Welcome to Night Vale - 164 - The Faceless Old Woman (Live)

Episode Date: March 15, 2020

A brief intermission of our 5-part series about the missing flight, we bring you a brand new story from The Faceless Old Woman. Live in LA at Largo. Our third novel, The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home, comes out on March 24! Pre-order today to get cool, exclusive patches and art. Plus find out about this and our online book events with Joseph and Jeffrey at: http://www.welcometonightvale.com/books/ Our March & April live show dates have been postponed. We’ll post new dates when we have them here: http://www.welcometonightvale.com/live/ Music: Disparition http://disparition.info Logo: Rob Wilson http://robwilsonwork.com Written by Joseph Fink & Jeffrey Cranor. Narrated by Cecil Baldwin.  http://welcometonightvale.com Follow us on Twitter, Facebook, or Instagram. Check out our books, live shows, store, membership program, and official recap show. Produced by Night Vale Presents.  http://nightvalepresents.com Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Howdy y'all. It is Jeffrey Craneer. I'm not sure which episode of Welcome to Nightville you're listening to, but I am speaking to you from April of 2026. And I'm here to tell you we're going to be in Europe. If you want to see Nightville live and you're going to be in Europe, come check us out at the end of May. We're going to be in Edinburgh on May the 27th. We will be in Manchester on the 28th, London on the 29th, and Amsterdam on May the 30th. Just go to Welcome to Nightville.com slash live to see the show dates and to get your tickets. This is. our newest Nightville live show Murder Night in Blood Forest. It is so much fun. Please come check it out. Also, coming up this month here in April, it is the return of Alice Isn't Dead, brand new episodes of our other crazy hit podcast. This is written by Joseph Fink, produced and with music by Dysperition and starring Jacique and Nicole. So make sure you are still subscribed to Alice Isn't Dead and go get those on April the 13th as new episodes come out. Finally, speaking of other shows, do you want to hear us talk about other things? things. We have three other really great chat shows. First of all, there's Good Morning Nightvale for all of your Nightvale needs. You can hear Hal, Meg, and Symphony talk about every single

episode in order of Welcome to Nightvale. Also, we have Random Horror Number Nine. That is me and Nightville star Cecil Baldwin talking about horror movies one at a time in a random order. And then Joseph and Meg do best, worst, which is a really fun podcast where they look at hit TV shows and they review the best rated on IMDB, the worst rated on IMDB, and if you're a Patreon member, they will review the middleest rated on IMDB. So check out all of those at Nightvillepresents.com or just wherever you get your podcast. And hey, thanks. I'm really excited.

We wrote this script recently coming up in this last performance for tonight, and I got real excited for writing it because we hadn't written a full, like a, to do a live show. full length in a new voice. And it was a lot of fun to do. Yeah, so tonight we are presenting the first welcome tonight, Phil show that is entirely from the point of view of someone who is not Cecil. This is the time when the faceless old woman

who secretly lives in your home gets to step out from her secret place in your home and tell you a little bit about herself. One of my favorite things about writing the faceless old woman stuff is, is it because the way Joseph and I work is that we'll write episodes or write parts of episodes and then pass it to the other and that person will sometimes have questions

but oftentimes just maybe like add something to it. So a lot of times it's either when I get stuff back from Joseph and I don't know if he feels the same way getting stuff back from me, with a faceless old woman script it was always either something really hilarious or something really upsetting. And I really love that a lot. This is maybe the most upsetting thing we've ever written.

I hope you guys enjoy it. Have fun. Good night. I guess we should start that show we talked about. Let's do it. You guys, let's welcome to the stage. Your friend in ours. Mara Wilson. I am the faceless old woman who secretly lives in your home. Hello. You don't know me. But I know you. I know you very well.

I've been going through your medicine cabinet. You take too much Advil. Do you realize how hard that is on your digestion? I know a couple gel caps and a glass of water before bed can alleviate a morning hangover, but it also puts you in a bad mood because you don't get good sleep with all that extra stress you put on your guts. Know what's a better hangover cure? Not drinking like it's the last day of community college. I replaced your vodka with clear windex.

And your ad fill with Ipecac. This won't help your hangovers, but... It certainly will be more entertaining for me. I don't sleep, so I need better late-night entertainment than Netflix. I've already watched every episode of Money Heist and Criminal Man and Planet Documentary. I have to spice it up a little bit. Which reminds me. Sorry about the tarantula incident last week.

And here, I'm speaking specifically to you. Tony. Yes, you. In the shirt. the one hoping I'm not talking about you. I'm not sorry you woke up with a tarantula covering your face, nor that it bit you, causing your eyelids to swell up like kinder eggs filled with curulent discharge instead of toys.

I am sorry that I forgot to turn the flash off on my camera, which alarmed both you and the spider, and I never got a good photo. I've been building up my portfolio for an art exhibit I call gross things on a sleeping Tony. It's going up June 1st, exclusively in your living room. I've already gotten open-mouthed centipede bouquet framed.

You're going to find this show absolutely terrific. Wait, no, not terrific. What's the word? Terrifying. Tony, you're one of my favorites in Night Vale. I know you hate your direct marketing job, selling high-interest credit cards to 20-somethings, but the benefits are great. You have health care, a 401K,

and you get to take advantage of people less fortunate than you. everything is its own reward. But I've read your poetry. You love poetry. To be fair, there isn't a big job market for poets, but you need to explore what makes you happy. I tattooed one of my favorite lines of poetry on you last month. It's by Mary Oliver.

Instructions for living a life. Close your eyes. Be scared. Good luck. And then I drew a little butterfly next to the words. I'm not the best artist, though, so it kind of looks like a radish or a sarcoma. Doesn't matter. You still haven't noticed.

It's just right below your right shoulder blade. Don't try to find it now. It's still healing, and given that I use the metal rod from that fandu set in your closet as the needle, it's possible it's infected. Better to leave it alone. Tony, look at me. Imagine where my eyes would be. You have a lot to work through. I'm here to help you.

I really am. I'll prove it by giving you. you some advice. If a venomous arthropod is on your face, don't scream. Anyway, it's not you, Tony, who's bothering me. It's the new people. They are elderly, like me, and they just moved into a house in the center of Night Vale. Or maybe this is decades from now. Time is a little hazy for me. I had never been in this house, nor noticed it before they moved in. It's a one-bedroom, and there were three of them. I thought. polyamory, but they have three separate beds and they never speak to each other, rarely look at each

other, and never leave the home. The first night I secretly lived in their home, I realized they never slept either. They brushed their teeth, put on pajamas, and get into bed. But they all lie there, eyes open, through silent hours of darkness. I tried whispering to them but got in a response. Usually when I reveal myself in the dark, I get the thrilled. of witnessing horror dawn across a person's distorted mouth and bulging eyes as they see my faceless face pressed up against their own. One of the best parts of visiting new residents, but not these three. For once, I'm the frightened one. Speaking of frightening, did you get your taxes for next on time, Alex? You, you're Alex. You with the shoes. I had to file for an extension.

I don't owe any money because I have no income, but I'm over 200 years old, never got a social security number, have no permanent address, and I wasn't born in this country. It's a lot of paperwork. And Alex, you know, your Wi-Fi is terrible, and I was having a hard time downloading the forms I needed, so I just wrote my name on some yellowish-black Boston lettuce you've left on the crisper for the last three weeks.

But the leaves kept falling apart, really more like melting. After about 20 minutes, I got frustrated and just made myself a salad. Also, I used the last of your parmesan cheese, but don't worry. I replaced it with dried skin I've been collecting from your bed sheets. Don't be grossed out, Alex. Same texture and nutritional value. You won't know the difference.

I got the idea from Food Network's Beat Bobby Flay, where this one winner tied up Bobby and ran a microplane across his forehead to make a chimmy cherry sauce. I love that show, but I'm a bigger fan of HGTV's House Hunters,

the Desert Dystopian version. That's where I met you, Addy. Yes, you with a face. You were shopping for a new home here in Nightvale. You told the realtor, who was inside of a living deer, its belly horrifically distended and quivering with every one of the agent's words and gesticulations, that you wanted three bedrooms, a backyard, and something close to an outdoor community space.

The first home, the yard was not in good shape, lots of human remains, and the lawn was glowing, perhaps from underground radiation testing. It was well under your budget, but you would have had to spend your savings on fixing it up. Also, in the bathroom mirror, you saw crawling across the ceiling, a faceless old woman devouring what looked like a rat. You didn't need to worry about a rat infestation, Addie. It was a chipmunk.

The second home was a condo right in the heart of the arts district. You loved the design, a simple large black cube, no doors, no windows, no interior. A true closed floor plan. So popular these days. But you weren't sure there was enough. You weren't sure there was enough room for entertaining, or anything else at all. The house you selected was perfect. Three bedrooms, a jacuzzi-en suite, and a large patio and backyard.

Plus, it was right in the middle of town next to the community dog park. Although you would be disappointed later to learn that your dog had been arrested for domestic espionage after peeing inside the park's forbidden walls. I think you made the right choice, Addy. But I can't help wondering. Every time I watch house hunters, who is this person running away from? You left Queens to move to Night Vale. Queens is where your family lives, where your best friends lives,

and your girlfriend of two years? Are you afraid of stasis, Addie? Of being loved? Of commitment? You might be afraid of that pinkish ooze coming out of your air. You might want to see an E&T about that. Or, if not an E&T, an entomologist. Speaking of putting wood-boring beetles inside orifices,

I tried a similar thing with the elderly roommates who recently moved to town, or who moved to town many years from now. Again, time is strange for me. But these roommates are also so strange. When I went to put a beetle into one of their ears, I noticed a lot of scar tissue there, making the hole too small. In my haste, the beetle scurried away, and I got kind of desperate and just made a bunch of spooky moans and hisses like this.

but not one of the three responded to me. They continued their meaningless pantomime of sleeping and in the morning they got up and each went quietly about their days. One of them made coffee but did not drink it. They then went to the window and waved at their neighbor, Susan Wilman, who was on her porch, stretching before her morning run. Susan looked at the figure in the window next to her and froze. She stared in terror, then darted back into her home and locked the door.

Susan has always been unfriendly. I ran her bed sheets through her office shredder as a reminder to be more open and loving toward the world. The other two roommates climbed into the shower at the same time. I'm not one to get off on other sexual activities. I just thought I might see something new, something human here. But no, they stood side by side, cleaning their cold, gravity-defeated bodies

not once looking at each other, let alone speaking. a squelch and a squish and gray water falling around yellow toenails. They toweled off, but when they hung the towels up, those towels were completely dry. I'm used to being the one who does inexplicable and disturbing things. Last year during the Community Players' production of Romeo and Juliet, I decided it would be more fun if they used actual poison. But it was a last-minute idea, so the only poison I could find was Borax, which just gave the two kids playing the lead several unhappy hours.

in the bathroom the night after the show ended. So I don't know. I could have made a stronger directorial choice. But so could the actual director. I get that Shakespeare plays are long, but he cut out all the best parts, like the train robbery, and also Tibald winning his bowling league.

Although I did appreciate that they left in Juliet's famous line. Good night, good night. Your blood and guts and marrow, which worms shall eat inside your grave so narrow. It's a classic. story. Kids these days just don't try to fake their own deaths anymore. And Morgan. Yes, Morgan, I'm talking to you. You with the fingernails and the teeth. I need to explain something to you. You tip 20%. You can afford it. Stop using it as a measure of how much you approve of the restaurant

service. A 20% tip is not a bonus. It is a fee. Restaurant owners don't pay their staffs and said they make the diners pay their employees through this idiotic notion of capitalistic meritocracy. I don't care how about the service. Tip them. You have money, Morgan. I would also tell you to stop asking to speak to a manager every time your Long Island iced tea is a bit late, but I cut out your tongue last month, so they wouldn't understand you anymore anyway. Do you know what a cooked human tongue tastes like, Morgan? Yes, you do. You just don't know that you do. Remember Applebee's last week? You ordered soup. It was a beef base with little onions and Little perfectly sauteed flex of your own tongue that you had used to lash out at the manager the last time you ate there.

You could blame them for poorly expediting your orders, but really the onus is on you for going to Applebee's. Which serves neither of the items its name promises. It's false advertising. It's like an egg cream soda or Taco Bell. Speaking of eating, the elderly roommates made lunch together, but not for each other. They were all in the kitchen at the same time making separate meals in silence. They sat around the dining room table together and ate. They carved and stabbed and pushed foods quickly into their mouths, but their eyes were empty.

One of them began to spit out their food. No one seemed to care or notice. They all began to vomit, but not with muscular heaves of shoulders and necks. The vomit spurted out like water from a hand pump, their torsosos and heads perfectly still. After each bodily rejection of food, they would start shoveling it back into their mouths, repeating the same process. Eventually, one of them stood up and threw their plate into the kitchen window, glass bursting everywhere. That person leaned into the hole and began punching the jagged shards out with their clenched fist

as blood poured out of their forearms and wrists. They screamed mournfully into the suburban street. Neighbors and passerby has passed only briefly, as if they had barely heard the sad howl spreading across the valley. Susan's lemon tree next door died instantly, and all of the lemons fell with wet plops to the ground. The fruit peeled open and inside of each was a fleshy crimson pulp, like meat that has been ground for too long. The other two roommates kept eating and vomiting, not even noticing the shattered glass being subsumed by the growing pool of blood on the floor. I wasn't always like this. Faceless or old. Secretly living anywhere.

Once I was born upon warm water. The smell I remember is sharp citrus and the peppery sting of grass, the salt funk of ocean. I was once a child. I grieved once. I smelled blood. Once I was a thief. I lived among thieves. I saw empires rise and fall.

Centuries cast themselves upon and finish. as fruitlessly as waves upon cliffs. Once I was a recluse, I lived amongst bandits and farmers. I spoke a different language then. I've spoken many languages. Once I was under the sea, that was a quiet time. I lived amongst the coral and dead-eyed fish. Once I was a wanderer, I've seen the headwaters of the Mississippi,

and I've seen the cobbled streets of Paris, and I've seen the empty arches of Frantia. But I've never seen anything like those three roommates. Of all the things I've been, child, thief, recluse, wanderer, faceless old woman who secretly lives in your home, I'll tell you this. I've never been more scared. Fear is in the unknowing, in the mystery. Fear is seeing everything about an old woman except her face.

Fear is the uncertainty of her secretly living in your own. home. Fear is not the spider you see on the wall. It's the spider you no longer see on the wall when you look back again. In the unnerving din of shattered glass and mournful howls in that house, I found the loose thread that unraveled this mystery. The roommate who screamed had no tongue. The roommate who, and one of the others had an ear swollen shut from a previous surgery, and the other had a red mark, like a radish or sarcoma, adorned with poetry drawn upon their shoulder blade. I realized I know these three strange roommates. They are you, Tony, with a special tattoo I gave you. And they are you, Addie, with your oral scar tissue from the beetle I jammed in

there, and you, Morgan, with your tongue removed and digested. The three of you do not exactly live together in that home, not at the same time. You're living three different lifetimes in that same space. You do not speak or respond because you are dead. Each of you alone in that house together, or you will be. Time is confusing for me. Decades from now after you die, your souls will be trapped in the house because something in this world is unresolved for you. You know this. Paranormal neuroscience is required for all high school freshmen, but what they don't teach you is how to resolve it. I know how and when each one of you die. I write it down on the back pages. of your journals.

I've done this for everybody, but nobody ever reads it because, while, people always think they write every day after a few pages they fall off the wagon and never see the last pages of their journals. Except Jonathan Franzen. He didn't seem bothered by what he read, but he did cross out all my adverbs and added some Oxford commas.

In case you're wondering how Jonathan Franzen dies, here's the answer. He doesn't. I am the faceless old woman who secretly lives in your home. You might find this ambiguous. After all, the word home is singular. So, whose home is it that I secretly live in?

Listen, some things in this tangled world are simple. I live in your home. And your home? And your home? I live in all of your homes simultaneously. I am many. I am many. I am one.

I am one. You all live such different lives. Teeming. That's what you are, teeming. And I'm there watching you. You, Tony, you dream of being a poet. Resolve the unresolved. The worst that can happen is crushing disappointment and public mockery. And eviction when you can't pay your rent. Many more awful things after that. Get to it. And you, Eddie, you fled your previous city to escape a murder charge. Strangely, you did not commit the murder you were charged with, but you have committed murder. We're a choice to go on house hunters as a wanted fugitive, but maybe it was a good first step to healing your soul.

And you, Morgan. You have an idea that could save us all. An epic defining idea, one of the greats. But you don't know which one. You have so many ideas. I can tell you this. Most of them are not important. One of them is vitally important. Good luck.

Also, tip 20%. And you? And you, I forget your name, you tweet too much. We all tweet too much, but that doesn't let you off the hook. That's why I ate your phone. You can thank me later. You can all thank me later, because you all will be seeing me soon. I think that tonight is the night to let sleep my secret.

You'll soon see me fumbling, wet, and grow folded up strangely, loose skin of your dresser, or you will see me scuttle along you or you will look at your kitchen window and there will be someone standing in your driveway and it will be me and there will be no one in your driveway. Welcome to Nightvale as a production of Nightvale Presents. It is written by Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Craneer

and produced by Disparition. The voice of the faceless old woman is Mara Wilson. Original music by Disparition. All of it can be found at dispirition.info. Or at dispirition. bancamp.com. This episode had no weather. Clear skies at last.

Comments, questions, email us at info at welcome to nightvale.com or follow us on Twitter at Nightville Radio or a... Sorry, I got distracted by that weird thing behind you. Check out welcome to nightvail.com for info about our new novel, The Faceless Old Woman

Who Secretly Lives in Your Home, out March 24th. Today's proverb, Never judge a book by its cover. Judge it by the title page instead. Hey, Jeffrey Kraner here to tell you about another show from me and my Nightvale co-creator Joseph Fink. It's called Unlicensed, and it's an L.A. noir-style mystery set in the outskirts of present-day Los Angeles.

Unlicensed follows two unlicensed private investigators, who small jobs looking into insurance claims and missing property are only the tip of a conspiracy iceberg. There are already two seasons of Unlicensed for you to listen to now, with Season 3 dropping on May 15th. Unlicensed is available exclusively through Audible, free if you already have that subscription. And if you don't, Audible has a trial membership, and if I know you, and I do, you can binge all that mystery goodness in a short window. And if you like it, if you liked Unlicensed, please, please rate and review each season. Our ability to keep making this show is predicated on audience engagement. So go check out unlicensed, available now only at audible.com.