is not unusual, they claimed they were here to purchase any and all anomalous artifacts that certainly do not exist, nor have been passed down through family lines for generations, carving blood-soaked swathes through history in an orgy of blood and violence. If you possess one of these affable and certainly not dangerous artifacts, and wish to make a few extra bits on the side, wrap it in black lace and place it within your family’s bloodstone circle. For those unsure if they are in possession of any such trinkets or baubles, or simply wish to get those that you have properly appraised, they have agreed to wait in Night Vale a few days, or until the screaming begins.
Night Vale’s Middle School would like to announce a change to their public gymnasium. One of the many criticisms of the gymnasium, besides the feral cat infestation, was the woeful lack of any real resources. Although many families and organizations would rent out the gym for various activities, such necessary items like tables, working lights, and a way out were sorely lacking. After recent repairs made after the latest flash flood, the School Board decided to upgrade their facilities as well. I was there myself this morning and I must say they have really outdone themselves. The floors are made of strong, polished oak wood that can withstand the hoofbeats of hundreds of ponies. The stands used to watch basketball and hoofball games, once large, fixed, steel constructs, are now made from eco-friendly recycled goods with padded seats. Even the new concession stands have record low arsenic content in their goods. I must say this certainly ranks up there with our new stadium. The new gym simply shines with the love and gratitude of its artisans. Although I must admit I did see those shadowy figures under the grandstands, but if you want to know my opinion, they will be so in awe themselves that they will hardly ever take any more of our children.
Hmmmm... I have received a public service announcement from the Night Vale’s secret police. Apparently, my fears were confirmed concerning the maliciousness of our new Changeling guest. I have received reports that the Changeling has broken into not only Caesar's Carriage, but the Night Vale Tourism Board’s archival department. Nothing of real value was taken except for locations of most of Caesar's carriages, and most road maps leading in, out, above, through, between, and under Night Vale. For shame, Changeling. For shame.
Listen, I don’t want this to go to a dark place. This is supposed to be your fun, daily broadcast filled with information and the love of this community. You speak through me, and my soothing voice is exuded by your radio and enters your ears. This is a special kind of symbiosis that I will love and cherish forever. But now we have an interloper among us, and he or she or it is disrupting our humble little town with theft, and staging break-ins unsanctioned by the sheriff’s secret police. I must say, I hoped that we could have gotten along with this creature.
Any information leading to the capture of this Changeling will earn you a stamp on your Aware Citizen card. If your neighbors are hiding this thief, report them immediately. Report all suspicious activity. Be vigilant. Be observant. But not too observant. Awareness is rewarded by boons from the secret police. Over awareness is rewarded by being erased from space time.
The new Bindi Botanica Spa has announced that they are including several new treatments. In addition to their new carcinogen-free deals on mud baths this week, they are including complimentary bath salts, free massages with package deals costing more than one hundred bits, preening sessions to remove those bothersome molting feathers, horn polish sessions, and a new frontal lobe electrotherapy that include thirty percent less memory loss. If you wish to sign up, better hurry; the lines are already forming.
Now there is one more thing of note before I bring you to the weather. Beaker has been talking my ear off all day about the clocks. Apparently Beaker claims that all clocks are some new type of venomous creature undocumented by science. I asked him like any other perfectly ordinary carbon-based equine with a pulse and four legs why does he think this? According to his machines and graphs, all clocks, watches, and sundials are alive and have been among us for many years. I don’t know about you, but the clocks in the radio station are just fine, and hardly ever stink of blood and mucus anymore. Beaker will be near the bottomless hole behind Honey’s Sweet Shop if you have any information to share.
As promised, I take you now calmly, carefully, peacefully... to the weather...
Welcome back...
Moments ago, a joint task force of the sheriff’s secret police and agents from an unknown but still nefarious government agency trapped and captured the rouge Changeling as it was running towards downtown Night Vale with a look best described by police as “stunned surprise.” After swiftly being taken into custody, the Changeling, surprising lucid and apparently--impossibly--disconnected from the Changeling hive mind, simply said it wanted to leave. When asked for a statement after being charged with breaking and entering and robbing, the Changeling, who resolutely remained nameless, had this to say:
“I never believed the hive’s stories. Stories. Just stories. All stories begin with a single grain of truth, however, and I guess this was no different. It was equal parts fear and legend, a warning for all. Why to never come to this accursed place. After the blast of love, the hive was overwhelmed. Disorientated. I wandered, not really knowing where I was or where I was going.
“I can’t feel the hive anymore... but I certainly felt it . Changeling’s are more attuned to emotions than any other creature, and now all I can feel is a great pulsing thing coming from deep beneath the earth. Pulsing. Moving. Writhing. Feeling. Searching. It has me now. I can feel it’s eyes on me, never ceasing, always watching. I tried to get away. Why...? I tried running, tried finding a way out, but all roads lead back to this town, this abomination of civilization. I can’t escape. I can’t see. I can’t feel. All I can do is here it coming closer. Beat... beat... beat... It’s coming closer...
“Please, for the love and mercy of any god you worship, please let me die rather than make me sit uselessly as it comes ever closer. Just let me die; I can’t bear it anymore...”
...
...
Well, that ended a normal night on a downer note.
I suppose this proves the literal example of never judge a book by its cover. I admit, I was wrong about this Changeling. I suspected little than a ruffian bent on trouble, and what I got was a well-spoken individual simply wishing to return home to the family it had lost. A simple casualty of war. Not just war, but the prejudices and errors made in everyday life. There are no winners in war, nor does it decide who is right.
I am not perfect, and I see that now. I made a mistake judging this Changeling based on its race alone, or the actions taken by maniacal feywild queens. We preach tolerance and love is good, but sometimes fail to recognize that what we perceive as good, can also be bad when looked at in a particularly different light. No truth is universal, except for the insignificance of every life on a small dustball rocketing through the endless void of unforgiving darkness. This has been a sobering lesson for me, and although it may mean little to my listeners, or the creature i have unintentionally wronged through my words and actions, I am sorry. Be safe, listeners. Be careful.
Goodnight, Night Vale.
Goodnight.
Author's Note
I've tried my hand at something new. Wanna listen?
Bake Sale
Bake Sale
The sound of silence means you are alone... but better turn around and check just in case. Welcome to Night Vale.
Hello, dear listeners.
Fillies and colts of every age, that day is finally upon us! Printed Celestia, that banner of Princess Celestia given life and forgotten by the cold uncaring hand that created her, has just received enough funding by the City Council for her pride and joy: a bake sale. I do just love going to such places for just a little slice of home cooking. The sights, the smells, the people; there’s nothing quite like the feeling of community such a thing brings. Printed Celestia is currently gathering enough contacts and resources for the event set to occur later tonight. Stay tuned for more information as it develops.
Over the weekend, an unknown but still nefarious government agency announced that they have recently purchased ownership of the Night Vale Weather Team. This came as a shock to the Night Vale secret police who have retained ownership of the weather team since time immemorial. As you may know, the Agency has been trapped in Night Vale ever since the great war, a far cry from the secret police’s own considerable years of service.
Tensions are high and are expected to come to a boiling point during the playoffs where their own respective hoofball teams fight to see who is greatest. I have been asked to remind all citizens that concessions have been raised by five bits across the board in anticipation of a game surely to go down in Night Vale history. Expect T-shirt launchers during half time along with caltrops and tear gas.
Where has the Pegasi Emporium gone? Longtime retailer of all pegasi goods and services for all of your everyday needs, Paracelsus’ Pegasi Emporium, has stocked wing trimers, gloss, elemental gear for those longer flights, explosive munitions for aerial raids, and calcium supplementals for lightened bone density. It’s just not there anymore and all that’s left in its place is a sign that says:
Sorry about that.
Be back soon.
Won’t borrow this building for long.
Here’s something for the trouble.
Left around the sign were several blue carnations circling several heavy, black gemstones reported to be wet and cold to the touch. Upon picking them up, Paracelsus was reportedly frozen in place moaning, “Not again... Please, not again.” It is unknown if the Emporium has vanished in the past and has gone unnoticed by the many surveillance devices, or if the gemstones were forcibly recalling memories best left lying forgotten.
So... apologies to my winged listeners, but it appears Night Vale is currently out of stock of some essentials. More on this story as I am made aware of it.
[A page flips]
Huh... okay. And now a word from our sponsors. We know how much trouble it must be for young idealists trying to start their own businesses. Even after appropriate sacrifices at the Children Muesum’s Bloodstone Altar, there is still no telling if the hired help will be enough to compete with today’s conglomerates. That is why we at Night Vale’s Free Clinic have developed an experimental procedure to accelerate employee complacency, efficiency, and unequivocal obedience. In a series of three simple and yet extraordinarily excruciating procedures, a single brain parasite is inserted onto the spine. With this little guy your employees may be reduced to dry, empty husks but look at your figures soar as productivity is increased a hundredfold. Head on down to the clinic today! Just... bring a couple extra ponies along. We still have a few kinks to work out.
My, my, is our little town bustling now or what! We’ve been getting a fair few guests over the past couple months and now another has been spotted beyond the shadowy figures atop the Black Plateau. He is a young, gentlemanly stallion with eyes sharp and movements quick. The blood of a soldier sings in his veins as he hunts the expansive desert for reasons unknown. With him are several small humming machines and a radio receiver. Are you listening to my broadcast, outsider? I do hope so. Be it a spark of hubris or something else, I can’t help but feel a strange thrill as my voice is heard by more and more individuals. It brings me closer to my audience. You, my friends and comrades in this small town.
But what is this stranger here for? Only time will tell, if time is real at all.
The bake sale is ready and now in full swing in the empty parking lot outside the BLOOD Hotel. Printed Celestia has gathered all of the town’s culinary talents, some of them including Honey Darling, Swee’Pea, Springheel of the Flaming Dragon restaurant, that hooded shadowy figure that steals children, and a traveling band of gypsies. An auction for pies, cakes, and other baked goods will occur exactly two hours from now. I’ve even acquired some reports that a few griffons wielding their masterwork steel are stepping up for a chance to prove their worth to the town.
And I must say that is indeed an excellent idea. Aerobic and anaerobic individuals alike, this is a wonderful chance to get your name out there or sample today’s cooking selection. The sun has actually begun to set for once and the night sky’s been bleeding a wonderful crimson across the west horizon. The cool desert air, normally a freezing chill, is just enough to warrant heavier dress for the dying light. I couldn’t hope to have a better setting for our town’s charity bake sale.
However I am getting reports of minor tremors coming from deep beneath Night Vale with the epicenter very close to the bake sale. Now any responsible citizen would have checked the City Council’s earthquake schedule ahead of time for such an important event like this, but this very night was the only night that all of today’s cooking talent had off for such an event. Just mind your steps, Night Vale. I still encourage you to go to the bake sale, but as always, safety first. At least the illusion of safety, for we are all never truly safe.
This week’s reading program, as have all other reading programs before it, has been cancelled due to lack of funds and librarian maulings. Just to clarify, the librarians are the ones doing the maulings. No individual, pony or otherwise, has dared entered the Night Vale Municipal Library to challenge a librarian to hoof-to-amorphous-limb combat and come out with their viscera not decorating the buttresses. The City Council issued the following statement from their book-proof conference room via a blind, mute filly tapping on the glass with Morse Code:
“Like, who reads books anyway? We’ve got the sky, the air, and we heard there’s some kind of food thing going on right about now. Books? Books are heavy, give paper cuts, and contain way, way too many things for everyone to remember.”
Remember, children, knowledge can be painful. While what you don’t know can still flay you where you stand, at least you are not violating books’ privacy if you just leave them alone. The Night Vale chapter of the Colt Scouts, the most active opponents to the ruling, refused to comment on the matter.
Speaking of the children, controversy is back in the headlines as the PTA clashes with the School Board. Once again the issue of live fire exercises has been raised. The School Board sadly noted that they hoped their previous peace offerings were enough to settle any bad blood between the two organizations.
While the two loaded weapons and called in secret favors, the deciding vote came from neither side. Knick Knack, a sixth grader and member of the Night Vale Colt Scouts, proclaimed that he and all other students had more right than any other to decide the fate of the live fire exercises, as they impacted the students more than it would any adult.
As a brief editorial, I agree with young Knick Knack’s assessment. Too often we get caught up with the adult matters of life and ignore the consequences that such actions will have on the younger generations. The students’ opinions should weigh in on matters that affect them, guardians or not.
“We are here! We are alive! We have survived the cold, uncaring universe with the rest of the world and are thusly given the right to have the respect of our elders and the extremes of berserker violence,” he declared, an impressive feat when there was a bandolier of ammunition in his mouth. “We must prepare to confront the everyday bothers and inconveniences of life.”
Although attacks from rogue killbots at the school have increased by five percent since last year, the PTA continued to oppose the live fire exercises, only to relent once the smell of fresh pecan pie and soft serve ice cream swept into the room on an errant wind. After much negotiation, the Night Vale Colt Scouts were allowed to both continue their exercises and retain point on the assault stemming from the science lab. All parties soon dismissed to attend the bake sale.
Tis the season and Pumpkin Jack has finally opened up his pumpkin patch to sell this year’s crop to the masses. When questioned by reporters why it was opened at all, Pumpkin Jack stated that the pumpkins have had their fill of the local wildlife and the occasional transient and would be dormant for another year. After a sacrifice of several photographers just to be sure, the gathered press each took home their own pumpkins for Nightmare Night and for some fresh pumpkin pie baking. Since I am still here in the booth, somepony please save me one of those little baby pumpkins. I can’t help it; they are just so cute !
Oh...
Oh dear...
Listeners, I have just been given a report by one of the station interns. Do not go to the bake sale . Stay in your homes and lock your doors. If you have ears, cover them. If you have eyes, blind them. Stay inside and wait for the danger to pass.
The rumbling was in fact not rumbling at all, but the marching steps of an invasion. The bake sale is currently under attack by hundreds, perhaps thousands, of ravenous insects from deep within the earth. I do not know if they were roused by the revelry or the alarming scent of freshly-baked goods. They may even simply be mimicking our own past as bloodthirsty conquerors. I do not know for sure.
Some creatures are scuttling into town, and there are no secret police or government agents here to help us on this day, for they are all gathered at the stadium. I can already hear the violence and the screams as ponies, griffons, zebras, buffalo, and so many more fight for their very lives. Their blind eyes thrive in the coming night. They smell our fear as they come from deep within their hives.
What was that noise?
...Listeners, I hear something outside. As in, something crawling on the radio tower exterior. Right on the other side of the recording booth wall. I am not sure what it is. I hear something like a slow heartbeat accompanied by some unearthly clicking. I am currently reaching for my keys in hopes I might be able to reach the station bunker in time.
And now I bring you to what I hope is not the last time, listeners: the weather.
Stalwart protectors. Since before recorded memory and even memory itself, our town has been protected by the powers that be. The secret police and the agency have shielded us from horrors such as learning and the creatures infesting our lives. But since both parties were at the stadium, new protectors had to rise in this time of crisis.
Night Vale’s own chapter of the Colt Scouts, taking advantage of their battle-hardened veterans’ training and leadership, defended the bake sale at no small cost to baked goods, limbs... and their very lives. While Night Vale’s ancient protectors were still settling the score at the hoofball stadium, these brave brave souls fought valiantly with no small measure of courage.
All I could do was just sit back and report. Stuck here in this little recording booth atop the radio station, here I sat ever watchful, and yet so very impotent. Colts became stallions this night, and all we could do was watch as they protected us from the horrors of this world. Scouts Diamond King and Knick Knack, along with Scoutmaster Rufus, were spirited away into the insect undercity as they repelled the insectoid invasion. Three individuals have displayed courage and bravery far exceeding their station, and it is this news broadcaster’s hope that... one day... Night Vale may repay them for their sacrifice.
To Diamond King, Knick Knack, and Rufus, I—no—we honor your sacrifice and pray in our bloodstone circles that you may be returned to us. The remaining scouts have been awarded their Advanced Siege Warfare badge. By their efforts, the bake sale was a resounding success.
When the powers that be were not there to protect their way of life, they stepped up to the challenge. Parents wept and embraced their children for their bravery, when they themselves hide under hidden things and ran faster than slow things. On this day, remember the sacrifice of the brave few for the many. Remember them.
Stay tuned for the sound of remembrance. Of hope. Of fear. Of acceptance.
Good night, Night Vale.
Good Night...
The voice of Night Vale was myself, Journeyman This story was also written and produced by Journeyman. Welcome to Night Vale is a production by Commonplace Books. Music was provided by Disparition. All of it can be downloaded for free at Disparition.info. This episode’s weather was The Walls Are Moving by Carbon Maestro . It can be found at thecarbonmaestro.bandcamp.com. Today’s proverb: The early bird gets the worm. The second bird isn’t eaten by the worm.
