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God is real, and he goes by “Chuck.” Welcome to Night Vale.
“Dean, you heard that broadcast as well as I did. Some weird tower- a tower that smells like sulfur- which was supposedly destroyed years ago, starts glowing, in a town that’s been known to have paranormal stuff, like, all the time? Sounds like our kind of thing.”
Sam Winchester is packing his bag, tucking a handgun between folded flannel shirts. His brother sits at the table, feeling almost at ease (a true miracle for Dean Winchester) in the library of the Men of Letters bunker, eating a sandwich. The sandwich has some unusual combination of meats and condiments that Sam is unwilling to try. This disappoints Dean, though he will not admit it.
“Yeah, well, how do we know for sure? We’ve never heard of this ‘Night Vale’ place before, and I can’t find any records for it. Only thing we’ve got is a bunch of supposed eyewitnesses in some junk tabloids. And that radio show.” Dean laughs, shaking his head. “Man, that was some weird crap. Where’d you even find it?”
Sam shrugs. “Who cares where we find a case, Dean, as long as we have one? We need to get back out there in the real world again, anyway. And it looks like these people could really use our help. At the very least, whatever’s going on in that tower sounds like demonic activity.”
“Sammy, for the entire show, the guy kept talking about a ‘faceless old woman.’ For someone who thinks that he’s being haunted, or whatever he thinks is going on, he didn’t sound all that weirded out about it!”
Dean speaks faster now, standing up, and Sam glances over with just a touch of suspicion in his eyes- a remnant from the caution he was forced to take on when his brother was a demon. Dean continues, pretending not to notice.
“And for the advice section, it wasn’t people calling in, it was this same guy reading questions! For all we know, he’s just a random nutcase! Do you really want to drive all the way from the bunker to the middle of the desert, just for this?”
At the mention of the Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home, Sam had stopped packing. He moves quickly to the table now, sifting through a stack of books.
“You know, Dean, I’ve been thinking about that part of the broadcast, too. They call her ‘The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home,’ and according to the…” Sam’s voice turns to a mumble, “the Sheriff’s Secret Police, she-”
Dean interrupts him, cocking his head and holding his hand to his ear. “What was that, Sam? According to whom, exactly?”
His brother sighs. “The Sheriff’s Secret Police. Yes, I know, this town is weird. But, come on, Dean, don’t we specialize in weird? This chick has got to be some sort of spirit, and she’s terrorizing people in their own houses. We’ve got to go.”
“Dude. They called her ‘multi-present.’ You ever heard of a multi-present ghost?”
“Well, let’s find out. Plus, we’ve got that whole sulfuric tower thing going on. We’ve taken cases with less to go on than that.”
Dean sighs in acquiescence. “Fine. We’ll go. But if we run into that ‘Cecil’ dude…”
Well, listeners, it looks like we have some new visitors in town. They say that they are federal agents, named Swift and Perry, from a secret and mysterious government agency known as the “F-B-I,” but we in Night Vale of course know that all federal governments were disbanded years ago, so that the aliens would feel more comfortable. We therefore expect that our new visitors are merely playing a practical joke. We’ll let them have their fun.
They came to town alone, in an automobile - how strange - but have been seen by several citizens to be in the presence another man, one who has been seen wearing a tan jacket. He does not carry a briefcase of deerskin, nor of any animal material, but speaks with a deep voice, and is socially awkward. He’s kind of cute! Old woman Josie has taken a special interest to this man, who calls himself “Clarence” and she is telling her neighbors that he is an angel. This, of course, is very silly. Josie told me herself that all angels are named Erika! Clearly, all of this opera is going to her head. When asked for a statement on the matter, Clarence said, stiffly, “I have no idea what you are talking about. That is ridiculous. I am not an angel. I have to go find Dean now.” Strange, listeners. Very strange. More on this as it develops.
But now, the community calendar.
Monday will be the annual open house at Dark Owl Records. Drop by and listen to your favorite tunes! Pick up a new band to enjoy. Make sure to be gentle when you do pick them up, though, because musicians are surprisingly fragile.
Wednesday will actually be Tuesday.
Thursday will also, actually be Tuesday.
We will have more than three months entirely made up of Tuesdays.
Sunday will be a family dinner.
“Hello, ma’am, are you mayor Dana Cardinal? We’re with the FBI, and we’d just like to ask you a few questions.”
“Ah, yes, our visitors. I’m glad to finally be meeting you gentlemen, but I must ask to you please stop harassing my citizens.”
“Harassing, mayor?” Dean flashes a winning smile, sure that as usual, he will be able to charm his way out of the situation. Mayor Cardinal is unimpressed.
“Yes. Your decision to impersonate members of a disbanded and mysterious government agency is frightening many, as are the interrogations you have been conducting.”
“Interrogations?” Sam steps in. “Ms. Cardinal, I hardly say we’ve been interrogating-”
“You are traveling from door to door, asking about sulfur, and cold spots.”
“Can that truly be considered-”
“Night Vale has a strict policy on discussing such topics.”
“And that would be…?”
“That we do not do it!” Mayor Dana whips her cloak around her shoulders and disappears into the night.
“What the-” Dean begins, then stops, unable to articulate or explain his confusion, or arousal.
“Weird town,” says Sam simply.
The two back away from the spot at which Dana has disappeared, and continue to discuss the definitely illegal matters of sulfur, and the cold.
And now, traffic.
There are two souls inside of an old car. They are important, but they wish that they were not. They do not speak, but they communicate, sharing the same dialogue that has passed between them dozens- no, hundreds- of times. It is uninteresting, unmeaningful. They have difficulty expressing meaning with each other. They each care about this fact, and want to change it, but feel that they are not allowed to do so, trapped by the expectations that they are faced with, based on their physical appearances, and line of work. Each loves the other, but cannot remember ever having said so. The soul driving the car becomes uncomfortable enough with the silence to attempt a joke. He finds that the other is asleep. He suddenly regrets everything he has ever done in his entire life. The sleeping soul snores softly.
This has been traffic.
And now a word from our sponsors.
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*Ghostfacers Theme*
Listeners, we’re in trouble. Those supposed “FBI” people and their angel-friend Clarence (on further consideration, I have decided that I am going to trust Josie on this one. If anyone knows angels, it’s Josie!) have gone too far this time. First they interrogate our most vulnerable citizens, the young, the weak-minded, and the invisible. Then, they try to intimidate our mayor. But now, now, dear listeners, they have set out to cause mass paranoia. How, you ask? How could these few men, albeit unnaturally strong and beautiful men, scare our entire town into hysteria?
By bringing up the tower. These men have been inciting fear into into our hearts by reminding us of the forbidden Tower Incident. Obviously, strangers could never understand the true story of Mission Grove Park, and anyone trying to explain the situation is lying to you, listeners.
Do not believe their lies.
Do not obey their calls to action.
Do not listen.
Do.
Not.
Listen.
Instead, listen to the weather!
Today’s Weather: https://soundcloud.com/sassafrasflowers/class-guilt-song
Well, listeners, it turns out that summoning a demon for backup when discussing your contract as a radio host will not help your collective bargaining tactics! At least, not with station management. Sorry I didn’t tell you all about my little situation earlier, but with all the demon-hunters around…. I just figured it would be safer for everyone involved. God, I hate how prejudiced people still are. It’s 2016, people, I think our undead neighbors deserve a little more respect than this! Seriously.
Luckily, the bigots are gone. They drove away with their confused little angel in their muscle car and hopefully will stay gone. And I may never get the dental benefits I was aiming for, but at least I have been able to defend the downtrodden against those who wish to marginalize someone. It’s not about what I win for it - it’s about knowing that I did the right thing. I hope this day will serve as a reminder to the people of Night Vale that anyone can stand up for a friend, if they only have enough courage and the right opportunity. No demons shall be harmed in our town, not today, not ever!
Night Vale, I am proud of you. You did not buy into fear tactics, and you did not compromise your moral integrity, even in the face of large men impersonating menacing government agents of menacing government agencies. It truly is an honor to live in this town. I look forward to what’s in store for us.
Up next, stay tuned for leviathan.
Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.