The Great Glowing Coils of the Universe

by Joseph Fink

  CECIL: Well, I could not be more happy for Fey. There is no worse fate than working for a radio station owned by an organization whose goals are not your own, constricted to the limited language they allow you, and relaying messages that you do not understand or agree with. That would be awful. A radio announcer put in that situation, such as Fey, would be justified in escaping or overthrowing their management.

  You know what, listeners, I’m going to grab my mobile setup and head over there. I’d like to offer any aid to Fey that I can. Someone in her situation needs the help of someone who understands. I’ll try to gather up my equipment and slip out before my producer, Daniel, or my program director, Lauren, notice. Usually at this time of day they are pressed against the wall in the break room, chanting “I take my warmth from your great warmth, I take my warmth from your great warmth,” over and over, so I don’t think they’ll miss me. If they do catch me, I’ll tell them that I’m taking the mobile broadcasting equipment for a walk. I would have to do that some time today anyway. All right, listeners, if all goes according to plan, you’ll hear me next from WZZZ. In the meantime, let’s go to the weather.

  WEATHER: “Keep It Coming” by Senim Silla

  Listeners, I made it out of the station unscathed. Or I had to bleed a little on the front doors to make them open, of course, but that’s just part of having a good security system. Our new station owners have been ridding us of all vestiges of Bloodstone Circles, which they’ve declared illegal, but the station doors are actually carved from reclaimed bloodstone and are permanently attached to the structure using ancient wisdom lost along with the station architects back in 1942. So our new owners have had to learn to live with those doors, bleeding on their way out. Good practice for them.

  Anyway, I walked the mobile broadcasting equipment down to the abandoned gas station on Oxford Street. The condo rental office is still in there, still bubbling black like a pot of boiling squid ink with flashes of light like distant dying stars, but no one has rented a condo in weeks now. I think we’re all just waiting to see how that market shakes out. In any case, there have been no giant black cubes appearing overnight anywhere, so it seems that condo construction has been halted for now.

  What I was interested in, of course, wasn’t the station itself, but the broadcasting tower out back. Under the tower is a small bunkerlike structure, with a sealed door. Thick steel, welded shut and set into concrete. I had to reach far back into my past to remember the skills that got me my Advanced Siege Breaking Tactics scout badge from when I was twelve. But here I am inside, a few carefully planted explosives later.

  The room is surprisingly empty. There is no chair, no snack fridge, no coffee kept full of the fuel all radio professionals need to keep our voice going and our heart beating. There are only some wires leading into a small computer. Based on this setup it looks like the computer is feeding directly into the broadcast and . . . oh, oh Fey. Perhaps freedom was never an option.

  Nothing is currently being broadcast. It looks like the computer was recently rebooted, probably remotely by whoever owns this station. The lights are blinking as its system comes alive, as it loads the programs that dictate what it is. It is coming alive. And . . .

  FEMALE VOICE: 3, 75, 44, 65, 98, 65, [chime] 70, 55, 14, 49, 22, 1, 72, 60, 37, 21, 53, 22, 4, 57, 61, 42, 2, 22, 90, 11, 85, [chime] 69, 66, 24, [chime] 46, 30, 65, 22, 75, 80, 33, 46, 54, 72, 3, 70, 26, 29, 2, 80, 20, 39, 13, 44, 36, 20, 63, 17, 88, [chime] 49, 86, 81, 13, 50, 44, 33, 89, 90, [chime] 60, 38, 68, 47, 61, 68, 37, 30, 45, 83, 47, 20, 91, 28, [chime] 47, 64, 44, 90, 29, 49, 91, [chime] 19, 97, 87, 92, 16, 23, 31, 10, 69, 90, 62, [chime] 94, 9, 76, 87, 7, 41, 22, 45, 43, 88, 69, 13, 9, 93, 75, 85, 56, 65, 18,

  CECIL: [over numbers] . . . and there is the broadcast. Oh, Fey. Listeners, I’m trying to disconnect the power, to remove the case from the computer, to do anything, but the protections on this are quite secure. Even with all my scouting badges and public school education on armed insurrection, I don’t think there’s anything I can do. I’m trying to cut the wires but . . . no. Impossible. I can only do what so many of you can only do. I can only listen.

  Listeners, and here I address also myself: Remember our limitations. There are boundaries to all of our worlds. Fey, for instance, appears to be self-aware software trapped in a heavily defended metal box. But within our limitations, there is no limit to how beautiful we can become, how much of our ideal self we can create. All the beauty in the world was made within the oppressive limitations of time and death and impermanence. And Fey, you are so, so beautiful. I wish that you also could have been free. I wish freedom for so many of us. We all want freedom now.

  Stay tuned next for the limit of my broadcast today, replaced by limitless silence and doubt.

  Good night, sweet Fey.

  And good night, Night Vale. Good night.

  FEMALE VOICE: [cont.] 68, 48, 65, 49, 22, 1, 72, 60 [chime] 37 . . .

  PROVERB: Ignore all the haters telling you that everything isn’t a sandwich. Everything is a sandwich.

  EPISODE 43:

  “THE VISITOR”

  MARCH 15, 2014

  GUEST VOICE: KEVIN R. FREE

  WHEN I WAS A KID, MY DAD GOT ME A SUBSCRIPTION TO ZOOBOOKS MAGAZINE. Each month a different animal was featured on the cover. I didn’t live with my dad, but when I would visit his house, he’d leave any new Zoobooks I’d gotten on my dresser.

  One weekend, my mom sent me to stay with him. I set my bag on my bed to unpack. I looked over at the dresser and saw a new issue of Zoobooks sitting there.

  On the cover was an owl. I love owls. Owls are beautiful and fierce. There was an owl right there on the front. A close-up of its face. Two big black eyes, bulbous, shiny, and empty. A brown-and-black feathered face. And its beak. I didn’t see its beak. What were those two things coming out of its neck? I stepped closer.

  And in the lower corner of the cover, in white all-caps sans-serif font: “SPIDERS.” I looked back into that face, brown and black fur, two big black eyes, and more eyes, and pincers. And oh god.

  I screamed. I screamed and I ran. I am still screaming and running from this, only on the inside now. God, this was hard to write even.

  I don’t remember being scared of spiders before that point in my life, but since then I have been arachnophobic. Contrary to common arachnophobic behavior, though, seeing a spider in person is not nearly as big a deal to me as seeing a photo of one.

  This episode isn’t about spiders. Nor owls. It’s about looking at something and thinking you understand what it is. It’s about assuming the best of what you see only to find out quite suddenly that it is the worst.

  This kind of misunderstanding has always been, to me, the most compelling kind of horror. The StrexPet here is that issue of Zoobooks. Make sure you Google image search “duck eye” when you’re done. Sweet dreams!

  —Jeffrey Cranor

  Listen to your heart. You can hear it deep under the earth, creaking and heaving, with roots snapping and birds flapping quickly away.

  WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE.

  Listeners, there’s a visitor in my studio today. No one you know. No one I know. Not even a thing you or I know. It is . . . I am unsure what it is. Let me describe it. Imagine a duck. But just the eyes. No, larger than that. Really large duck eyes. Now imagine fur, puffy fur, like a bear cub. Soft and tan and a thick round belly and no real discernible arms or legs, just little nubs that flit about as it slowly moves across the floor.

  Oh my god. It’s adorable. I wish you could see this thing.

  Oh!

  It just made a noise. Did you hear that, listeners? Like a mouse squeak meets a bike horn meets a sincere question about love.

  What a cute surprise. Many of you remember a couple years back we here at the station found a stray cat in the men’s restroom. We named him Khoshekh. Khoshekh is still in the men’s bathroom, as he has always been (and presumably always will be), hovering exactly four feet off the ground at a fixed point in space.
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  Khoshekh has been a real anchor for us here at the station. We built him a special litter box and feeding dish because of his distinctive physical state. And I have just been in love with that cat. I’ve never been a cat guy but Khoshekh . . . he’s the sweetest boy.

  Now this new . . . whatever. It doesn’t move much. His big dark eyes, oh god, they’re so charming, just staring, pleading.

  Well, it’s not really doing much. I think it’s scared. Let’s let it be for now, and I’ll get us to the news.

  Controversy is plaguing the mayoral race here in Night Vale. After Pamela Winchell announced her surprise resignation from the post last spring, two front-runners for Night Vale mayor have been polling neck and neck: the Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home and Hiram McDaniels, who is literally a five-headed dragon.

  Supporters of the Faceless Old Woman are claiming that while officially acquitted of insurance fraud, evidence suggests that Hiram is in possession of a stolen truck. They checked the registration of his vehicle and found that it belonged to one Frank Chen, who was found dead nearly two years ago. Frank’s body was covered in claw and scorch marks, and the coroner gave the cause of death as “Dragon, at least three heads.”

  Hiram denies that he stole the truck and says that Frank is a friend and is totally not dead. Frank was probably just fooling around with all those weird injuries, McDaniels claimed.

  His campaign fired back at the Faceless Old Woman, saying that since her origin is lost to distant history and she has no birth certificate, she is not able to prove that she’s an American citizen.

  Election day is June 15. Votes will be cast but not tabulated, as the mayor is of course decided by counting and interpreting the loud pulses coming from Hidden Gorge.

  Let’s have a look now at traffic. There’s a silver pickup. Full-size. Well-worn. Tall. Long. The windows are gray with dried dirt. The tires are lined with firm tread. Inside sits a man. Full-size. Well-worn. Tall. He has a hat and some denim. His face is lined with firm tread. His mind is gray with history.

  He doesn’t remember things. This does not mean he can’t. It means he doesn’t. He just looks at what is in front of him. He deals only in the present. The past dictates his disposition, but the present is the only thing he can see. Cars, people, animals, trees, mud, a telephone. A telephone that rings sometimes. A telephone that rings and shows a name he knows. But he does not pick up. That name is not part of his present.

  Forgiveness and memory are too inextricable to, say, answer a phone.

  Brake lights. He slows. He drives carefully. He drives in the moment. He is a good driver. He is good at lots of things. The phone rings. He is not good at everything.

  This has been traffic.

  Wow this little creature is so shy. I tried placing a cup of water on the floor, but it just won’t move. It just stares at me from the corner with its giant duck eyes. Just stares at me motionless. Really cute, though.

  Wait.

  I think it moved. Here boy. Or girl. Or either. Get some water. Come here. You’re so cute. So so so cute.

  Nope, didn’t move. But its eyes followed me as I moved in my chair. Or did they? They’re just solid black, all pupil. It’s like a . . . what? A spider? Well, that’d be weird. There are some other dark dots around its face. Could be eyes. But no. I don’t think it’s . . .

  Wait.

  That noise again. Listen . . .

  Well, whatever it is, it’s cute. Or weirdly cute. Or just weird. Let’s look at the community calendar.

  This Wednesday night, the Night Vale Community Theater will be holding auditions for the musical Into the Woods. Interested thespians should bring night vision goggles, glass cutters, a breathable ski mask, and quiet shoes to the First Night Vale Bank.

  On Thursday, the Museum of Forbidden Technologies will open their new exhibit called “Thought Crimes.” Anyone who attends the exhibit is obviously interested in learning about forbidden technologies and will be arrested immediately. Tickets are available on the museum website. And here’s a tip: They can’t arrest you for buying tickets if you’re in your own home. They can, however, use tear gas to flush you out and then arrest you.

  Friday afternoon, the staff of Dark Owl Records will be wearing black pants and chain-mail veils.

  Saturday night is the grand opening of Night Vale’s newest restaurant Tourniquet, featuring executive chef LeShawn Mason, who was previously a sous chef for Night Vale’s top-rated fine dining establishment, Shame. LeShawn hopes to bring classical French cooking into the twenty-first century with a mix of molecular gastronomy and human remains. Tourniquet offers a prix fixe menu for $35 featuring choice of appetizer, entrée, dessert, and sudden awareness of a hideous, suppressed memory.

  Sunday morning is. Period. It just is.

  Okay, listeners, I think I finally got this thing to trust me. It waddled over here just a moment ago—oh, so cute, the way its bulbous square of a body moves. It came right up to me and let me pet it.

  I’m petting it now. And it’s . . . purring, I think? Humming? Or buzzing.

  Oh, what a cuddly little addition to our station this thing will make. What should we name it? Can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl or maybe genderless like the future humans who visited Night Vale in the 1950s with their time travel technology, which was then outlawed until last yea—

  Oh. My. God. Listeners, it’s hugging my leg. It’s hugging my leg. This is the cutest thing. I have got to get a photo of this. Let me get my phone from my bag. If I could just . . . Oh god, you’re really heavy. Can’t seem to move from this spot here, ladies and gentlemen, and the little guy or gal doesn’t seem to want to let go.

  You’re so strong. Yes you are. Yes you are.

  We’ve received an update from Carlos and his team of scientists about the house that doesn’t exist. The one in the Desert Creek development. It looks like it exists. Like it’s 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 doesn’t actually exist.

  The scientists have been carefully monitoring John Peters—you know, the farmer?—who has been standing alone in the house for weeks. The house is completely empty except some photographs on the wall. Each one seems to be of a lighthouse.

  The scientists, long too scared to open the door, finally got the nerve to go up to the house and try. It was locked. They shook the handle, hard at first, violently at second, pounding and yelling at third.

  And those observing John from the window saw no change in his behavior. The door slammed opened, and a woman answered. “What do you want?” she shouted at the scientists. “We wanted to see what that man was doing in there,” one of them meekly replied. “What man?” the woman said. “I live alone.”

  And looking in from the front door they could see a room of the same shape and size as the one John Peters, you know, the farmer?, had been standing in. The room was full with chairs and a couch and plants, and a table, and photographs, but none of lighthouses, most of faces, faces similar in form to the woman’s at the door.

  The scientists who were at the window could still see John standing in the empty room looking at lighthouses.

  The woman said her name was Cynthia and she’d lived there for nineteen years. The scientists left her alone, returning quietly to the lab.

  Carlos added that the Desert Creek housing development was only three years old.

  Ow! Ow! Listeners, I think I’ve been bitten by this . . . thing. Oh god, I can see blood. Get off. Get off. Ow. I need to go wash this. Let’s go now to a word from our sponsor.

  KEVIN: Are you achieving your fullest potential? Are you finding the right solutions for your challenges? Are you making the most of what you are given?

  Do you believe in a smiling god?

  Of course you do. We all do. We must.

  Well, what if I told you the smiling god was smiling more than ever. What if the smiling god had a smile so wide that you co
uld see yourself in its mirrored teeth. And what if I told you that your gauzy reflection looked perfect. Just perfect.

  You would like that. Of course. We all would. We must.

  And what if I told you your perfect self hated your imperfect self. And as the smiling god smiled wider you could see a tongue pressing through the teeth. Thick and pink and gray and wet. And what if I told you you could see your imperfect self in the shining sheen of the bulging tongue and in your reflection you were slack and sallow and maybe bleeding. A lot. Bleeding so much.

  And what if I told you you could kill your imperfect self? What if I told you you could achieve your fullest potential?

  Strexcorp Synergist, Inc., is a proud supporter of the Greater Desert Bluff and Night Vale Community. Strexcorp—Believe in a smiling god. Believe in your perfect self.

  Strex.

  Strex!

  CECIL: Listeners, I’m on my cell phone calling from the men’s restroom. I had Intern Jeremy patch me into the board so I can still broadcast. That thing tried to follow me in here as I limped down the hall. I was able to outrun it, but I’ve had to use the deadbolt on the bathroom door to keep it out.

  All this talk about Khoshekh today, and here he is. Hi, baby boy. That thing is nothing at all like you. It—