176 - The Autumn Specter

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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Lips are the toes of the face.

Welcome to Night Vale.

It's Halloween again, Night Vale, my favorite day of the year.

As a kid, my mother used to dress my sister Abby and I up in homemade costumes and take us door to door, vaguely threatening our neighbors until they gave us candy.

When I was a teenager, I got a little old for trick-or-treating, so I started going to haunted houses with my friends.

A lot of those haunted houses were kind of predictable, with all their chainsaw killers and Victorian ghost children singing nursery rhymes who would follow you home and sing by your bed for months afterwards.

But they always got to me.

I loved the emotional rush of being scared.

I still do, of course.

I don't go out much to haunted houses, but I still love good, old-fashioned, scary stories.

I thought today would be a great day to share some of my favorites with you.

I had my new intern, James, put together a few spooky tales that are perfect for putting you in the Halloween mood.

But first, let's have a look at the community calendar.

This Saturday night at the new Old Nightvale Opera House is the annual Costume Gala.

This event is the Opera House's largest fundraiser and one of the most prestigious costume contests in the region.

A panel of judges will be on hand to determine the best costume at the ball.

Last year's winners were Joel Eisenberg and his partner Danny Jimenez, who dressed in a tandem outfit of a Stegosaurus.

I was there listeners and it was impressive.

The creature was so realistic looking.

The craftsmanship of the costume was top-notch, but listen, I have to confess, I'm always more into high-concept creativity rather than realistic details when it comes to costumes.

Like I remember the 2015 gala when Amal Shamoon came dressed up as the concept concept of ennui.

She made herself 12 feet tall, dressed in a taupe long coat, and created a constant drizzling rain inside the ballroom.

Anyone who looked at her got super sad and wanted a hug, but Joel and Danny's Stegosaurus was fine.

Sunday afternoon is the fall craft sale in Old Town Nightvale.

an inscrutable maze of stalls showcasing the finest products from our town's artisans.

There will be cultural events for children, like finger painting classes, puppet shows, and a visit from the Autumn Specter.

The Autumn Specter returns.

It comes to collect its crops.

With its great and sharp sickle, it will harvest every ripe soul in Night Vale.

The Autumn Spectre is hungry.

It is October, and it is time to feed.

Hey, James, this community calendar doesn't seem right.

It's just a bunch of stuff about the Autumn Spectre.

Also, this font size, what is this, 32 point?

That's just much too large.

And it's printed in red ink, and that is a waste of our color toner, James.

Ew.

Ew!

This red ink is still really damp.

Okay, plus, there's nothing about start and end times of the craft fair, or anything about the food trucks.

Like, if the Autumn Spectre is hungry, surely it wants some falafel or Korean barbecue or tacos.

James, could you just redo this story?

James?

James?

Well, listeners, I don't know where James went.

I can hear him breathing, but I don't see him anywhere.

Yep, it's fine.

Let's just get on to our first spooky story.

One quiet, moonless night, not long ago and not so far away, a teenage girl sat in a house that was not her own.

It was the home of Tony and Sheila McDowell.

The girl was their babysitter, and she had just put the two young McDowell children down to sleep.

The girl watched TV alone in the dark living room, only the bluish flicker of a scary movie illuminating her face.

The phone rang, abrupt and loud, startling her.

She raised the receiver to her ear.

Hello?

She said with a slight quiver.

Have you checked on the children?

came a raspy voice.

The babysitter ran quickly upstairs, opening the door of the kids' bedroom.

She flipped on the light, and there they were, fast asleep.

She went back to her movie, but the phone rang again.

Have you checked on the children?

came the same voice, only more sinister.

The babysitter again hurried upstairs, opened the door, turned on the light, and saw the children still asleep.

The caller called again

and again

and again.

Have you checked on the children?

The babysitter, so scared, barely able to move, hung up the phone before the voice could finish its repeated query.

When the phone rang once again, she answered and shouted, Stop calling me!

But this time, it was a different voice.

The person on this occasion said, Ma'am, this is the police.

We've traced the call.

The call is coming from inside the house.

Get out!

Get out!

The babysitter panicked and started to run, but then she remembered, she never called the police.

How would they know to even trace the call?

So she crept fearfully upstairs to the children's room.

And the phone was ringing again, the clamoring bell igniting her fright.

And she cracked, opened the door, and she saw.

She saw the young McDowell boy and his little brother hunched over a phone and giggling.

They were pranking her.

And she felt relieved, but embarrassed.

And she told them to stop fooling around and go to sleep.

And they all shared a good laugh.

Let's have a look now at traffic.

Okay, well, I don't seem to have a traffic report from intern James.

Also, James isn't here right now because I sent him out to go pick up lunch a few minutes.

Oh, hey, James!

James!

James, James in.

Wait, why aren't you standing in the control booth?

You were supposed to go get lunch, and also I've asked you a couple of times not to wear that burlap bag over your head.

I mean, yes, it looks great with the jack-o'-lantern face drawn onto it.

I mean, the mouth is a bit lopsided and the eyes are a tad uneven, you know, kind of flat and emotionless, but all in all, it's a cool look.

But it's decidedly not allowed in station management's dress code.

Oh,

you're holding a knife, too.

So, did you get...

Did you already get that lunch?

Then?

Well, if that's the case, you don't need to cut my sandwich in half.

I'll take it whole.

And also, I need that traffic report.

Thanks.

James?

What are you waiting for?

The autumn specter to do it for you?

Hop to it, James?

Well, while James is working on that, let's get back to my favorite spooky Halloween stories.

This one isn't a story, so much as a fun Halloween game.

The Legend of Bloody Mary.

According to the lore, if you turn off all the lights and stare into a mirror, repeating Bloody Mary three times in a row, she will appear and tear your face off.

I've never tried this because I don't own any mirrors, but my husband Carlos conducted this very experiment in his science lab.

He said he darkened the room and repeated the name, and nothing happened for a long time.

But then a figure of a woman appeared, silvery gray and shimmering, and she approached Carlos slowly, her hollow white eyes never blinking.

She brought her face only inches from Carlos and said,

Are you for real?

And Carlos said, yes, he was indeed real.

And Bloody Mary said, okay, because this time of year, I just get a bunch of giggling, screaming teenagers, and I'm really tired of ripping off their faces for no pay whatsoever.

And Carlos gave her some resources for starting a union, and she thanked him, and she offered to tear his face off in exchange for the consulting, but Carlos said no, he liked his face and wished her luck.

Night Vale, pay your malevolent spirits.

They're overworked, especially around Halloween.

And a 20% gratuity for poltergeists, phantasms, revenants, and ghosts is standard.

And now for

what the

wait.

Okay, you know, I thought intern James had handed the traffic report to me, but this is just a piece of parchment with a nine-pointed star seemingly drawn by a finger dripped in blood.

And then there are a series of ancient runes scrawled along the outer edges.

Now, I took runic in college.

I mean, most of my friends took Spanish as their language, but I thought living here in the American southwest, it would be more useful to study ancient Scandinavian and Germanic alphabets.

And from what I can make out, these are a message about the return of the autumn specter.

Ugh, alright.

Okay.

I love that intern James loves Halloween and whatever this autumn specter is.

In fact, James is still in the break room right now constructing a sacred totem out of ash tree branches and twine.

He's been muttering to himself all day in a language that I don't recognize.

And the only words I can understand are autumn specter.

But I still have neither my my traffic report nor my lunch.

Wait.

Do you think James is...

Nah,

put it out of your mind, Cecil.

Let's tell another spooky Halloween story.

There once was a beautiful young woman who wore a green ribbon around her neck.

She won the affection of a handsome young man.

They fell in love and one day the boy asked the girl why she always wore a green ribbon around her neck.

She would not tell him.

One day the man and the woman were to become husband and wife.

In her white bridal dress the woman still wore her green ribbon.

The man asked her on their wedding night if he could untie the green ribbon, but even on the most intimate of evenings, she said no.

And he respected her answer.

But he longed to know what she was hiding behind the ribbon.

Through the years, the man asked the wife again about the ribbon, but she never removed it, nor answered his questions about it.

She only warned him that he would not like what he saw if she were to remove it.

He asked less and less, but his curiosity grew and grew.

And they became old, very old, and they knew their time left was short.

The man asked one more time,

My dearest wife, love of my life, tell me that I may remove the green ribbon from around your neck.

And the old woman said, My adoring groom, here in our room after all these many years, yes, you may.

But I caution you, as I have many times before,

that you shall not like what your eyes behold.

The man hesitated, but finally reached his weakened, wrinkled fingers to the green bow along her nape.

And he tentatively pulled the ribbon and suddenly it unfurled falling from her neck, and the man gasped.

Upon her neck was a series of ornate letters spelling out, Goth Life.

The woman said,

I got this tattoo in high school, but kind of outgrew it, and it's super embarrassing.

And the man replied, It is for sure weird, but also pretty cool.

I like it.

And she never wore the green ribbon again.

You know, listeners, I'd love to bring you that traffic report, but right now,

I'm facing something much more urgent and more dire.

My studio door has opened on its own, and as I turned around, I could see down the long, faintly lit corridor of our offices.

And at the end of the hallway stands a figure, and he wears a jack-o'-lantern mask, his head crooked to one side like a dog asking a question, or like a hanged man,

or both.

And it is intern James, and he holds a long knife, and he walks, he walks slowly toward me, and he is speaking at first in a mutter, but now louder, a restrained shout in an obscure tongue, like a magician casting a wicked spell, and he is moving much faster toward me, like a limping run, and his blade is raised high.

And James is not an intern, Night Vale, but the autumn specter itself come to reap my soul.

But before he does that, let me take you to the weather.

It's a little grease paint for the balcony, and a wink for the mezzanine,

and a smile so wide where the angels hide in their boxes in between

frightened, frozen in the footlights, a starlet painted to the lines in a park too big and a dress too small.

The stage hands fed her lines

and it's 1098.

Swan song of the world's away.

Seven, eight, nine.

You should have seen me in my

and it's five, four, three.

Take a phone and grab your feet.

Three, two, one.

The fight ain't over when the bells have rung.

When the bells have rung.

She slept right through rehearsal, second time in as many days.

And the wide-eyed understudy wrung her hands and paced backstage.

She'd made the after part.

She made liars of a salt.

And she made her crooked entrance just in time for curtain calls

and it's 109

Swan song of the world to wait

seven eight nine

you should have seen me in my prime and it's five four three

Take a phone and grab your feet three two one

Fight

over when the bells have rung

bells and rung.

Critics raves and accolades, the end still wanting more.

Open calls and half-filled hearts, the numbers at the door.

And it's ten

eight.

Swan song of the world's away.

Seven, eight, nine.

You should have seen me in my prime.

And it's five for three.

Take a phone and grab your feet.

Three, two, one.

The fight ain't over when the bells have rung.

Bells have rung.

You chose to hit play on this podcast today.

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So, during the weather, I went to Human Resources and requested a file on intern James.

Oh, I'm fine, by the way, and James is not the autumn specter.

But I'll get to that.

So I found a copy of James' resume and cover letter for the position of radio station intern.

His application was originally submitted in 1845.

That's almost two centuries ago, I exclaimed.

But according to HR, they're pretty backlogged on the intern apps.

Well, what are you going to do?

We get to them when we get to them, they said from the bottom of their abandoned well.

Paperclipped to James's application was a wrinkled and yellowed news clipping from the Nightvale Daily Journal, and the article says that James died on Halloween night in 1849 when he was hit by a train.

I then went to the Hall of Public Records and found that our radio station was built in 1850 atop the very train tracks where James met his end.

James's soul has been wandering the halls and offices of our radio station ever since.

For all James ever wanted was to be a radio intern, to serve the listening community, to lift high the voice of journalistic truth.

And it was his death that led to the shutdown of those train tracks and the eventual construction of a new station home and the building we still use now.

So I was wrong about James.

He was an intern, after all, and not a malevolent Halloween spirit.

But I was right that the autumn specter had come

for me.

For when I turned to see James running down the hall, I did not notice the autumn specter behind me with its bony hands and scarecrow mouth.

And I did not notice its soul-reaping sickle, which it had raised high above its oversized head and stick-thin body.

And James had given his life life for the building of our radio station and in death

gave his soul for the very same cause.

And James threw himself upon the autumn specter and he tried to stab the specter's neck and chest, but it did nothing.

And the specter pushed James aside and then turned its black, coal eyes upon me.

And it raised its curved blade once again and swung.

I tried to duck, but was too slow.

And just as the sickle's edge reached my face, James dove in front of it and vanished in a burst of white flame as he was struck.

And the room was empty, and the autumn specter was gone too.

To the family and friends of intern James, he was

an okay intern.

Not always on top of his writing deadlines, but he literally sacrificed his soul for a radio station.

I can't bring you a traffic report today, but I will live to bring you one tomorrow if we find a new intern.

And HR tells me that we have hundreds of candidates, although most of them are not yet aware that they are candidates.

Stay tuned next for our new cooking competition show, Flay Bobby Flay.

And as always,

good night, Night Vale.

Good night.

Welcome to Night Vale is a production of Night Vale Presents.

It is written by Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Craner and produced by Dispirition.

The voice of Night Vale is Cecil Baldwin.

Original music by Dispirition.

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

This episode's weather was Welterweight by Nels Andrews.

Find out more at nelsandrews.bandcamp.com.

Comments, questions, email us at info at welcometonightvale.com or follow us on Twitter at nightvale radio.

Or tell all of the little animals to please stay out of the road.

It is not safe for you there.

Check out WelcometonNightvale.com for info about our upcoming live stream of ghost stories for this Halloween month.

Get spooky with us.

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