Welcome to Night Vale - 108 - Cal

Episode Date: May 15, 2017

A visitor arrives from a different reality. Weather: "Robert Frost" by Mal Blum malblum.com Music: Disparition, disparition.info. Logo: Rob Wilson, robwilsonwork.com. Produced by Night Vale Presents. Written by Joseph Fink & Jeffrey Cranor. Narrated by Cecil Baldwin. More Info: welcometonightvale.com, and follow @NightValeRadio on Twitter or Facebook. Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Hey, Nightville, it is Jeffrey Craneer speaking to you from April of 2026 with a couple of cool things coming up. First off, we're going to be in Europe touring our newest Nightville live show, Murder Night in Blood Forest. We're going to be in Edinburgh, UK, on May 27th. We'll be in Manchester on the 28th. We will be in London on May 29th, and we will be in Amsterdam on May the 30th. You can get tickets for these shows at Welcome to Nightville.com slash live, and hopefully we'll have more. shows coming up later this year. Who knows? Just get on our newsletter. Go to Welcome to Nightville.com. Sign up for our newsletter. We will send you emails twice a month to let you know

all of the news that you need to know about Welcome to Nightville. One of the big news things to tell you right now is that our other hit podcast, Alice Isn't Dead, is coming back on April the 13th, written by Joseph Fink, produced by Disparition and starring Jacica and Nicole. More episodes of Alice Isn't Dead return on April the 13th. So make sure you are still subscribe to that podcast. Finally, do you want some cool nightbail merch? Go to Welcome to Nightville.com, click on store, and we have

all kinds of cool t-shirts, things for the summer, tank tops, beach towels, and if you like coffee mugs, if you want calendars, if you want backpacks, all kinds of cool stuff there. So check out Welcome to Nightville.com and click on store, click on live. If you want to see our live shows, we will see you in Europe.

And hey, thanks. There's a billboard along the highway that reads, everything must go. Welcome to Night Vale. I don't talk much about my brother on this show. Cal, he visited the other day from his home out near Eagle Farm up in the mountains. He looked gaunt and pale. When I opened the door, he was bracing himself against the porch beam with one arm and coughing. Cal was holding a suitcase. He was holding a suitcase. He was a It was old-fashioned, leather, the kind without wheels or an extendable handle. He drove to my house in a 1980 Mercury Monarch, brick-red, four doors.

The front-left bumper was caved in, and the headlight, which looked to have been taped into place, had loosened again and fallen forward. I asked Cal what had happened to his car, and he said he didn't know what I was talking about. I asked about the bumper and headlight, and he said, That's just how they make them, Cecil. Then he teased me for not understanding cars, and walked into my home before I could invite him in. Have you ever opened a box, only to find another box inside that box?

And then you opened that box, and there was another box within it. And then you kept opening boxes, hoping to find the last box, but the boxes became so small, your comparatively large fingers could no longer open them, until the box was so tiny, you couldn't see the box at all. I'm not sure what that means. It's neither here nor there, which is to say it's nowhere. Here, there, todo el Mundo, no hay nada. I don't know Spanish.

Yesterday afternoon, Hadassah McDaniels and the other five-headed dragons, outraged at the partial execution of Adasa's brother, Hiram, last fall, moved into City Hall. They displaced Mayor Cardinal and her staff, who then called upon the sheriff's secret police and the rarely seen double secret police, a police so secret that even their members do not know that they are members. Both the secret and the very surprised double secret police, just that morning informed of their jobs,

showed up at City Hall and tried reasoning with the Dragons. The Dragons ignored the weak efforts of the police and made straight for City Council. The Council climbed up to the roof of City Hall, their many sharp appendages swinging down from their single giant body, punching out windows and grabbing whatever long drag. dragon necks they could reach. And the city council's newest member, 16-year-old Tamika Flynn, the only member not connected to their primary form, rode on the rest of the council's back with a long bow. The dragons breathed fire upwards at the city council, who shrieked in pain,

or possibly delight. The battle ended when city council was knocked off the roof by five-headed dragon and private estate lawyer, Dirk Andrews. The council, minus Tomika, retreated from the advancing dragons, called a lift and sped out of town as they are wont to do in times of crisis. Tomika paced at the edge of the city hall lawn, cursing and thawking a well-worn copy of Glenn David Gold's Carter beats the devil into her calloused palm. Above the city hall, a long, black, slit was torn into the light blue sky and no one reported seeing the moon. When Cal entered my house,

I offered him some tea and then called Carlos to come join us. But Cal said he doesn't drink, and Carlos didn't respond to my calls. I told Cal it was just tea, no alcohol, and he said he doesn't drink anything. I peeked into Carlos's office, but he wasn't there. Nothing was there. It was just an empty room. Carlos wasn't gone. He had never been there. And for a moment I did not miss him. As for a moment, I did not remember he existed. It was just an empty room, I thought casually. Cald sat down his suitcase and said, You hear that, Cecil? You hear that noise? He pointed straight up. In the firmament, he said, do you hear it?

He repeated. I listened, and I heard. I heard paper being torn. I heard weeds being pulled. I heard eggshells crumbling. When I looked back to say yes, he was holding his hand to his mouth and lurching forward over the sink.

A trickle of blood ran down the outside of his hand. I could see his tongue moving rapidly along the insides of his cheeks as he let out small grunts. He finally removed his hand and spat sharply into the kitchen sink. I heard a loud rattling in the stainless steel basin and saw two teeth, unbroken, root bones and all lying in the strainer. I stared at them and remarked at how long a human tooth, actually is. Cal wiped his face and hands. Nice to finally get rid of those, he said as he tore off pieces of paper towel and wedge them into the holes in his gums. Then he asked, you got a girlfriend or what, little brother? In my life with Cal, I had never told him I would never have a girlfriend. In Nightvale,

no one cared either way, but I felt like Cal would have. In this other reality, I was single, so I only said no. He shrugged and scratched his head as he did a patch of dark hair fell to the floor. We watched it fall lilting and looping slowly downward. Which falls faster? A brick or a tuft of hair? Carlos taught me this physics riddle. It's a trick question. The brick falls faster, not because of its weight, but because a brick falling is less horrifying than the unexpected loss of even a minor part of your body. Time does not slow down for that which is uninteresting.

Better not look in the mirror, Cal said as he nervously simulated the sound of laughter. A dribble of blood ran down his chin and onto his chest. When the public library disappeared last week, no one celebrated nor mourned its absence, as we could barely remember it being there. In its place, a long black sliver of nothing, a hole in our universe near which no one wanted to go, except for Carlos, who's a scientist and wants to study everything, but I told him, no way. The Tyrannadons which poured out of a similar hole inside the rec center last month have taken over the Barista District, building giant nests from canvas bean sacks

and flyers promoting local bands and burlesque shows. Near the City Hall, dozens of angels more than I have ever seen at one time, are still surrounding the Hall of Public Records, demanding expedition of their application to be officially recognized as living beings. The angels are waving hand-drawn signs with phrases like, look at us. But their handwriting is so shaky as to make the typography quite distracting. So most bystanders did not notice the angels, but instead fixated on trying to read their signs. The angels are shouting, it only works if you believe it does. But as this sentence has an erratic rhythm, it didn't catch on with many passers-by, many of whom were busy screaming and

running from vengeance-minded dragons. Some even pointed into space and yelled, The distant prince! He's less distant than ever before. Cal told me stories of our youth, how, as kids, we would sneak out late at night and vandalize houses and cars for fun. Little things like stealing hood ornaments or placing live scorpions in mailboxes or making creepy ghost noises outside bedroom windows. He smiled as he regaled what was for him a funny story of boys being boys. But I didn't like his story. I could remember it. But I also knew it wasn't real at all. In his story, I was prying loose the aluminum ram's head at the front of the front of of a 1975 Dodge pickup with a flathead screwdriver.

The truck was dark blue with tan leather bench seats. I remembered it was parked in front of a mid-century ranch-style home with a rock garden full of succulence and herbs. As Cal spoke, I could smell rosemary in the cool desert air. Cal placed his hands on his belly, and his eyes rolled back in his head. You okay? I asked. It's just the after-effects, man. Cal shrugged.

Hey, you remember when Mom used to take us to the library to read, but we would look up dirty words in the dictionary instead? Mom would have never put us in such danger, I protested. He stared at me for a moment. His head cocked sideways, an eyebrow raised. Then he lurched forward out of his seat. onto his hands and knees and vomited onto the rug. We both stared at the viscous red stain, concerned.

No, not concerned. Embarrassed. Let's have a look at the community calendar. This Thursday afternoon, the faceless old woman and the woman from Italy will be at the Night Vale Mall from noon to 4 p.m. offering bespoke tortures for anyone who walks by. The woman from Italy will recite the unlucky passers-by future pain in the form of a catchy poem, like, The Woman from Italy will leave you in stitches, not laughter, though she'll laugh, a sound which is full of diabolical torment and wicked behavior, as she flays you before your friends and your neighbors.

You'll yet be alive when she opens your chest, the wet beat of your heart, and the choke of your breath. She coos, don't fear. It's as quick as can be. But in truth, there's years left to this misery. The faceless old woman will simply write some harsh insults in silver sharpie on the side of an eggplant and hurl it at your family.

Saturday afternoon, the Nightvale PTA will be holding an emergency bake sale to raise money for the elementary school gym. recently burned down by Hadassah McDaniels. It's also a clearance sale to finally get rid of the storeroom full of baked goods that have gone unsold the past two years. Monday, another hole will open in the sky, and then another. Things will come, other things will go.

I will remember that Michigan is a real state and its capital is Lansing, and that I once went camping with Cal, and my mother and some family friends up near Higgins Lake when I was nine. Soon after knowing this, I will stop knowing it again. This has been the community calendar. I tried to explain to Cal that something was amiss. I had a sister, not a brother. I wasn't single, but married.

I tried to show Cal photos of Abbey and of my husband, Carlos. But when I went to our photo albums, they were different. There were photos of Cal and I as children, but none of Abby or Carlos or Steve or Janice or this radio station, none of a recognizable night veil. Based on our clothing and the cars and the fashions, no photo was older than, I'd say, the early 1980s. There was a picture of me as a teenager at Cal's wedding.

I pointed at her and said, Bethany, still just as radiant, I bet. And Cal said, don't. How is she these days? I asked Cal, and he pushed me and shouted, don't. He started to cry. I kept my eyes down the hall toward the empty office. I knew someone should be in that empty room,

someone I cared for, someone I loved, but I didn't know who. Cal's crying turned to sobbing, and he said, I'm sorry, I didn't mean. I put my arm around him and said softly, I know, I know, Cal, it's okay. It's just when you asked about Bethany, he said.

You know she didn't, she didn't. He couldn't finish the sentence, but I knew Bethity didn't. That year most people didn't. But also that's not how it happened. And also, I don't have a brother. He quivered in my arms, and above us I heard the sky tearing open. Smoke in the distance.

Most days I see distant smoke. You okay? I asked my brother. Yes, he said. Thank you for understanding. Sure thing, I said to him, please leave my house. And now, the weather. Robert Frost, if I wrote a poem about the weather, it would start in my car digging out for an hour,

and this town is all just dirt and earth, than a little eye and a bigger hurt, no, I shouldn't have left my house in the first place, I guess, but I always go. I go back. I found one night it was cold outside. Where your frozen hands are so much like mine, but they don't compromise. Now I'm thinking with the ground because I don't want you to leave. I know it's codependent, but I think it's kinda sweet. Out of every person in the city I could ever meet, leaving feels like losing, but I'm learning what I need.

I go back. To go back. Robert Frost, the ice, and the biggest hurts and the boldest lies are gonna disappear like the melting point, like my melting point, like my melting. I don't talk my melting rules, like my melting life, I go back to where I'm going to be. I go back. I don't talk much about my brother on this show, because he's not my reality. I almost said he's not real, but that's not true. There is still a blood stain on my rug and a bruise from where he pushed me.

I remembered Cal's wedding. I remembered stealing hood ornaments. I remembered the smell of that rosemary bush in that rock garden. But then Cal left. He did not drive away, but vanished as the gash tore open above us. I had trouble remembering his visit, so I wrote it all down. I'm reading it now, to you verbatim from my journal. And I cannot believe my own writing.

Carlos and his office are back. They were never gone, Carlos says. Multiple timelines is basic quantum physics, which is the most exciting kind of physics, he says. This morning, I gave Carlos a tight hug in bed and kissed him along the back of his beautiful hair, perfect, even when matted asymmetrically from sleep. The angels are still standing around the hall of public records, demanding that people look at them. There is one sign that says, we're angels and we're totally real, and you're making a huge mistake not acknowledging that. Trust us, we're totally angels.

And while I appreciate the sentiment, I do think they'd be better served hiring a copywriter, or at least a decent graphic designer. Holes are tearing open across the sky, and I can barely hear myself thinking most days. The dragons have marched into the city jail, freeing all of the inmates, mostly political prisoners being held for an unnamed international leader, as well as a handful of college-aged drunk tankers. Mayor Cardinal, from her home, issued a statement about the disintegration of our town and bleeding together of realities. The statement reads,

My father, who died of liver cancer when I was, 5 has returned. He arrived from a hole in our reality. I am choosing to go with him, Night Vale. I am choosing the world where he did not die, where I did not kill my double, where dragons did not destroy our town. Listen to the ripping of the firmament and find the world you prefer, Night Vale. All else is pain. beg you not to do this. This is the world we have built. Right here, if you leave, if you don't accept it,

those you love, Night Vale. Not for fear of their loss, but for love of their presence. Hold on to what you know is real. Life is only a narrative, but it's a narrative we write together. Together. Stay tuned next for whatever was on the schedule for this month has all been scribbled out with charcoal. And with the same charcoal, someone has scrawled a story about Honto Car across the entire broadcast calendar. So stay tuned for that, I guess. And for what it's worth, and for however long our own narrative has left.

Good night. Nightvale. Good night. Welcome to Nightvale is the production of Nightvale Presents. It is written by Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Craneer and produced by Joseph Fink. The voice of Night Vale is Cecil Baldwin. Original music by Dysperition. All of it can be found at dispersion. info or at disperition.com. This episode's weather was Robert Frost by Mal Bloom.

Find out more at malbloom.com. Comments, questions, email us at info at welcome to nightvale.com. Or follow us on Twitter at Nightvelle Radio. Or do whatever you want, you were given free will for some reason. Check out Welcome to Nightvelle.com for more information on this show and our other shows, including the orbiting human circuses' new between-season presentation, the second imaginary symphony. And while you're there, consider clicking the donate link. We like to make things for you.

Today's proverb, you'll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, but you'll catch even more with a corpse of some sort. Are you squeamish about horror movies, but kind of want to know what happens? Or are you a horror lover who likes thoughtful conversation about your favorite genre? Join me, Jeffrey Kramer, and my friend from Welcome to Nightville, Cecil Baldwin, for our weekly podcast, Random Number Generator Horror Podcast No. 9, where we watch and discuss horror movies in a random order. Find, here's the short version, Random Horror Nine,

wherever you get your podcasts. Boo.