130 - A Story About Us

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.

We have new episodes every single week.

So that's Good Morning Nightvale Within the Wires and Random Horror 9.

Go to nightvalepresents.com for more or get those podcasts wherever you get your podcasts.

Summer is turning to fall, which frankly, rude of summer to do.

But don't worry, Quince is here with fall staples that will last for many falls to come.

We're talking cashmere, denim.

This is quality that holds up at a price that you frankly just won't believe.

We're talking super soft, 100% Mongolian cashmere sweaters, which sounds like the kind of item that you need a credit check to even imagine, and it starts at just $60.

Plus, Quince partners directly with Ethical Factories, so you get top-tier fabrics and craftsmanship at half the price.

I got an adorable dress for my daughter, which she helped pick out.

She wore it at her first day of school.

She loves that dress.

It has pockets, if you know, you know.

I also got myself a mulberry silk sleeping mask, and every night since has been a luxury.

I have never gotten better sleep than with mulberry silk draped upon my eyes.

Experience what it must be like to be wealthy without having to, you know, have a bank account that doesn't make you wince when you check it.

Keep it classic and cool this fall with long-lasting staples from Quince.

Go to quince.com/slash nightfail for free shipping on your order and 365-day returns.

That's quince.com slash nightfail.

Free shipping and 365-day returns.

Quince.com/slash nightfail.

This is a story about us, said the man on the radio, and we were pleased because we always wanted to hear about ourselves on the radio.

Welcome to Night Vale.

This is a story about us.

We live in trailers out near the car lot, next to the house where the angels reside.

We live in homes near a poorly secured library, hiding and shivering, fearing an escape.

We live in apartments below heavy-footed neighbors.

We live on streets, removing ourselves from a world that refuses to learn how to love us.

At night we can see the red light blinking on and off on top of the radio tower.

A tiny flurry of human activity against the implacable backdrop of stars and void.

We sit out on the steps of our trailer, on the balcony of our apartment, on a bench in Mission Grove Park, on a tree swing in our yard, with our backs to the brightness of the moon, watching the radio tower for hours.

But only sometimes.

Mostly we do other things.

This is a story about us.

We eat together in the Moonlight All-Night Diner.

One of us is philanthropist Thomas Charles Fleming.

who once caught a hog and showed it to a local radio host who happened to find hogs adorable and just wanted to pet one and speak in high-pitched voices to it and name it Gary or Dolores and listen to its snorting breaths in order to feel alive.

Especially on that particular day where that radio host's intern forgot to buy coffee.

Anything to start a day with a charge.

Thomas Charles sits in the moonlight all night, eating his skirt steak, and it begins to choke.

We are are alarmed because we feel empathy.

Selfish, selfish empathy.

We feel our own necks seize up.

We hold our hands to our own throats gently, choreographed mimicry, a modern dance around the themes of mortality, as Thomas Charles heaves forward, gasping.

his eyes bulging.

We look to the OSHA-mandated choking assistance poster near the cash register.

We begin to recite the instructions to each other and demonstrate the moves required to complete this life-saving pas de Dieu.

One of us, dinosaur expert Joel Eisenberg, stands and wraps his thin arms around Thomas Charles.

Joel pulls his hands into a central fist under the victim's sternum.

Joel yanks his hand back and up, and we shout harder, and some of us shout softer.

Thomas Charles thinks of the new Night Vale Botanic Gardens he created.

His mind wanders to the pride he felt opening this cultural institution and secretly the guilt he feels about the frightening people he partnered with to fund it.

He knows he must warn us.

but does not know about what exactly.

In dying, we often find that the lists of what must be done evaporate and there is nothing left to be done.

And there never was.

Needing to do things was an illusion we built to keep ourselves busy.

We panic in our efforts to free Thomas Charles' esophagus.

One of us, Laura, A waitress in the diner, breaks off a heavy branch that was growing out of her hip and begins poking Thomas Charles in the chest.

We frantically fumble for our phones typing in Heimlich Maneuver, all unsure how to spell it.

Some of us saying it's H-I-E,

others saying H-E-I, one of us even saying maneuvre has an O in it somewhere, I'm sure of it.

We find an article headlined, Save a Choking Victim with One Surprising Move, but become frustrated by the amount of pop-up windows.

Thomas Charles grabs a pen pen and a napkin and scrawls a single word.

We argue about what exactly it says.

Maybe he wrote swan pops, we say.

That's not a word, we reply.

What about sounderoos?

We interject as we stare at ourselves wondering who would think that made any sense.

You know, like children's pajamas made from audio frequencies, one of us says.

It could work, that same one says to the quiet room.

Then continuing, as a tech startup, like an app on your phone that makes,

before trailing off, running out of words to protect the judgmental silence.

Oh, it's a great idea, we all agree, in order to ameliorate the situation.

And we pat Thomas Charles on the back to congratulate him on his multi-million dollar idea of audio-only children's sleepwear.

We think for a moment that it is this companionable swat of the choking man's ribs that will finally free the steak from his throat.

We have read enough short stories to know that this is a sensible narrative resolution, requiring an unforeseen solution to an impossible problem.

And given that we are hearing our story on the radio, we know that this is the perfect culmination of a tale about a collective we, a coming together, a climactic camaraderie.

But it does not work.

Thomas Charles sinks to his knees, eyes wet and resolved.

In the commotion of choking hazards, clickbait, and startup dreams, We fail to notice two men who have entered the diner.

One is not tall.

One is not short.

They are not part of us, so we know that this story is not about them.

The one who is not short moves Joel Eisenberg aside and then grabs Thomas Charles' shoulders.

The one who is not tall punches Thomas Charles in the stomach as a piece of beef shooms out of his mouth.

a rope of spit, and a soft wheeze tailing it.

The piece of unchewed meat arcs perfectly into a wastebasket and we cheer.

These strangers saved a man we barely knew.

Thomas Charles inhales loudly and finally shouts, it says stone crops.

Stone crops.

Shut up, said the man who is not tall.

Come outside, says the man who is not short.

Please, Thomas Charles pleads.

I'm sorry I told them about stone crops.

Everyone is sorry you did that, said the not-short man.

This is not how I wanted to spend my day, says the not-tall man.

We hear the radio describe two men of indistinct heights walking another man out of the moonlight all night.

We hear the man on the radio describe a muffled pop of a handgun from the parking lot, the slamming of a trunk, and the fading Doppler effect of a vehicle speeding away.

We sit in our booths, poking hash browns with spoons, imagining we heard a car backfiring instead.

We leave the diner and find a bloodstain on the asphalt by our truck, or our sedan, or our motorcycle, and we pretend it is a spilled drink.

Let's have a look at the community calendar.

Last Saturday at noon, we all went to the botanic gardens for the opening of the new exhibit called Sedum Fields.

One of us who is a docent at the gardens named Hala Darvish explained to us that these succulent plants are excellent for private gardens as they are affordable, easy to maintain, beautiful, and require little water.

Sedum are often referred to as stone crops, Hala tells us before it means anything.

She then thanked Thomas Charles Fleming and an anonymous benefactor for funding the botanic gardens.

On Monday, we attended an emergency press conference at the site of City Hall, where no mayor currently presides.

Before an empty mic, reporters asked questions and then tried to transcribe the occasional sounds of wind and crickets onto their notepads.

One of us, Pamela Winchell, uncharacteristically tamped down her usual bluster and allowed someone else to speak for her.

In this case, the incidental sounds of nature.

On Tuesday, we took a longer than usual lunch break to go look again at the Sedum Fields exhibit in the Botanic Gardens, and we saw the sunny summer blooms, which are elongated pink tubes billowing at the top looking ready to burst.

But in the middle, there are asymmetrical bulges, like small crouching humans inside.

A docent who is not Hollidarvish, and who was not any of us, and who was neither tall nor short, told us to look at another plant.

These were not for us.

As we got back into our vehicles, cranberry spinach salads with sesame vinaigrette only half eaten, we caught a glimpse of this new docent plucking the unopened blooms and placing them gently into crates.

We heard one of us on the radio say this aloud as we scattered back to our desks and counters and warehouses and trucks and kitchens.

This has been

ah

oops.

That was

last week's community calendar.

Well,

this has been community history.

Disturbed by the presence of the men who carry crates, who possibly kill philanthropist hog catchers, and who hurry us through our garden visits, we anxiously eat our daily meals, absentmindedly do our jobs, and mutter angrily during showers about our own inaction in the face of brutality by those who are not us.

We are people of action.

This is a story about us, we say aloud in unison from our couches.

We stand and walk and look at each other in the streets and join hands.

We join hands and sing.

We sing, Angel is a centerfold.

Because some of us had just attended a minor league baseball game and could not rid themselves of the sexist earworm.

We walk past the scrublands and the sand wastes to the edge of the desert and we surround a cargo truck filled with crates.

There are two men, neither tall nor short.

They do not move.

One of us, who is a sheriff named Sam, places the men under arrest for the murder of Thomas Charles Fleming.

The man who is not tall says, he was not who you thought he was.

The man who is not short says, do they still have HBO in the abandoned mine shaft outside of town?

This is not a story about you, we shout, this is a story about us.

Sam places the two handcuffed men into a white police car with undercover police in bold lettering across the sides and a stylized rhinoceros holding a nightstick painted on the hood.

We turn to each other and celebrate with smiles and eye contact.

Diane Creighton tells Nazr al-Mujahid, we saved our town.

Nazar groans and does not respond.

He has talked little in recent months.

Susan Willman tells Simone Rigideau, what a happy ending.

Amber Akini tells Wilson Levy, This is a better world now, Wilson, for our son.

She pats her belly, and Wilson begins to cry.

Steve Carlsberg, who can sometimes be a killjoy, but whose intuition is not often wrong, says, look,

the truck.

We look at the truck.

This is not a story about a truck, we say,

as six-foot-long pink blooms burst from tiny crates.

They stumble and squirm like humans swaddled in plastic wrap toward us

under a clear, predictable afternoon sky and in the face of terror.

The last thing on our minds is the weather.

I got a reason

for everything I do But if I'm honest,

that reason's mostly you So I guess that

I'll be judged by who I trust Which if I'm honest is just you

I got an excuse

for each mistake I've made So if you need one

Well I would gladly trade And then you too

Will be judged by who you trust.

Which, if we're honest, is just me.

You and I don't make a bit of sense,

but blissful love is senseless love.

We don't have much, but we're still fine.

Cause who needs space when we have time?

We don't have much but we're still fine

We don't have space but we have time

I got a habit

I'm trying hard to break I've got a feeling

That I'm finding hard to shake So I guess I'll judge my trust is true which will lead me back to you

I've got a reason

and it's also an excuse so if you need one

it's yours if it's of use then we'll both be

judged and that is just cause we're both guilty of us

You and I don't make a bit of sense

But who needs sense when we have love?

We don't have much, but we're still fine.

Cause who needs space when we have time?

We don't have much, but we're still fine.

We don't have space, but we have time.

when you look into the shadows, do you ever feel something looking back?

If you're looking for your next great fiction podcast, something dark, immersive, and just a little unsettling, listen to The Void, the new series from Fable and Folly.

It's made for fans of horror, sci-fi, and seriously spooky stories.

In the town of Milton, the darkness isn't just in your head, it's in the woods.

They call it the void, a cursed expanse that surrounds the town and swallows anyone who dares to leave.

But when a strange old man shares a mysterious pamphlet that promises a path through the void, Sam and his friends set off on a journey that unravels everything that they thought they knew about their home.

The void is dark, atmospheric, and relentlessly tense with cinematic sound design, a full voice cast, and a haunting musical score.

Think stranger things meet Super Eight, but in podcast form.

Search for the void wherever you get your podcasts and step carefully.

The woods are watching.

Hey, it's Jeffrey Kraner with a word from our sponsor.

You're on a desert island, but not a deserted island.

Someone else is there.

Something else is there.

In the water, surrounding you lurks a mythical beast with two large eyes and many long arms.

You're just now hearing of this beast, but you're not afraid because you don't plan to swim, though that water looks nice.

You're good at talking yourself into things, and soon you are in the sea, frolicking and splashing.

You even squeal, thinking you're all alone.

But you forgot what I just said.

You're not alone.

Something wraps itself around you, it lifts you high in the air, waving you about at dizzying heights.

You look down and see the mythical kraken.

You start to scream, but in its other tentacles are bottles of kraken black spiced rum and kraken gold spiced rum.

I love kraken rum, you say.

It's bold, smooth, and made with a blend of spices.

You high-five the beast as it sets you back down down on the island, along with the bottles of Kraken Rum.

It winks and tells you Kraken Rum is ideal for Halloween cocktails and disappears back into the dark, briny depths.

Visit the official sponsor of Welcome to Night Vale, Kraken Rum.com to release the Kraken this Halloween.

Copyright 2025, Kraken Rum Company, Kraken Rum.com.

Like the deepest sea, the Kraken should be treated with great respect and responsibility.

The protagonist of a story must have agency, must use use their skills against their antagonist.

This is a story about us, and so we actively confront our predicament.

Nilanjana Sikdar attempts to communicate with the beings.

They make no noise.

Pamela Winchell shouts at them through a bullhorn, but they do not react.

Josh Creighton changes his physical form into a great white shark, but they show no fear.

And he finds it hard to breathe on land, land, so changes back into a hummingbird.

Henrietta Bell throws her co-worker, Sarah Sultan, who is a fist-sized river rock, at the creatures, but they do not flinch.

16-year-old Tamika Flynn loads a crossbow with an explosive-tipped arrow, and we question our lackadaisical weapons laws in this state.

Overwhelmed, we back against each other, surrounded by the writhing, featureless beasts.

A flower monster reaches out, its arms stretching elastic under the petals, and touches former mayor, Dana Cardinal.

Another touches Harrison Kipp, and another touches Leanne Hart just as she reaches for the hatchet she keeps in a waist holster.

The top of the flower opens up, and inside it

is you.

Yes.

Specifically,

you.

We all recall many years ago, there once was a story about you right here on this radio station.

Now your eyes are open, but empty.

Your face swollen and teeth shattered in places.

Part of your right ear is gone.

And we remember,

you died in that story.

We all felt bad but here you are

again

inside a flower staring crooked and blank at our screaming faces.

Another flower opens and another broken face of someone who once lived in Nightvale and another

and another.

And as the last flower opens, the face of Thomas Charles Fleming emerges.

His head split right where his hair once parted.

His lips in the final hiss of an S,

like a man whose last word was

stone crops.

Sheriff Sam returns with the two men and releases them from their handcuffs, ordering them to take these monstrosities away from here and then come back to be arrested.

The men gently lift each writhing bloom into the back of the cargo truck.

They say nothing.

We ask, who are you?

They say nothing.

What are these crates?

They say nothing.

These are people you have killed.

They pause briefly, but say nothing.

Are the crates always filled with bodies which are also flowers?

The men shake their heads.

No.

The man who is not short says, we are only doing our job.

And what is your job?

We ask.

We handle the crates, says the one who is not tall.

Are you hiring?

says Trish Hidge, who recently lost her job at City Hall.

The botanic gardens are closed to the public, the not short man says.

It is better that no one involve themselves in this, the not-tall man says.

They climb into the truck and drive away with their broken crates and human flowers.

We look at each other, relieved to know we completed another day, alive and together, but bereft of solutions.

or answers.

We have defeated gods, we say, and dragons, we say, and librarians, we say, and despotic corporate overlords, we say, and kind of high-five each other about that one in particular.

But these men, Missy Wilkes says.

Maintenance men, Leanne Hart says, already writing the story in her head.

Mafia, Sheriff Sam suggests.

They're kind of cute, Michelle Wynn says, as her girlfriend Maureen nods in agreement.

Not everyone gets to know everything,

we tell ourselves.

We have limitations, we say, stumbling upon a new truth.

And when we know what we cannot know, we can believe whatever

we want.

Flower

mafia, Sheriff Sam insists.

Cancer is actually more inexplicable and frightening than those men, Lorelei Alvarez says, from great and terrible experience.

And we smile and, yeah,

collectively nod, culminating in a townwide understanding that we not only touched the sky, but pushed against it.

We know more about what we cannot know, and we are less afraid, even if we're still quite afraid.

But in a productive, positive way, like knowing not to put hornets in your mouth.

We learned this

all together.

Tough luck about you, though.

Hope you're doing okay at the gardens.

I mean, it didn't look like you were, but we do wish you the best.

We walk to our homes, turn on our radios, and hide.

And we listen to a familiar voice say,

this has been a story about us.

And we are pleased because we always wanted to hear about ourselves

on the radio.

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 Kraner and produced by Disparition.

The voice of Night Vale is Cecil Baldwin.

Original music by Disparition.

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

This episode's weather was Space and Time by Joseph Fink.

You can get it and other music Joseph has written for Night Vale at josephfink.bandcamp.com.

Comments, questions, email us at info info at welcometonightvale.com or follow us on Twitter at nightvale radio or hold a summit with North Korea.

I don't know, why not?

You're just as qualified.

Check out WelcometonNightvale.com for more information on this show and our 2018-2019 world tour to over 40 cities.

Wow, that is so many cities.

Today's proverb: anything is a piñata if you hit it hard enough.

Packages by Expedia.

You were made to occasionally take the hard route to the top of the Eiffel Tower.

We were made to easily bundle your trip.

Expedia, made to travel.

Flight-inclusive packages are at all protected.

I'm Amy Nicholson, the film critic for the LA Times.

And I'm Paul Scheer, an actor, writer, and director.

You might know me from the League Veep or my non-eligible for Academy Award role in Twisters.

We love movies, and we come at them from different perspectives.

Yeah, like Amy thinks that, you know, Joe Pesci was miscast in Goodfellas, and I don't.

He's too old.

Let's not forget that Paul thinks that Dune 2 is overrated.

It is.

Anyway, despite this, we come together to host Unschooled, a podcast where we talk about good movies, critical hits, fan favorites, must-sees, and in case you missed them.

We're talking Parasite the Home Alone, From Greece to the Dark Knight.

We've done deep dives on popcorn flicks.

We've talked about why Independence Day deserves a second look.

And we've talked about horror movies, some that you've never even heard of, like Kanja and Hess.

So if you love movies like we do, come along on our cinematic adventure.

Listen to Unschooled wherever you get your podcast.

And don't forget to hit the follow button.

Hey, y'all, it is Jeffrey Kraner speaking to you from the year 2025.

And did you know that Welcome to Night Vale is back out on tour?

We are.

We're going to be up in the northeast in the Boston, New York City area, going all the way over to the upper Midwest in Minnesota.

That's in July.

You know, kind of draw a line through there, and you'll kind of see the towns we'll be hitting.

We'll also be doing Philly down to Florida in September.

and we'll be going from Austin all the way up through the middle of the country into Toronto, Canada in October, and then we'll be doing the West Coast plus the Southwest plus Colorado in January of 2026.

You can find all of the show dates at welcome to nightvale.com slash live.

Listen, this brand new live show is so much fun.

It is called Murder Night in Blood Forest, and it stars Cecil Baldwin, of course, Symphony Sanders, me, and live original music by Disparition, and who knows what other special guests may come along for the ride.

These tours are are always so much fun, and they are for you, the diehard fan, and you, the night veil new kid alike.

So feel comfortable bringing your family, your partner, your co-workers, your cat, whatever.

They don't got to know what a night veil is to like the show.

Tickets to all of these live shows are on sale now at welcometonightvale.com/slash live.

Don't let time slip away and miss us when we are in your town because otherwise we will all be sad.

Get your tickets to our live U.S.

plus Toronto tours right now at welcometonightveld.com/slash live.

And hey, see you soon.