Archive of Our Own

We hope all our listeners have a happy novi god.
We hope all our listeners keep away from the oldum god. He is not happy.

Welcome to Night Vale.

Listeners, I’m coming to you live from the boxing match at the New Old Night Vale Opera House.

In one corner we have our hometown champion, The Spirit, her eyes aflame, her bandolier of leather pouches full of local talismans and local secrets. Her opponent tonight is listed as The Physical Manifestations of All The Things We Meant To Do Last Week But Did Not Get Around To. Looks like an exciting fight, listeners!

According to the announcement from The Spirit’s manager — he calls himself her “guardian,” which I guess is some kind of a branding thing? Or is that how boxing works these days? Anyway. According to the announcement, the Opera House does not traditionally host boxing matches, and it had no plans of hosting one tonight. However, The Spirit lives in a constant, eternal state of neverending battle against the myriad supernatural and metaphysical threats which form the bedrock of Night Vale’s very existence. So, the long and short of it is that The Spirit would be fighting anyway ,
but this time the fight happens to be in a big auditorium, with plenty of great seating,
so people might as well come and watch, and cheer The Spirit on,
and maybe ticket revenue for the match will help make up for the damages and disruption to the Opera House’s actual show tonight, an avant-garde production of Monteverdi’s classic Gideon The Ninth .

The Spirit has already taken out a couple of the Physical Manifestations of Things We Meant To Do Last Week But Did Not Get Around To, laughing with the infectious glee of a person protecting her beloved city from serious harm, but also, specifically, doing so by punching that harm right in the face. But the other Manifestations seem to be hiding. A clever move, since they know they are prone to be easily forgotten, and might be able to catch The Spirit unawares.

So, before the match heats up, let’s pause for some news from the publishing industry.

Steimatzky Books are proud to announce their brand new list of “The Best 100 Books of the Decade.”

The list is being held in company vaults for safekeeping, and the chain has already begun clandestinely collecting all extant copies of the 100 books, stockpiling them into an unstoppable arsenal of guaranteed superiority. Competing chains report that they are “scrambling” to mount their own efforts, but without the decade-long meticulous research that Steimatzky has done, there will be no way of telling if even their very favorites are truly “the best” until it is far, far too late.

Steimatzky are guarding their secrets well, and refusing all requests for hints and indications of what might be on the list. “No comment,” said a company spokesperson, when asked whether the list gives due consideration to genres like romance or science fiction, or if it’s more focused on mainstream or literary fiction. The spokesperson was willing to provide the following quote:

“In the interest of maintaining and safeguarding our tactical advantage, we will be taking measures to gradually erase all memory of these books from the public consciousness. So if in five or ten years or so, you think, hey, wasn’t there that really great book I read, what was it called, I think it had a black and gold cover,

“That was probably one of ours.”

This has been news from the publishing industry.

Listeners, The Spirit has drawn the Manifestations out of hiding, using the time-honored method of pretending they do not exist. They are proving vicious opponents, leaping across the stage at The Spirit, flailing their vertebrae about, peppering the air around her with their poisonous spores.

The Spirit — she’s — She is reaching into her pouch and pulling out —

That’s a library card.

Listeners, I’m not sure how I didn’t notice this earlier, but the set of the opera stage is littered with big, heavy-bound novels. The Spirit grabs the nearest stack, and begins hurling books at the Manifestations with deadly accuracy. And now — With a quick flicker, I see dark, mirrored sunglasses appear across The Spirit’s face, and the deadly spores start clearing away, to the sound of…

I know that sound.

You know that sound.

Helicopter rotors. Black helicopter rotors.

I cannot see The Spirit’s eyes under the sunglasses, but I can see her mouth. She is smiling, listeners. It’s a calm smile, a smile of serenity and joy, and watching her, I smile, too.

“She knows she’s where she needs to be,” says a voice next to my ear. It’s her manager — no, sorry, her guardian. “This is what she does.” He is soot-stained, face and hands, and, listeners, I am too polite to comment on his appearance, but he answers anyway. “That’s not from this fight. It’s from earlier. Oh, look. The shadows are bleeding.”

Listeners, the shadows are bleeding. From every corner and cranny of the theater, there is a slow expanding puddle of viscous liquid. “I think that’s unrelated,” says the guardian. “I guess we’ll try and take care of that next.”

The Spirit’s skin has taken on a wooden tint, and she has acquired leaves growing from her head and hands. “I can tell you put a lot of thought into your manifested appearance,” she is whispering to the remaining Physical Manifestations of All The Things We Meant To Do Last Week But Did Not Get Around To. “I feel like you were going for the perfect balance of ‘seemingly innocuous’ and ‘unnervingly ominous’, and let me tell you, you have nailed it .” She is continuing, listeners, with a steady stream of compliments which are as insightful as they are considerate, and I can see the Manifestations beginning to take root and transform into trees.

Soooo, I think the Manifestations are pretty well in hand? But it looks like The Spirit won’t be able to take care of the bleeding shadows quite yet, because she is conversing with a hyperdimensional being who seems bent on determining the ownership of Night Vale by wagering on the outcome of a Sudoku contest. Really? A Sudoku contest? Sudoku isn't even a competitive sport.

Also I'm receiving word that… Hmm. This report just says, "feelings are now fluids."

Boy, busy day!

The guardian, in the seat next to me, is shrugging. "About average," he says. "We try to handle as many of these as we can. You know, before they become, like, a big deal."

The Spirit is up on the stage. She is filling out Sudoku puzzle after Sudoku puzzle. She’s now wearing a T-shirt reading “WZZZ”; she reads the numbers aloud as she writes them, a steady stream, punctuating them only with the occasional chime. The dark puddles from the shadows are now pooling around her feet. She must be very focused, I think. Because she's stopped smiling.

Let’s take a moment for one of our favorite segments:

The Corner That Isn’t “What Are You Reading,” Even Though Actually It Is, A Little!

Here's how it works: I'll read out some poignant human experiences and emotional states. In response, you text me an emoji.

If you've read a book featuring that particular experience, send in a thumbs up emoji.

If it's a book you've really loved, use the heart emoji.

If it's a book that made you physically ill, use the stomach emoji.

If it's a book that you have been sucked into and are still physically trapped inside, use the inescapable cosmic horror emoji.

Ready? Let's go!

Joy.

Solidarity.

The heavy weight of responsibility.

Ennui.

The strange sensation in your mouth of saying the word 'ennui', and still not being quiiiite sure you've pronounced it right.

Sorrow. Just overwhelming, unspeakable sorrow, at all the trials and tragedies you've been unable to affect or change. Along with the awareness that this very sorrow is sapping your motivation and sense of empowerment, making you even less likely to effect change in the future.

Riding a giraffe.

That blissful calm before you became aware of the eel-creatures living in your walls.

This has been The Corner That Isn’t “What Are You Reading” Even Though Actually It Is, A Little.

Listeners, I need to inform you that feelings are now fluids. And as this noble pugilist, Night Vale’s champion Spirit, stands on that stage and contends with challenge after challenge from every point along the universe’s endless spectrum of absurdity, I need to inform you that these fluids have absolutely doused the members of this audience.

When The Spirit laughs, we laugh with her. It is the sheer, unbridled joy of doing the right thing, of protecting the city we love so much, of a looming threat that can be defeated.

When The Spirit is wounded, we feel her pain. Stray shots, sharp talons, a well-aimed incantation; The Spirit feels them, and so do we.

And we feel The Spirit’s weariness, when she is exhausted. Listeners, we can feel that she is always exhausted.

She loves Night Vale. She loves being Night Vale. Night Vale is a town that can see her; none of her sisters have towns that can see them. And Night Vale is a town that needs her. What is Night Vale, if not a town constantly on the brink of unfathomable catastrophe, and so if The Spirit is Night Vale, she must be constantly on that brink herself.

But living on the brink, she is tired. So tired. She doesn’t remember the last time she was able to rest.

Or
is that
us?

Is it us who are tired? The Spirit is us, we know that now, with every spurt of feeling from her as she cartwheels and catapults through the Opera House. It’s hard to tell which of us started it off.

But then, we feel pain, excruciating pain. Listeners, it is one of the Physical Manifestations of All The Things We Meant To Do Last Week. While we were distracted, it has shaken off its leaves, shaken off its roots, and it has— it has gored the Spirit of Night Vale clean through. We feel the last reserves of our energies, of her energies, leaking, leaking away, too fast to stop or to grab, leaving us with —

Listeners, I— I don’t know how to tell you this.

It is no longer difficult to tell where I end and the Spirit begins. Because I am still alive, while the Spirit, completely drained, has dissipated into nothingness. Center-stage, where she stood, is nothing but a growing stain of her final fluids, which are not fluids which are really her feelings; they’re just… fluids.

Listeners, I can’t bear to describe this. I’m going to describe something else, instead. Let’s go to… the weather.

WEATHER:
The Spiritual , by Jukebox The Ghost

First, there was a moment of shock.

Then, there was a long, unstoppable wail. It seemed to be coming from everywhere around me, echoing perfectly in the perfectly-tuned acoustics of the New Old Night Vale Opera House. But it was not coming from all around me. It was coming from the ragged, soot-faced guardian in the seat beside mine. It was not a call, but a cry. And while it seemed to go on forever, it was not a constant wail. We could hear it, starting from utter grief, and rising inch by eternal inch until it reached utter rage.

Then it was not one wail, but many. Another voice joined. Then another. By the time I realized that my voice, too, had joined the wail, we were a mighty mountain of sound.

Which, I’d like to make clear to listeners, you should differentiate from the mighty mountain of sand that covered the orchestra pit; that was from the momentary earthworm attack, which The Spirit had dispatched with relative ease. This is a different mountain. And you should also differentiate both the mountain of sound, and the mountain of sand, from actual mountains, out in nature, which do not exist.

As one, the audience members rose from their cushioned seats. Still roaring, we stormed the stage.

We fought tooth and claw against their teeth and claws. But more importantly, we brought every skill and ability in our arsenal to bear. The Night Vale Junior Science club each grabbed a Sudoku puzzle and solved them with ferocious speed. Helen Ortega, of the Water and Sanitation department, tackled the fluids that were actually feelings, together with Robin Coleman, who is sixteen years old and consequently knows all about bottling your feelings up; listeners, Robin knows all about that. Audience members with no clear opponent grabbed mops and buckets and mopped all those pools of blood right back into the shadows where they belong.

I myself grabbed hold of the Physical Manifestation of an important phone call I've been putting off for ever now. I meant to do it last week, every morning I said, today I'm making that phone call. And then before I knew it, it was evening, and I hadn't called. So tonight, in the theater, I grabbed that phone call. I looked it right in the eye, unafraid of its slimy scales and poisonous spores.

And then I punched it right in the face. Boy, was that satisfying! I bet I'll make that phone call tomorrow. I really should.

All this time and I still heard the guardian's voice, as though he hadn't paused for even a breath in all that time. He had inched up past rage, past fury. We could tell now, this was a call. This was a Call.

It was a Call to the essence of Night Vale. That furious, prolonged shriek belonged to all of us; a furious, prolonged reaffirmation of who and what we are. We are a city who will face whatever comes, fully aware that “whatever” covers a range that boggles our imagination and shreds our sanity. Fully aware that our willingness to face this “whatever” does not mean that we are prepared against it, and certainly does not guarantee our survival.

But we will face it, because that is what life is, and that is what we are. Listeners, that is what Night Vale is all about.

And amid the wreckage and the mayhem and the mopping, The Spirit re-formed. A prone figure on the stage, blinking. Coughing. Alive.

She looked around. Took in the scene; all the dangers and demons subdued, for the moment. Rose to her feet.

She reached a hand out to her guardian. “Hey,” she said to him.

“Hey,” he said to her.

“Looks like they’ve got things under control,” she said.

“Looks like,” he said.

She shrugged. She smiled. “Want to go get some takeout? It’d be nice to just hang out a little.”

“That’d be nice,” he said.

Listeners. We have all of us felt besieged, beleaguered. We have looked into our future and past, and seen nothing but a line of challenges and struggles, stretching on as far as the mind can see.

The Spirit fights for all of us. She’d be no representation of us all, if she did not represent that.

Stay tuned next for the sound of other people’s fervent assertions that you might like the same things they like, and that the things that speak with unique precision to their personal and individual psyche should be enjoyed universally.

Good night, Night Vale. Good night.