108 - Cal

and I don't just write Welcome to Nightville, we also write books that are not about Nightville, and here are some of them.

Alice Isn't Dead, a lesbian road trip horror love story for fans of Stephen King.

The Halloween Moon, my book for kids of any age about a Halloween where things really start to get weird for everyone.

The First 10 Years, a memoir from me and my wife about our relationship told year by year without consulting each other about our differences in memory.

And from Jeffrey, You Feel It Just Below the Ribs, an apocalyptic novel that takes place in the same universe as the Within the Wires podcast.

No matter what you're looking for, we've written a book just for you.

Find them where you find books.

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There's a billboard along the highway that reads, everything

must go.

Welcome to Nightfale.

I don't talk much about my brother on this show, Cal.

He visited the other day from his home out near Eagle Farm, up in the mountains.

He looked gaunt and pale.

When I opened the door, he was bracing himself against the porch beam with one arm and coughing.

Cal was holding a suitcase.

It was old-fashioned, leather, the kind without wheels or an extendable handle.

He drove to my house in a 1980 Mercury monarch, brick-red, four doors.

The front left bumper was caved in, and the headlight, which looked to have been taped into place, had loosened again and fallen forward.

I asked Cal what had happened to his car, and he said he didn't know what I was talking about.

I asked about the bumper and headlight, and he said, that's just how they make them, Cecil.

Then he teased me for not understanding cars and walked into my home before I could invite him in.

Have you ever opened a box only to find another box inside that box?

And then you opened that box and there was another box within it.

And then you kept opening boxes hoping to find the last box, but the boxes became so small your comparatively large fingers could no longer open them until the box was so tiny you couldn't see the box at all.

I'm not sure what that means.

It's neither here nor there, which is to say, it's nowhere.

Aqui, aí, todo el mondo, no ainada.

I don't know Spanish.

Yesterday afternoon, Hadassah McDaniels and the other five-headed dragons, outraged at the partial execution of Hadassah's brother Hiram, last fall, moved into City Hall.

They displaced Mayor Cardinal and her staff, who then called upon the Sheriff's Secret Police and the rarely seen Double Secret Police, a police so secret that even their members do not know that they are members.

Both the secret and the very surprised double secret police, just that morning informed of their jobs, showed up at City Hall and tried reasoning with the dragons.

The dragons ignored the weak efforts of the police and made straight for city council.

The council climbed up to the roof of City Hall, their many sharp appendages swinging down from their single giant body, punching out windows and grabbing whatever long dragon necks they could reach.

And the City Council's newest member, 16-year-old Tamika Flynn, the only member not connected to their primary form, rode on the rest of the council's back with a longbow.

The dragons breathed fire upwards at the City Council, who shrieked in pain, or possibly delight.

The battle ended when City Council was knocked off the roof by five-headed dragon and private estate lawyer Dirk Andrews.

The council, minus Tamika, retreated from the advancing dragons, called a lift, and sped out of town as they are wont to do in times of crisis.

Tamika paced at the edge of the city hall lawn, cursing and thwacking a well-worn copy of Glenn David Gold's Carter Beats the Devil into her calloused palm.

Above the city hall, a long black slit was torn into the light blue sky, and no one reported seeing the moon.

When Cal entered my house, I offered him some tea and then called Carlos to come join us.

But Cal said he doesn't drink, and Carlos didn't respond to my calls.

I told Cal it was just tea, no alcohol, and he said he doesn't drink anything.

I peeked into Carlos' office, but he wasn't there.

Nothing was there.

It was just an empty room.

Carlos wasn't gone.

He had never been there.

And for a moment I did not miss him, as for a moment, I did not remember he existed.

It was just an empty room, I thought casually.

Cal set down his suitcase and said, You hear that, Cecil?

Do you hear that noise?

He pointed straight up.

In the firmament, he said.

Do you hear it?

He repeated.

I listened, and I heard.

I heard paper being torn.

I heard leads being pulled.

I heard eggshells crumbling.

When I looked back to say yes, he was holding his hand to his mouth and lurching forward over the sink.

A trickle of blood ran down the outside of his hand.

I could see his tongue moving rapidly along the insides of his cheeks as he let out small grunts.

He finally removed his hand and spat sharply into the kitchen sink.

I heard a loud rattling in the stainless steel basin and saw two teeth, unbroken, root bones and all, lying in the strainer.

I stared at them and remarked at how long a human tooth actually is.

Cal wiped his face and hands.

Nice to finally get rid of those,

he said as he tore off pieces of paper towel and wedged them into the holes in his gums.

Then he asked, You got a girlfriend or what, little brother?

In my life with Cal, I had never told him I would never have a girlfriend.

In Night Vale, no one cared either way.

But I felt like Cal would have.

In this other reality, I was single.

So I only said, no.

He shrugged and scratched his head.

As he did, a patch of dark hair fell to the floor.

We watched it fall, lilting and looping slowly downward.

Which falls faster?

A brick or a tuft of hair?

Carlos taught me this physics riddle.

It's a trick question.

The brick falls faster, not because of its weight, but because a brick falling is less horrifying than the unexpected loss of even a minor part of your body.

Time does not slow down for that which is uninteresting.

Better not look in the mirror.

Cal said as he nervously simulated the sound of laughter.

A dribble of blood ran down his chin and onto his chest.

When the public library disappeared last week, no one celebrated nor mourned its absence, as we could barely remember it being there.

In its place a long black sliver of nothing, a hole in our universe near which no one wanted to go, except for Carlos, who's a scientist and wants to study everything, but I told him, no way.

The pteranodons which poured out of a similar hole inside the rec center last month have taken over the Barista district, building giant nests from canvas bean sacks and flyers promoting local bands and burlesque shows.

Near the city hall, dozens of angels more than I have ever seen at one time are still surrounding the hall of public records, demanding expedition of their application to be officially recognized as living beings.

The angels are waving hand-drawn signs with phrases like look at us.

But their handwriting is so shaky as to make the typography quite distracting.

So most bystanders did not notice the angels, but instead fixated on trying to read their signs.

The angels are shouting, It only works if you believe it does.

But as this sentence has an erratic rhythm, it didn't catch on with many passers-by, many of whom were busy screaming and running from vengeance-minded dragons.

Some even pointed into space and yelled, The distant prince!

He's less distant than ever before.

Cal told me stories of our youth, how, as kids, we would sneak out late at night and vandalize houses and cars for fun.

Little things like stealing hood ornaments, or placing live scorpions in mailboxes, or making creepy ghost noises outside bedroom windows.

He smiled as he regaled what was, for him, a funny story of boys being boys.

But I didn't like his story.

I could remember it.

But I also knew it wasn't real at all.

In his story, I was prying loose the aluminum ram's head at the front of a 1975 Dodge pickup with a flathead screwdriver.

The truck was dark blue with tan leather bench seats.

I remembered it was parked in front of a mid-century ranch-style home with a rock garden full of succulents and herbs.

As Cal spoke, I could smell rosemary in the cool desert air.

Cal placed his hands on his belly and his eyes rolled back in his head.

You okay?

I asked.

It's just the after-effects, man, Cal shrugged.

Hey, you remember when mom used to take us to the library to read, but we would look up dirty words in the dictionary instead?

Mom would have never put us in such danger, I protested.

He stared at me for a moment, his head cocked sideways and eyebrow raised.

Then he lurched forward out of his seat onto onto his hands and knees and vomited onto the rug.

We both stared at the viscous red stain, concerned.

No,

not concerned.

Embarrassed.

Let's have a look at the community calendar.

This Thursday afternoon, the faceless old woman and the woman from Italy will be at the Night Vale Mall from noon to 4 p.m.

offering bespoke tortures for anyone who walks by.

The woman from Italy will recite the unlucky passers-by future pain in the form of a catchy poem, like,

The woman from Italy will leave you in stitches.

Not laughter, though she'll laugh, a sound which is full of diabolical torment and wicked behavior.

as she flays you before your friends and your neighbors.

You'll yet be alive when she opens your chest, the wet beat of of your heart, and the choke of your breath.

She coos, don't fear, it's as quick as can be.

But in truth, there's years left to this misery.

The faceless old woman will simply write some harsh insults in silver sharpie on the side of an eggplant and hurl it at your family.

Saturday afternoon, the Nightvale PTA will be holding an emergency bake sale to raise money for the elementary school gym, recently burned down by Hadassah McDaniels.

It's also a clearance sale to finally get rid of the storeroom full of baked goods that have gone unsold the past two years.

Monday, another hole will open in the sky and then another.

Things will come.

Other things will go.

I will remember that Michigan is a real state and its capital is Lansing.

And that I once went camping with Cal and and my mother and some family friends up near Higgins Lake when I was nine.

Soon after knowing this, I will stop knowing it again.

This has been the community calendar.

I tried to explain to Cal that something was amiss.

I had a sister, not a brother.

I wasn't single, but married.

I tried to show Cal photos of Abby and of my husband, Carlos.

But when I went to our photo albums,

they were different.

There were photos of Cal and I as children, but none of Abby or Carlos or Steve or Janice or this radio station.

None of a recognizable night veil.

Based on our clothing and the cars and the fashions, no photo was older than, I'd say the early 1980s.

There was a picture of me as a teenager at Cal's wedding.

I pointed at her and said, Bethany.

Bethany, still just as radiant, I bet.

And Cal said, don't.

How is she these days?

I asked Cal, and he pushed me and shouted, don't.

He started to cry.

I kept my eyes down the hall toward the empty office.

I knew someone should be in that empty room.

Someone I cared for, someone I loved, but I didn't know who.

Cal's crying turned to sobbing, and he said, I'm sorry, I...

I didn't mean.

I put my arm around him and said softly, I know.

I know, Cal.

Shh.

It's okay.

It's just when you asked about Bethany, he said.

You know she didn't.

She didn't.

He couldn't finish the sentence, but I knew Bethany didn't.

That year, most people didn't.

But also, that's not how it happened.

And also,

I don't have a brother.

He quivered in my arms, and above us, I heard the sky tearing open.

Smoke in the distance.

Most days I see distant smoke.

You okay?

I asked my brother.

Yes, he said.

Thank you for.

Thank you for understanding.

sure thing i said to him please leave my house

and now

the weather

on robert frost if i wrote a poem about the weather it would start in my car digging out for an hour and this town is all just dirt and earth and a little lie in a bigger hurt no i shouldn't have left left my house in the first place, I guess.

But I always go back

to what

I'm meant to be.

I'll go back

to what

I'm meant to be.

So on a polar high that I found one night, it was cold outside.

Where your frozen hands are so much like mine, but they don't compromise.

Now leaping with the ground because I don't want you to leave.

I know it's codependent, but I think it's kind of sweet.

Out of every person in this city I could ever meet.

Leaving feels like losing, but I'm learning what I need.

I go back

to what

I'm meant to be.

I'll go back

to what

I'm meant to be.

The moon.

The morning.

I won't know when it's far.

The eye is the storm, everything

is not what it was.

I wanna know when it stopped.

The I of this storm, everything

is not what it was.

And I'm not Robert Frost.

I wish that I'd replied.

I wish she hadn't died.

I wish a lot of things

The day you lost your dog and I lost my car was a Saturday but the frozen air and the frozen ice and the biggest hurts and the boldest lies are gonna disappear like the melting point like my melting rules like my melting life I go back to where I'm meant to be I'll go back

to where I'm meant to be

I wanna know when it starts

that I

stole everything

is not what it was.

I wanna know when it starts

that I used to do everything

is not what it was.

And I'm like Robert Frost.

I'm not Robert Frost.

If I wrote a poem about decision, it would start, then it would end in that same place.

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I don't talk much about my brother on this show.

Cal,

because he's not my reality.

I almost said he's not real, but that's not true.

There is still a bloodstain on my rug and a bruise from where he pushed me.

I remembered Cal's wedding.

I remembered stealing hood ornaments.

I remembered the smell of that rosemary bush in that rock garden.

But then Cal left.

He did not drive away, but vanished as the gash tore open above us.

I had trouble remembering his visit, so I wrote it all down.

I'm reading it now, to you verbatim from my journal.

And I cannot believe my own writing.

Carlos and his office are back.

They were never gone, Carlos says.

Multiple timelines is basic quantum physics, which is the most exciting kind of physics, he says.

This morning, I gave Carlos a tight hug in bed and kissed him along the back of his beautiful hair.

Perfect, even when matted asymmetrically from sleep.

The angels are still standing around the hall of public records, demanding that people look at them.

There is one sign that says, we're angels and we're totally real, and you're making a huge mistake not acknowledging that.

Trust us, we're totally angels.

And while I appreciate the sentiment, I do think they'd be better served hiring a copywriter, or at least a decent graphic designer.

Holes are tearing open across the sky, and I can barely hear myself thinking most days.

The dragons have marched into the city jail, freeing all of the inmates, mostly political prisoners being held for an unnamed international leader, as well as a handful of colleged-aged drunk tankers.

Mayor Cardinal, from her home, issued a statement about the disintegration of our town and bleeding together of realities.

The statement reads,

My father, who died of liver cancer when I was five,

has returned.

He arrived from a hole in our reality.

I am choosing to go with him, Night Vale.

I am choosing the world where he did not die, where I did not kill my double, where dragons did not destroy our town.

Listen to the ripping of the firmament and find the world you prefer, Night Vale.

All else is pain.

Listeners,

I beg you

not

to do this.

This is the world we have built.

Right here.

If you leave, if you don't accept it,

it cannot hold together.

Hold tight

those you love, Nightvale.

Not for fear of their loss, but for love of their presence.

Hold on to what you know is real.

Life is only a narrative, but it's a narrative we write together.

Stay tuned next for

huh?

Whatever was on the schedule for this month has all been scribbled out with charcoal.

And with the same charcoal, someone has scrawled a story about Huntokar

across the entire broadcast calendar.

So stay tuned for that,

I guess.

And for what it's worth, and for however long our own narrative has left.

Good night, Nightvale.

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 Joseph Fink.

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 Robert Frost by Mal Bloom.

Find out more at malbloom.com.

Comments, questions, email us at info at welcometonightvale.com or follow us on Twitter at Nightvale Radio or do whatever you want.

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Check out welcometonightvale.com for more information on this show and our other shows, including the Orbiting Human Circus' new between-season presentation, The Second Imaginary Symphony.

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Today's proverb, you'll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, but you'll catch even more with a corpse of some sort.

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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.

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Boo.