Welcome to Night Vale - Alice Isn't Dead, Don't Tell Alice: Episode 2

Episode Date: April 27, 2026

Unfortunately you never lose the capacity for terror Listen wherever you get your podcasts. To support the show, get every episode ad-free and a week early, plus other bonus episodes and other rewards, please support our patreon. Supporting independent art means a lot right now, and we really appreciate it. https://patreon.com/aliceisntdead Get Alice Isn't Dead merch here: https://topatoco.com/collections/alice-isnt-dead Listen to Joseph's other new podcast, The Best Worst! https://www.nightvalepresents.com/the-best-worst Written by Joseph Fink Performed by Jasika Nicole Sound design and music by Disparition Logo by Rob Wilson A production of Night Vale Presents Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Hi there. This is Joseph Fink, and I am bringing you today, episode two of our Alice Isn't Dead sequel series, don't tell Alice. This is the same team that brought you, Alice Isn't Dead. It's a brand new story. I'm really excited about it. This will be the second of three episodes I will be putting on the Welcome to Nightville feed. If you would like to hear the rest, please subscribe to the Alice Isn't Dead feed, or you can get all of the episodes ad free and a week early on our Patreon. Our Patreon is the main way that we are going to be able to pay for this show. I'll be honest. Ad sales are not great these days, what with the economy. So if you enjoy Alice isn't dead, I would really, really encourage you to consider joining the Patreon. Anyway, please enjoy. Don't Tell Alice, episode two.

Miles down the road now, although which road, well, that's a little bit of a mystery. My phone doesn't know where I am, which is both a relief and a terror. I have to go by landmarks, like I'm in the old times, when the earth and the air was all we had, when we hadn't transcended being part of the world, when consequences still existed. It's kind of exhilarating. Hope I don't die. Alice isn't dead. Don't Tell Alice by Joseph Fink. Performed by Jaseca Nicole, Music and Sound Design by Dissaparition. Part 1, Chapter 2, The Bluebird and the Sawaro.

There I was, deep in the desert, in a place that only shows up on maps as unlabeled beige. And then I was driving in a pine forest, next to a river that winked at me in the sunlight. The air felt different. That was the first thing that struck me. Because the landscape passing flatly by the windshield was like watching something. something on TV. But the air was tangible and undeniable. I wouldn't hallucinate a change in air pressure or humidity. A subtle shift in the way the breeze crept in through the cracked car window. Wherever I had gone, I had really gone there. In my vision of this place, I had seen a town up ahead. And so I decided to drive that direction. Try to figure out where I was and then make a plan from there.

But not a half mile onto this new road and my car made a kind of sick, groaning sound, like a man trying desperately not to puke. And it became difficult to control. Okay, plans have changed. I saw the sickly bluebird RV park up ahead. Weird name. A neon sign indicated that there were vacancies. It was the closest place that might have people,

and so I rolled to a stop by the entrance as my engine died. I got out, looked around. The RV park half full and neatly maintained. Looked like many of them were occupied by people who had been there a while. There were planters on the steps, little yards marked out with wood shavings, signs that said things like, God bless this little home. It felt, despite the temporary nature of the tree, shelter like a nice place to live. A couple kids, maybe 10 years old, were playing soccer between

the RVs. A bearded man in a leather jacket sat at the office window. His face was kind, so I went up. Checking in? He asked. No, car trouble. Uh, is there a local mechanic you can call? I said. No need, he said. He said. I'm pretty handy with that stuff. Let me take a look. I protested, telling him that wasn't necessary, but he was already opening the office door and heading out. He popped the hood and looked down at the engine with a frown. I couldn't immediately see anything wrong with it, but I've never been great with engines. Irony of my life, I suppose. He didn't touch anything, just shook his head. "'Ah,' he said.

His voice sounded different, less kind. "'I think I see the problem. "'You're going to need to talk to Eleanor.' "'She a mechanic?' I asked. "'Something like that,' he said, but wouldn't meet my eyes. "'You'll find her in the back, very last spot on the left.' "'I thanked him, left him staring down at whatever he had seen in the engine. of my car. I walked deeper into the RV park. The tree line of the forest came right up to the

neatly trimmed grass of the property. I could hear the river still, although I couldn't see it. Frankly, it was idyllic. I passed the two kids playing soccer who didn't bother to look up from their game. Sometimes it's nice to be invisible. There were less and less RVs as I went deeper, and the ones that were back here looked like they had been here for years, if not decades. Climbing plants had grown up their sides. Their tires were half deflated or they were missing tires altogether. Some of them looked long abandoned. Finally, I saw the last one in the row, its front practically pulled into the forest. The side panels had yellowed with age, looked as ancient as the old woman sitting on its stove.

watching me approach. If this RV had ever traveled from this spot, then that trip had been long before I was born. Help you, said the woman as I got within polite shouting distance. She looked in her 80s at least, but her voice was strong. You, Eleanor? I asked. She shrugged, which I took for a yes. Uh...

Shit, I didn't get his name. The guy said I should ask you about my car. You broke down and Terry sent you to me, she said. That's basically it, he said. She nodded gravely. Might be a while before that car's on the road again. Why's that? I didn't like this.

The road was out of sight. The kids playing soccer were out of sight. Everyone was out of sight, except the old woman. She sensed my discomfort, and she smiled, showing a lot of teeth. What's wrong with your car can't be fixed with a ranch? She said. Uh-huh, I said. I'm not sure what that means, frankly.

Follow me, and I'll show you. Eleanor hopped from the steps with an energy that belayed the appearance of age and disappeared into the darkness of the RV. I didn't like this. I don't like following anyone through dark doorways, kind of a quirk of mine. But I had come this far and it would be pointless to retreat. My car was dead and I didn't know how to get back to the desert. Or if this place was even connected to where I'm from in any reachable way by Rose. So, trembling, my heart registering frantic protest against the inside of my chest, I stepped into the RV.

I called home to Alice just to hear her voice. Our conversation was full of gaps. Things I couldn't say, things she had no idea I wasn't saying, a betrayal by omission. It was too dark to see much. and so I stood, waiting for my eyes to adjust. The air smelled stale and dusty, but underneath that, the horrible sweet smell of rot. I didn't want to think about what might be rotting in here.

Hello? I said. Intensely aware how much I sounded like a character in a horror movie, who hadn't yet seen the long, strange hands reaching from the darkness behind her. My eyes adjusted a little and I saw Eleanor, standing down at the other end of the RV by the bed. All of the windows had been papered over with butcher paper, so it was even more dark down at that end. I could barely see her body, but her eyes and teeth shone a bright white in the darkness. A fuck, I said. Boy, did I not want to be there.

I should have been home just then. I should have been home with Alice. And instead I had come here to this place where reality once again peeled itself back to reveal the void. Eleanor's teeth and eyes disappeared around the corner. Now I'm supposed to go down there and join you? Is that it?

No answer. The smell of rot was stronger. I turned to leave, but the goddamn door was gone. Not shut, not locked. Where a door had been was now unbroken RV wall, with windows covered in the same brown butcher paper. I thought about ripping off the paper and breaking the glass. But I wasn't sure I'd see the RV park through those windows anymore.

And I didn't think I'd like what I'd see instead. You know what? Here I come. I find that these kinds of situations are often best taken at a run. So I sprinted to the other end of the RV, hands in front of me. I'd fought off worse monsters than this, I hoped. When I got there, Eleanor was gone. Only the bed, which I touched, and it was wet and cold. The mattress felt spongy.

Ugh, but that wasn't all. This should have been the end of the RV. But it wasn't. There was a narrow hallway there, leading impossibly past the wall of the RV. There was a dim light at the end of the hall. I had to turn sideways to squeeze through. My nose rubbed against the wall in front of me as I moved. Finally, I made it to the light.

The narrow hall opened up into what looked like a mobile home. Again, all the windows were covered, just a little sunlight coming through, revealing wood paneling and kitchen appliances that looked installed and apparently last cleaned in the 70s. There was, of course, no door to the outside. Down the hall, I saw Eleanor Dart into one of the bedrooms. Okay, I jogged after her. It couldn't handle situations like this at half measures. Either you're in it or you're not, and I had no choice to be not. The bedroom turned out to open into more living room and kitchen, although there was a bed where the couch should have been. More doors led from there. I saw Eleanor run through one of them, and I kept following.

The mobile home was in maze, and it went forever, maybe. I no longer had the capacity for surprise at this type of thing. but unfortunately you never lose the capacity for terror and I was terrified. Hey y'all, it's Kelly Clarkson with Wayfair. Ever order furniture online and wonder what if? Like, what if it doesn't hold up? That sofa was four days old. You should have ordered from Wayfair.

With Wayfair, there's no what if. Just style you love and quality you can trust. Visit Wayfair.com. Wayfair, every style, every home. Hi, everyone. It's Joseph Fink. Co-writer of Welcome to Nightfield, writer of Alice Isn't Dead. And today I'm here to talk about Woe Be Gone. a twisting, turning weekly horror science fiction podcast.

Woe Be Gone follows Mike Walters, who discovers a mysterious and violent online game. What begins as an exploration of this alternate reality game with real-life consequences quickly becomes a search for the technology that makes it possible. Woe Begone is an exploration of the nature of power, the limitations of linear time, and what it means to be an individual. Each episode has a unique soundtrack composed by the talented creator and writer Dylan Griggs. Listen to Woe Be Gone spelled Woe period Be Gone

Wherever you listen to podcasts or check out Woebegonepod.com for episodes and transcripts. Have fun and enjoy the episode. Sorry, I've been driving for hours. Two more hours to stopping.

Gotta keep myself awake. The smell of rot was gone. Instead, there was a smell like cardboard boxes crumbling away into nothing, a neglect so complete that it permeated the air. This was not a place. This was the antithesis of places. I no longer saw Eleanor. I only heard her in front of me. I picked which doorway I thought she had entered and went in after. The maze of mobile home was a mishmash of decorations and time periods. A TV place.

playing what seemed to be a VHS copy of the Mighty Ducks. But the image was so digitally distorted that character's faces slid down the screen, like melting butter. An Electrolux vacuum from the 50s, left on, a loud roar and the smell of burning rubber. A poster of the fast and the furious, Tokyo Drift, tacked crookedly on the wall,

like it was put there by an excited teenager. I couldn't tell if anyone had ever lived, lived here, or if this place between places had merely captured all the detritus of human thought that slid out of our minds into dark and wild spaces. Turning one corner, I started, my heart seeming to leap a few feet higher than my head. Sitting in a chair in the middle of the next room was an old man in a jumpsuit. It took me a moment, but I recognized him. It was Jackie. I met him once, in a factory by the sea. He looked at me with sad and desperate eyes. Jackie? I said, stepping forward. He opened his mouth as though to speak, but instead dark

seawater rushed out. More and more seawater, spewing out like a broken pipe. The room smelled of deep ocean. Not the salt and wind of ocean near the shore, which brings brings up memories of beach trips and cool water. But the deepest places of the ocean, where the fish lure each other with light. Sulfur and earth and water that human skin has never touched. Jackie stared at me, his eyes getting wider and wider,

the water gushing out. The carpet was wet, and then the water was starting to rise, all ready to my ankles. I'm sorry. I said. And I slashed away and threw more rooms. Eventually, the water subsiding behind me until the carpet was again dry.

The smell of rot returned, stronger than before. The next room was a living room and a kitchen like all the rest. But all the furniture was gone, except a single bare mattress on the floor. On the mattress, a dead body. It had rotted pretty bad, but I still could recognize Eleanor. I ran past her, sure that at any second I would feel her hand, wet and spongy like the bed and the RV, wrapping around my ankle, and then another narrow hallway, like the one that had brought me into this hell.

I felt some hope as I squeezed inside of it. The light at the end was sunlight. I popped out by the bed of an RV. It was an ordinary-looking RV, nice enough. The bed was neat and, importantly, dry. There was no smell of rot. No smell of anything at all. I walked down the length of it to the door that was right where it was supposed to be.

I walked out the door into a hot, dry day. I was back in the desert, in the dying Sawaro Ardome. RV Park, according to the cute little sign by the drive. The RV I emerged from was parked in the back corner, same as it had been when I entered, but now it was clean. The wheels looked new. It looked ready to drive. It also was the only vehicle in the entire Sawaro RV park, just a giant empty lot. And this one RV and Eleanor, who was alive and standing next to me, I realized, with a creeping sensation in my spine. So you see, she said. I backed away from her.

I really don't, I said. I saw her dead face atop her living face, in the same way I had seen the forest atop the desert. You will be traveling in ways they don't build roads for, she said. You will be riding highways that are not made of pavement. A car like yours is not built for that kind of travel. The jump I made, I said. Or whatever. The switch.

It broke my car. She grinned. I remembered her teeth in the dark. Took another step backward. Not broke. No, not exactly, she said. changed. Changed in some fundamental way that made it no longer a car.

Sometimes things change in the moving. Did I change? I asked. Is your heart still beating? She said. Then you were not changed so much that you should worry about it now. Where did I go? Where was that RV park that we came from? and how did we come back here?

There is another America, she said, squinting at me like I was the sun. Another America? I said. That's right. Now listen, your car won't work and you're stranded a long way from anywhere else here. You'll need to take the RV. That thing? I laughed to cope with the horror of it. I'm never going in there again.

The old woman shrugged. You can make your own decisions, but it's a long walk from here to anywhere else. And this RV is reliable. It's a good companion, I guess you could say. A good companion? It seemed an awfully personable way to describe a vehicle. Oh, it's much more than just a bus with a bed in it.

This RV is built for the kinds of roads you'll be taking now. She winked, and I wish she hadn't. What about you? How will you get home? I asked. She pressed a key into my hand. It was looped onto a key ring with a tag from the Triumph Tiki Motel and a little figurine of the mascot for Buckees. Everyone loves Buckeys, even whatever creature Eleanor actually was. I have my own methods of travel, she said.

As you've seen. I didn't want to take gifts from these kinds of strangers, but I also no longer had a car. Or fuck, any of my stuff that hadn't been in my pockets. And so I took the key, and I stepped up into the RV. I looked it over carefully. The hallway in the back was gone, but I didn't trust that whole half of the vehicle. I'd probably sleep in the driver's seat for now.

You're making the right decision, Eleanor told me. There wasn't a decision for me to make, I told her. I shut the door in her face, turned on the engine. Everything sounded fine. Despite how I got it, the RV felt good to sit in. It was something friendly and comforting about it. A good companion, like Eleanor had said. I thought that, in spite of all, me and it might get along just fine.

I pulled it out of the park, onto the highway. It was responsive, good to drive, less clunky than its size would suggest. I glanced back and was unsurprised to find Eleanor gone from where she had been standing. Now I had a highway in front of me and other stranger highways to come. Because there is another America. And I need to understand what that means for us all. Hi, we're Meg Bashminer. And Joseph Fink.

Of welcome to Nightvail. And on our new show, The Best Worst, we explore the Golden Age of Television. To do that, we're watching the IMDB, viewer-rated best and worst episodes of classic TV shows. The episode of Star Trek, where Beverly Crusher has sex with a ghost, the episode of the X-Files, where Skelly gets attacked by a vicious housecat. And also the really good episodes, too. What can we learn from the best and worst of great television?

Like, for example, is it really a bad episode, or do people just hate women? The Best Worst. Available wherever you get your podcasts.