The Great Glowing Coils of the Universe

by Joseph Fink

  What of the ground shaking and the cloud of insects and the immense heat? Well, that’s apparently what happens when an express train arrives. People hurrying to faraway (long away) destinations, the clickclickclick of rush-hour commutes, reading unimportant news stories, solving unimportant number puzzles, looking up briefly to give seats to the elderly or infirm. All the while not knowing where they were going or why or what terrible things they would never unknow upon choosing to commute through whatever that singular point below our city is. That intersection of space and time. A sort of navel of the universe.

  And somehow we are all better, wiser, kinder for going where we went for as long as we were gone, though we did not age but a few moments.

  We still do not know who the deer-masked transit people are or whether they are people at all. Perhaps they are thousands of roaches packed inside a business suit, hiding behind a mask. Or perhaps the mask was not hiding them at all, but hiding us. Sheltering them from our immature, solipsistic minds. But now there is a subway. Now we can go anywhere and perhaps we can know anything if we ride for long enough.

  Listeners, there’s another child in the studio. This one is faceless, covered in denim and dust, with a long swoop of unruly brown hair covering what would be the right eyebrow. The child is holding a handwritten note. It reads: “Because of construction, all subway service is suspended until further notice. For your convenience, free shuttle buses will be provided. At the moment of greatest despair and hopelessness, when you least suspect it, a shuttle bus will come to you. Thank you for your patience.”

  The future of urban planning is here, Night Vale, and like our own eminent futures, it is buried in the earth.

  Stay tuned next for a swarm of flies circling a hot mic. And as always, Good night, Night Vale. Good night.

  PROVERB: Your body is a temple. A temple of blood rituals and pagan tributes, a lost temple, a temple that needs more calcium. You should maybe try vitamin supplements.

  EPISODE 30:

  “DANA”

  SEPTEMBER 1, 2013

  GUEST VOICE: JASIKA NICOLE

  JASIKA NICOLE WILL TELL YOU MORE ABOUT THIS LATER, BUT SINCE I MET her I wanted to write something for her.

  Are you an intuitive person? I like to think I am. I rely a lot on intuition to reach conclusions. Sometimes this works out really well. (See the first sentence of this introduction.) Sometimes it doesn’t. (See my time spent as a civil engineering major at Texas A&M, not to mention my single day in their ROTC program.)

  My intuition about Jasika being a sincere, interesting, funny, talented, and kind human turned out to all be correct. And the first moment she read a Dana monologue aloud (September 2013 at Largo at the Coronet in LA), I fully understood this character Joseph and I had created.

  Dana was determined and lost. Dana was scared and smart. She was removed physically from the correct place and time. Literally this happened to her. Although given her status in life as a young person going from college to the real world, this was figuratively happening to her as well.

  Interns in Night Vale don’t usually succeed at much other than gruesome deaths and disappearances. And worse than that, they rarely have their stories told. They’re just a name and a hastily constructed Cecil obituary. But Jasika made Dana vital. She made her full. Jasika made Dana live past all this, because you don’t create a fully-formed human full of sympathy and agency and needs and character and just let her die or vanish.

  So I finally found things to write for Jasika. And more and more and more, and my intuition paid off gloriously.

  Now, about that career as a bridge and highway builder . . .

  —Jeffrey Cranor

  It takes heart. It takes guts. It also takes cash. It just needs your payment immediately.

  WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE.

  Mayor Pamela Winchell announced again today that she is stepping down as mayor later this year. This is the fourth announcement this week. She said again through tight teeth that this is totally her call and was never ever discussed in a room with no windows by small men wearing large pelts and decorative soft-meat crowns. That is not how we do things, she said. That is not how we do things, she whispered. That is not how we do things, she mouthed silently as a single, dark red tear formed in the corner of her eye and then slowly rolled down her taut, olive cheek and onto her clay-stained smock.

  Elections for a new mayor will be held at some later time. When asked by the press for a specific date and location, masked representatives from a vague yet menacing government agency purred loudly. They then began rubbing their sides against the journalists’ legs. Several reporters began sneezing.

  Listeners, many of you recall our station intern Dana who, while reporting on strange goings-on, was locked in the forbidden Dog Park back in April.

  I’ve received occasional texts and e-mails from Dana, but then this morning, well. Let’s listen.

  DANA: Cecil. It’s Dana. I’ve found a way out of here. I walked the perimeter of the Dog Park looking for a crack or a hole or a weak spot in the obsidian walls. I never found an opening, but—and this is very strange—the walls just keep going. If you stand still, the Dog Park seems to take up a single city block, but I walked one direction for about two weeks, and I could no longer see the monolith where I started, or the people I was with, or even hear the tinfoil rustling of the leaves from the tall, black metal trees that protect us from clouds.

  There’s something else. I found a door—an old oak door standing unsupported by any other structure. I didn’t know if it was an exit from the Dog Park or an entrance to something much worse, but I went through it. Now, I am in some old house.

  Cecil, I can hear someone moving around upstairs. I need to go. I will try to call you soon.

  Thank you for everything, and I hope our time and place match again soon.

  CECIL: Oh, listeners, I so wish I could have talked to Dana this morning. They were showing Cat Ballou again on TBS, and I just couldn’t break away. I tried to call Dana back, but my phone caught briefly on fire and something sharp cut open my thumb as I selected her number.

  And now a Public Service Announcement from the Night Vale SPCA. Thinking about getting a dog? Dogs are not only great family companions but also help childhood development. By regularly feeding, walking, fighting, denying the existence of, and ultimately soul-merging with the family dog, young children learn about responsibility, empathy, and pyrokinesis.

  There are, of course, some breeds of dogs that are not right for children. Those breeds include: Spider Wolves, Double Wolves, Switchbladed Mountain Dogs, Secret Terriers, Flesh-eating Spaniels, Pit Vipers, and Table Saws. Visit the SPCA for more information on the right dog for your family.

  [Phone ringing]

  Hello. Dana? [There’s some static or noise from Dana’s line]

  DANA: Cecil? I can barely understand you. Cecil, are you there?

  CECIL: Yes. I’m here. Dana are you still in the old house?

  DANA: No, I’m still in the old house. I made my way out of the basement, which was empty except for a single photograph of a lighthouse. It’s a framed five-by-seven black-and-white photo of this old lighthouse. It hangs crooked, just to the right of center on one wall. The lighthouse in the photo looks to be in the middle of a field. There’s no water. Why would there be a lighthouse not near the water?

  CECIL: I have no idea.

  DANA: No, that doesn’t sound right. Maybe it’s some other reason. Anyway, once I heard the footsteps above me stop, I opened the door to the first floor. I saw a man standing in the middle of the living room, staring straight ahead at the wall. I couldn’t see his face, Cecil, and I knew I had been through this moment before. Not like déjà vu, more like a clear but fleeting memory of a dream. I was scared he might hear me, Cecil.

  CECIL: What did you do, Dana?

  DANA: Yes, that’s exactly what I did. I got up the nerve and spoke to him. I said “Hello, sir. My name is Dana. And I’m sorry to intrude, but I was wond
ering, is this your home?” And he didn’t move. He didn’t make a sound. He just kept staring at another small photo on the wall. I walked closer to him and said, “Excuse me, sir. Excuse me, but” and then I saw. Cecil, I saw who it was.

  CECIL: Who was it?

  DANA: No, it wasn’t her. It was John Peters, you know, the farmer? He was staring at this photo and I walked closer and said, “John, it’s me, Dana,” but he didn’t respond. I looked at the photo he was examining, and it was just a picture of a window. A worn driftwood frame, inside of which was a photograph of a worn driftwood pane with gently warped glass. I couldn’t see what was beyond the window in the photo. But there was a shape. Maybe a tree, maybe a person. John just stared ahead, looking sad. No, not sad. Concerned. He looked concerned.

  I didn’t say another word to him. I waved my hand gently in front of his eyes, and he didn’t notice me. I tried to touch his shoulder but my hand went right through him, like through a cold wind. He wasn’t even there, Cecil. He eventually turned and looked at another photo on another wall of another window, but he never saw or heard me.

  This home has no furniture, no furnishings, no belongings. Only photos. Single small photos on occasional walls. Most of them are of windows. Different windows with different panes and different photo frames. The house itself, I realize, has no windows of its own. So, I don’t really know if there is a basement or a first or second floor. The upstairs is the downstairs is the ground floor.

  But I know one thing, Cecil.

  CECIL: What is that?

  DANA: No. But you’re close. I know that John Peters entered through a door in the kitchen. I can see the door right now, Cecil. It is open. And beyond that door is sunlight. I can see sunlight and sand.

  I’m going through.

  CECIL: Yes. Dana, do that. Go through the door now. Go through that door!

  DANA: I’m sorry, Cecil. You make a good point, but I have to go through that door, no matter what. I’ve got to get back home.

  CECIL: Do it, Dana! Yes!

  DANA: Here I go.

  [Her voice and the noise of the phone call cut off abruptly.]

  CECIL: Dana? Hello? Dana, can you hear me?

  Ladies and gentlemen, I do not know where Dana has gone now. I do hope that we hear from her again. I would try to call her back, but my phone has grown spiny legs and is crawling away now. If you are the type to pray, please pray for Dana’s safe return home to Night Vale. If you are not the type to pray, please know that you are violating several laws and you will receive a knock on your door from armed agents very soon.

  Let’s have a look at sports.

  This weekend the Night Vale High School Scorpions kick off their season against the Pine Cliff High School Lizard Monitors. Scorpions quarterback, senior Michael Sandero, had off-season surgery to remove the second head he grew in the middle of last season’s division title run. Michael’s mother, Flora Sandero, said she had her son’s original head removed instead, as she liked the new head much better. “This new head is much handsomer and doesn’t talk back as much,” Flora explained from the roof of the Pinkberry, where she was installing several long pikes with dead vultures and rodents on the ends. “This new head only speaks Russian, so I don’t have to listen to him on the phone with his girlfriend all night long. And he doesn’t hog the television anymore because he can’t understand any of the English or Spanish programs here. He’s a better boy now,” she said jamming another pike into the roof of the trendy Fro-Yo store before yelling skyward, causing the sparse clouds to part quickly, revealing a giant, floating crystal, glowing faintly red in the mid-afternoon sun.

  And now a word from our sponsor.

  McDonald’s wants to remind you that the most important meal of the day is breakfast. So why would you let a morning go by without staring deeply into the mirror until you no longer recognize the face staring back at you, mimicking your every gesture, mocking your every movement. How else will you get the energy you need for a full day’s work or recreation if you aren’t silently screaming into the visage of a man or woman who gives you such uneasy spirit, such unshakable terror, a queasy feeling every time you make the connection between what that thing is and what you are becoming. What you have become. Where does the void end? Where do you end? When do you end? What time is it now? You are late for work. You are lying on your bathroom floor, half dressed in a cool sludge of toothpaste and hair gel. You’ve been crying, but for how long?

  McDonald’s: I’m lovin’.

  Listeners, I just received word from Carlos, lovely Carlos, with his perfect teeth and hair and penchant for sometimes chewing a little more loudly than is preferred. Carlos who is with other scientists at the Desert Creek housing development.

  For the past year, Carlos has been studying a house that does not exist. It seems like it exists. Like it’s just right there when you look at it, and it’s between two other identical houses so it would make more sense for it to be there than not. But it does not exist. Carlos said the scientists asked him to come over and ring the doorbell just to see what would happen. They offered him $5, but he turned them down, saying something about scientific integrity and blah blah blah. But I’m like, $5 is a taco lunch at Jerry’s Tacos, so whatever, rich guy.

  Carlos said that before he could take a step to the house, a woman emerged from the side door talking on her cell phone. He and the scientists ran up to the woman calling out to her as she walked quickly away from the house. She looked panicked. No, not panicked. Concerned. She looked concerned, Carlos said. She kept talking on her cell phone never responding to them.

  Carlos said she kept walking until she walked through them. Right through the scientists, like she were a cold wind. And then, she stopped talking into her phone, stared back toward the house, and with a look of panic—no, with a look of concern—ran away. Carlos said—and this is very strange—Carlos said, “It sounded like the person she was talking to was you, Cecil.”

  Listeners, I do not know where or when Dana is, but I am going to sit by this phone and wait for her call. I know she is all right. I hope she is all right. I fear she is not all right. With great anxiousness—no, concern—with great concern, I take you now to the weather.

  WEATHER: “The Lethal Temptress” by The Mendoza Line

  [Start of message sounder—it’s Dana again]

  DANA: Cecil. I’m sorry I lost your call. I made it out of the door. Out of the empty house and its empty photographs into an empty desert, and I don’t know if anything is improved. I can see nothing but endless sand and a single distant mountain. A mountain I have never seen, because I don’t believe in mountains. But there is a mountain, and there is a tiny red light up on the mountain, intermittently blinking.

  As I exited the house, the door shut behind me and now it’s gone. As I walked, I moved through something that wasn’t there. I heard voices through digital static and felt a cold wind across my body. Others are here but not here, Cecil. What, or whom, did I just walk through?

  Cecil, something is coming. I can feel it in the ground. Something very large is coming. I’ve got to go. I will call when I can. Tell my mother and brother I am out of the Dog Park, and I am safe for now. Thank you, Cecil.

  [End of message; Background noise ends]

  CECIL: Oh, listeners, I wish I had more news than this. I wish my phone would have rung. I wish I could have had that conversation, instead of another voice mail. I wish Dana were home, safe. I wish I could feel something other than overwhelming concern. No, not concern. Uncertainty. I wish a lot of things.

  But as the old saying goes, “If wishes were horses, those wishes would all run away, shrieking and bucking, terrified of a great unseen evil.” So, instead, what I want to say is I am thankful Dana is out of the Dog Park. I am thankful I had my first conversation with her since Poetry Week. I am thankful Carlos did not ring that doorbell. I am thankful that people listen to this show and the stories about our wonderful little community—the most scientifically interestin
g community in America, as my Carlos once said.

  And, of course, I am thankful for you, Night Vale.

  Stay tuned next for loud, short-wave radio squelches followed by a lifetime of tinnitus.

  Good night, Night Vale. Good night.

  PROVERB: Look to the sky. You will not find answers there, but you will certainly see what everyone is screaming about.

  EPISODE 31:

  “A BLINKING LIGHT UP ON THE MOUNTAIN”

  SEPTEMBER 15, 2013

  GUEST VOICE: MARA WILSON

  WE’RE OFTEN ASKED WHERE THE IDEAS FOR NIGHT VALE EPISODES COME from, and how long it takes us to write them. The answer is this:

  One: Who knows, but many Night Vale ideas start as a single image or, more commonly, a single phrase that gets stuck in my head and won’t leave until I go ahead and write an episode about it.

  Two: Writing an episode usually takes a few days to a week, and in difficult cases can be a draft that I poke at for months.

  In this case, I was about to go to bed around one in the morning, and the phrase “A Blinking Light Up on the Mountain” popped into my head. It wouldn’t go away and I couldn’t sleep until it did. So I got up and wrote this episode. It took about an hour. And then I went to sleep. It’s the shortest amount of time it’s ever taken me to write a first draft of an episode.

  Lights in the distance create a feeling of almost religious awe in me, and I don’t think I’m alone. Something about that solitary bit of human creation in a vast field of nothing sparks something primal in us. When I think of things that match the feeling I want from Night Vale, seeing a blinking red light far off in an otherwise dark horizon is one of those things.

  Meanwhile the Faceless Old Woman is continuing her mayoral campaign. When Mara showed up to record her first part, I think she was expecting a professional or at least professional-esque recording studio. Instead, what she got was my tiny Williamsburg apartment and a USB mic plugged into my iMac. She is a very kind person and never let on any disappointment she might have had, and we got to recording the second guest part we had ever had.