239 - Sister Cities: Vermillion Falls

Hey hey, Jeffrey Kraner from welcome to Night Vale here.

Apart from Night Vale, we make other podcasts.

If you're already a big Night Vale fan, check out Good Morning Night Vale, where cast members Meg Bashwiner, Symphony Sanders, and Hal Lublin break down each and every episode.

Or if you're looking for more weird fiction, there's Within the Wires, an immersive fiction podcast written by me and novelist Janina Mathewson.

Each season is a standalone tale told in the guise of found audio.

Finally, maybe you like horror movies or are scared of horror movies but are horror curious, check out Random Number Generator Horror Podcast Number 9, where me and the voice of Night Vale Cecil Baldwin talk about a randomly drawn horror film.

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A friendly Midwestern community where the wind is crisp, the waters are clear, and mysterious lights pass overhead while we wave and say, Hello.

Come on down to Vermilion Falls.

Well, it's as good a day as ever here in our peaceful town, and a very special day for a different town far away from here.

Now, many of us in our quiet Midwestern hamlet don't know this, but we have a sister city out in the far desert reaches of our country, a town called Nightvale.

It seems that Nightvale shares with Vermilion Falls certain

particularities.

And as such, our city council has a friendly relationship with their city council.

As a token of that friendship, today was established as a day to swap our community radio signals.

So at this very moment, Night Vale's radio host is speaking to the rolling hills and crystal waters of Vermilion Falls.

And I, Frank Luna, am broadcasting to the hot blacktop and water-efficient landscaping of Nightvale.

Well, hello, new listeners.

If it's okay with you, I'm just going to continue to broadcast as I normally do.

It would give me something of a stage fright to craft my show for a new audience, and there are so many local matters for me to get to.

Today in the news, the man who comes out of the lake has come out of the lake.

He's wearing a gray suit and a blue tie.

He has gray eyes and a blue mouth.

He has gray hair and blue hands.

He speaks in a gray voice and utters blue words.

We're not sure what the man who comes out of the lake wants or why he comes out of the lake to lurk around our town.

But we know that he's dangerous.

We know that he wants something from us that we cannot give him.

If you see the man who comes out of the lake, I advise that you avoid him.

Do not look at his gray fingers or his blue fingernails.

Do not acknowledge his gray gray bag or the blue book it contains.

Do not worry what gray words he writes in that sharp blue ink.

The man who comes out of the lake is back, dear listeners.

Run if you see him.

That's my best advice.

Now I can't believe I have to say this, but I do have to remind our listeners to not pet or feed the wolfmen in the woods.

The wolfmen in the woods are dangerous wild creatures sometimes.

Sometimes there are neighbors wearing polo shirts and driving Chevy Volts, but on certain nights of the year they are wild creatures and they stalk their territories.

It can be quite dangerous to leave food out for them or to try to stroke their soft fluffy ears.

Sure, it's tempting to chase after their crooning voices and their pitter-pattering feet, but a full-grown wolfman is no joke.

That might be Dale from the hardware store during the day, but right now, it's a seven-foot-tall creature built of muscle and hunger.

And it can tear you in two as fast as you can say two eggs, two kegs.

Now that's what I call breakfast.

Please, try to have some sense out there.

For those of you who might not know our town as well as I do, If, for instance, you're listening to me from some distant place, low on precipitation and high on tumbleweeds, let me give you a little tour.

I won't get too exact for privacy reasons, but I can give you the general lay of the land.

Vermilion Falls lies three miles east of its namesake, which is really more of a dribble where Norman's Creek spits out down five feet of tumbling rocks.

The local children like to swim in the little pool that forms at the base of the falls.

And we let them, since only a few disappear into the deep blue of the bottom, and of those usually one or two return, with stories of a mirror version of our town, where everyone speaks backwards, and the tastes of sweet and sour are reversed.

We have many fine shops and restaurants, such as the Starlight Early Evening Diner, the Morton and Stepson Department Store, and the Denny's.

The neighborhoods range from our little urban center around Main Street to the old rural areas of Farmers' Sorrow and the Angry Acres, to the newer suburban development, like the Royal Willows and the very prestigious gated community of King Charles' Secret Son.

To the west is the friendly neighboring town of Braxton, which is home to one guy named Braxton, but he's super nice.

He runs the Braxton Bed and Breakfast and the Braxton Bank.

And he's mayor of Braxton.

And he's also the town rabble-rouser.

To the east is the lake.

And the less said about that, the better.

We all turn our eyes away from the lake and low mournfully when we're reminded it's there.

To the south are the butter farms, and to the north is Minneapolis, which is about 10 miles away.

We're right next to Burnsville, sort of near the Buffalo Tap and Grill.

Coordinates are 44.753 by minus 93.329.

Well, that's enough.

I don't want to give away too many specifics.

Can't have anyone trying to find us.

Okay, I thought I was clear about this, but I'll have to say it even more plainly.

George North.

George, if you keep trying to pet the wolfmen in the woods, you are going to get bitten.

And come next full moon, you will also be a wolfman in the woods.

Maybe that doesn't seem like a big deal to you.

So what?

Get pursuit, grow a few extra teeth?

Who hasn't at one point or another?

But here's the deal, George.

Maybe your neighbor Otto is already a wolfman, and good for him.

Maybe your upstairs tenant, Hilda, is also a wolfman.

Wolfman, by the way, is the gender-neutral term from the German Wolfmannusen, which is a type of bread eaten in the mornings.

The etymology is a little unclear.

Maybe everyone down at the office, Linda, Rashid, Howard, Sahar, maybe they're all wolfmen.

But a wolfman's life is short and brutal.

It's all about the rending and the ripping, the blood and the viscera.

It is no kind of life for a civilized person.

And George, you like to think of yourself as a civilized person.

You just don't have it in you to be a wolfman.

You don't have the guts or the constitution.

Leave wolfmanning to the wolfmen.

And for gosh sakes, George, stop trying to pet them.

I don't want to have to say this again.

There's a sale at the coach warehouse, the one on Truck Highway 93.

All coaches are 50%

off.

Now you may think I'm reading that copy incorrectly, and it would be an easy mistake to make.

Who can remember which spelling means the place to sit, or which one means the stern eye of authority over a team?

But no, this is not the couch warehouse, it's the coach warehouse.

And what they sell are people in track suits and once-promising careers, people with whistles and uncombed hair, people with hoarse voices, thick fingers, bad knees, dirty glasses.

It's an entire warehouse of these people, with old cars and new houses, with loud loud voices and quiet thoughts.

And this weekend, they're all 50% off.

Now, they cost just as much, but half their bodies are missing.

Where did the other halves go?

The coach warehouse isn't really sure.

The coach warehouse is not really an expert in anything other than delivering the most middling quality people for the lowest possible prices.

If you have any idea what happened to the rest of the coaches' bodies, please do let the warehouse know.

They are curious.

And now for the community calendar.

On Monday, we're having a little bonfire celebration at the Cub Foods over in the Dry Snacks and Nuts Aisle.

We'll be piling that wood high, singing old camp songs, and burning as long as we can till the market's automatic sprinklers kick in and soak us all.

So don't be late.

Tuesday, Olive Newman will be leading a nature walk.

Kids these days don't even think about nature, Olive told me this morning as as she was hanging from my kitchen ceiling like a bat.

All they ever do is look at cell phones and become Democrats, she said.

And I'm here to show them a little of the glory of nature.

And if that don't fix them, well, I don't know what will.

The rules of nature walk are simple.

You must keep walking above four miles per hour.

If you drop below that speed, you'll be given a warning.

Accrue three warnings, and there will be a consequence.

So get out there and explore nature.

Now, Wednesday isn't happening, and you know why.

And you ought to be ashamed.

Thursday is the pet adoption fair in the old copper mine.

SPCA President Herman O'Neill says there will be lots of great puppos and kittens for the taking.

He says that they will be deep in the mine where the tunnels get dark, where they never got around to wiring up the lights, where the ceilings are low and you have to crawl to continue.

The pets are waiting for you there, Herman says.

They love you and want you to find them.

So crawl into that dark forever if that's what it takes.

That's so cute.

Maybe I should adopt a dog.

I used to have one, you know,

but it went away to college.

And I've been an empty nester ever since.

Friday is on vacation this week, and so we'll just be doing Thursday again.

And Saturday is sign-up day for the Wreck Leagues.

If you want to join their kickball, basketball, or the most dangerous game teams, head on down to the community center to sign up.

This has been the community calendar.

Hey, I don't like to raise my voice like this, but hey, you simply need to stop touching the wolf men in the woods, George North.

They are neither our friends nor our pets, nor are they a beneficial part of the ecosystem, like mountains or waterfalls or oil derricks.

They're unnatural fiends.

They hunger for our flesh and our fluids.

They carve ancient alien language into the bark of trees with their vicious claws.

Why, I just don't stand for these creatures of unhealthy appetite and unknown motives.

Even if most of the week they're our neighbors and our friends, they're now wolfmen in the woods.

And look, you just have to stop touching them and feeding them and trying to commune with them.

It's not going to end well for any of us.

Least of all for you, George.

You're likely to end up with blood and viscera all over the place.

And who's going to clean that up?

Not you.

You'll be a wolfman or or dead, so it'll be up to your fellow citizens and taxpayers.

It's thoughtless, that's what it is.

Thoughtless.

And now for a word from our sponsors.

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No one likes to think about car maintenance.

It's one of those things like our blood pressure or the man who lives in the attic that we just would rather push to the back of our minds.

We simply wait until it insists its way into our lives.

Because make no mistake, these issues will haunt us if we don't take care of them.

A nurse will whisper an urgent grim message to a doctor.

The man who lives in our attic will find his way downstairs.

He always finds his way downstairs.

Or our tires will blow out on an icy midnight highway.

So why not get ahead of the inevitable?

Handsome Pete promises good service at a great value, and I, for one, trust him.

I myself get my tires changed at Handsome Pete's twice a week, which is the frequency he recommends.

It's a bit of a burden on my schedule, and I'm in a good deal of debt, but you can't put a price on safety.

Hand some Pete's tire replacement and repair out there on Marmot Lane at the edge of the woods.

They can't help you with the man in the attic.

Nobody can, but they sure can get you a nice new set of tires.

This has been a word from our sponsors.

You know, I have tried every tactic.

And, George North, it is clear you want to be a wolfman.

Which is...

fine.

We all can have hobbies.

It's good to have goals.

But again, this doesn't only affect you.

When you become a wolfman, George, what does that mean for the rest of us?

That our small-town human life isn't enough?

That we should leave our homes, enter the woods, give in to the bloody temptation of the hunt?

That our teeth could be so much longer if we just let them?

Is that what you're saying?

Well, if it is, then fooey.

And if it's not,

then I have misunderstood and I am sorry.

But we must fully repudiate the wolfmen.

And we will

after this look at sports.

The steam rises up from the pavement

and dissipates in the blue.

The shadows recede every evening.

But there's nothing you can do.

Nothing you can do

Every song

fades away in an instant

No matter

how strong or how true

Like the snow we remember from December

come spring, there was nothing left of you,

nothing left of you.

I am high,

I'm falling,

falling like every dreamer does.

And through the dark

haze of the ether,

a barely perceptible

pause

like

poison.

A shadow grows into my face

and a mercury passes right through me.

translucent and fragile as lace.

Signed now

alone

and forsaken

a silence you can never reverse

expose

to the lightning

on the hollow

crust of the earth,

the light does something

that shelters us from fear.

Hallelujah,

the light shines through you

Sanara

We were

never here

Sinara

We were

never here

Sanara

Samara

You chose to hit play on this podcast today.

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We return from sports to a town overrun, overrun with desire to pet the Wolfmen, to lope with them through the moonlit woods.

And I get it.

I really do.

I don't want to come off as some moralizing negative Nancy who's never been in the real world.

I understand the deep appeal of the wolfmen.

If I could live in a world without consequences, would I allow myself to enjoy the gentle bite of a wild wolfman and then finally, for the first time in my life, run free without worry or weariness?

Well, sure.

I'd take that deal in a heartbeat.

But last time I checked, this world is not a frictionless fairy tale, and we can't all willy-nilly become the wolfmen we desperately desire to be.

So I beg of you here, right now, citizen to citizen, act with decorum.

Think of others.

And for Pete's sake, please stop cavorting with the wolfmen in the woods, as sweetly tempting as it may be.

Take the warning of George North, who has now gone missing, leaving behind a family and a big bloodstain.

If you have any information as to his whereabouts, you keep it to yourself.

Nobody likes a a gossip.

Well, that about wraps up my broadcast for the evening.

I sure hope it's been illuminating for our far-distant neighbors who heard it.

We may not share the same climate or the same accent or the same watchful beings flying overhead while we sleep, but we share a sincere human spirit and a desire for communication.

And as the voice of one community speaking to another community, I can only hold out my hand in friendship.

Metaphorical hand, obviously.

This is radio, of course, but you know what I mean.

Stay tuned at next for a howling from the woods and a few tentative answering howls from the houses below.

Good evening, Vermilion Falls.

Good evening.

Come on down to Vermilion Falls is a production of Night Vale Presents.

It is written by Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Kraner and produced by Disparition.

The voice of Frank Luna is T.D.

Mishkey.

Check out his podcast, The Mishkey Road Show, link in the show notes.

Original music by Disparition.

All of it can be found at disparition.bandcamp.com.

This episode's sports was A Ragged Sayonara by the Bipeds.

Find out more at thebipedsdance.com.

Comments, questions, email us at info at welcome to nightvale.com or follow us on Twitter, I guess, at nightvale radio and on Instagram at nightvaleofficial.

We now have a TikTok and a Tumblr as well, both at Night ValeOfficial.

Most importantly, check out welcometonightvale.com, where we have a twice-monthly mailing list that is the best way to keep up to date directly from us to you.

You can learn about things like our brand new live show, The Attic, touring in the US and Europe in 2024.

Today's proverb.

Do you ever look up at the stars, the infinite stretch of our curious universe, and think, oh man, that thing I said at that one party when I was 19 was so embarrassing?

Hey, Jeffrey Kraner here to tell you about another show from me and my Night Vale co-creator, Joseph Fink.

It's called Unlicensed, and it's an LA Noir-style mystery set in the outskirts of present-day Los Angeles.

Unlicensed follows two unlicensed private investigators whose 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 three 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.