39 - The Woman from Italy (R)

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.

Okay, bye!

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Flying is actually the safest mode of transportation.

The second safest is dreaming.

The third safest is decomposing into rich earth and drifting away with the wind and rain.

Welcome to Nightmare.

Hello listeners.

Welcome to this another

day.

Or you were already in this day and my voice is now joining you.

Perhaps you should be welcoming me.

I'd like to take this moment to update you about the misbehaving child, Tamika Flynn.

She has been witnessed with her army of missing children sabotaging any business owned by Strexcorp, which is getting to be most of them at this point.

The White Sand Ice Cream Shop isn't.

There are probably others.

They should not be proud of this.

Tamiko was last seen leading her army through the Ralphs, shouting to all witnesses that, We are here.

We are the beating heart.

We are the breathing lungs.

We are the lips that chant.

Before erecting a bloodstone circle in the produce section in direct defiance of Strexcorp's recent ban on bloodstone manufacture and use.

This

was wrong of her

and it is my duty to condemn her act of extreme civic pride and heroism,

which is also wrong.

Everything was incorrect and not allowed, and should not be celebrated or reported on.

Listen, listening is dangerous.

Talking, more so.

Things aren't looking so good for quiet existence either.

In an unrelated report, yellow helicopters have continued to disappear from their place in the sky, along with the pilots who were presumably inside.

The helicopters are disappearing almost as fast as our beneficent sponsors, Strexcorp, can supply them.

Strexcorp management released a series of flares from the darkened horizon which spelled in Morse code.

We love your enthusiasm for our products, but those helicopters are for your own good and productivity.

Please, stop taking them.

Don't make us ask again, or we will have to do a number of unproductive things with your human form.

Also, and I don't even know why I'm bringing this up, there was a new woman drinking coffee at the Moonlight All-Night Diner this morning.

She smiled twice and frowned once, and her fingers tapped out a rhythm.

There was nothing unusual about the rhythm.

She ordered a second coffee.

She.

The woman from Italy is arriving today.

Nothing can stop her from coming this way.

She will not hear pleading.

She cares not for succor.

She is the woman from Italy.

Bow low before her.

All the children in town know to hide in their rooms.

The adults have forgotten.

They'll recall all too soon.

Her hands are like storm clouds with lightning-quick talons.

All before is a murmur.

All after is silence.

And ate the last of her eggs.

Nothing more to report on the woman at this time.

I don't even know why I reported what I just did.

The vague yet menacing government agency would like to address the lights and sounds seen in the scrublands just off Route 800 yesterday.

Many townspeople reported seeing a great craft alight on the ground and disgorge spindly creatures of enormous size.

wavering up into the darkness with limbs that's angle and attachment met none of the the criteria of human biologic knowledge.

The agency would like to inform you that what you mistook for the scrublands was actually your grandmother's house.

That what you mistook for a great craft was your grandmother, with whom you have a tense but ultimately loving relationship.

And what you mistook as enormous spindly creatures were the words you and your grandmother exchanged.

Pleasantries and reminiscence to avoid discussing all the hurt that lies behind you, and the ultimate ending to your shared past that is foreshadowed by her every forgetful moment, every tremble in her hand.

There is no such thing as aliens, says the vague yet menacing government agency.

Your grandmother is dying, and so are you.

You have this in common.

Celebrate it.

A memo from the owner of the Ace Hardware on 5th and Shea Street.

They will no longer tolerate baristas lining up for day jobs in their parking lot.

Every morning at dawn, Dozens of baristas with newsboy caps, waxed mustaches, and knit ties tucked into button sweater vests continue to crowd the parking lot, foreheads beaded with desperation, and hoping to be picked up to operate unlicensed espresso machines.

This is scaring away the legitimate Ace hardware customers, and the baristas will be required to return to their caves just on the outskirts of town, near the sand wastes, in the Barista district.

Oh, some great news to all of you out there who adopted kittens from Koshek, the cat floating in our station bathroom.

Well, it's been several months, and the kittens have just been growing like you wouldn't believe.

They've molted twice, and some of them are already getting their grown-up kitty spine ridges.

Which brings me to my grave warning.

As we all know, the spine ridges of adult cats are highly poisonous.

If you are coming to see a kitten that you have adopted, it is important that you check for the location and severity of the spine ridge before attempting any petting.

Also, keep your hands away from their mouths.

A few of them have developed their venom sacks.

We lost two cat adopters already this month, so let's just be careful, people.

And let's take care of these cute little kitties.

Who's my adorable little kitten with your adorable tendril hub?

It's you, it's you.

I'm not even sure why I bring this up, but the new woman is wandering down Main Street.

Checking out the various knick-knack stores and antique shops and chanting dens and food wallows that have been springing up with all this new money flooded into Night Vale from one single, uncomfortably efficient source.

She is window shopping, but hasn't found one she likes yet.

Bay windows, stained glass, a car window taken from a 1983 Honda Odyssey.

She bought none of them.

She gnaws softly on the side of her thumb.

She.

The woman from Italy is with us this evening.

We hide and we shudder, but there is no deceiving.

She exhales must and steam, she poisons the air.

Say you have a family, say it.

She doesn't care.

The woman from Italy delights in your pain.

She asks just one favor, but asks again and again.

Do you think you could, no rush, just a moment, give in screaming to eternally burning torment?

Sang an impromptu song to the delight of everyone who heard her.

No one heard her.

And now, traffic.

Think of a number.

Any number.

That number is how many thousands of years old a certain certain rock is.

That number

is how many times someone has cried in their life.

That number is the lucky number of an unlucky man who has yet to realize he is unlucky.

Think of a number.

No.

Think of numbers.

Picture all of these abstract representations of human thought, all of them forming an imagined pattern, as all patterns are imagined.

And picture how those abstractions describe, in specific ways, real moments that exist.

Picture numbers.

There is a woman who lives at 531 Beechwood Street.

Her phone number starts with a 3 and ends with a 5.

She smiled 18 times yesterday.

She is currently thinking of three things she needs to do.

There are actually four things she needs to do.

She has forgotten one of them.

She touches the doorknob two times before committing to its turn.

She has two eyes.

She has two hands.

She has two more chances to make her life what she thinks it should be.

But she doesn't know it yet.

Think of a number.

Yes,

that's the one.

That's the one that describes an infinity of disparate truths about our disparate universe.

Also,

the roads are looking clear.

This has been

traffic.

And now a word from our sponsors:

Filler text to be replaced with actual material.

Replace with copy before sending to radio station.

Talking points go here.

Something about coffee.

Something about the bright start of a hypothetical day.

Something about secret boxes locked in secret soundproof rooms.

Maybe make it a song.

Look into that.

Then slogan goes here, Starbucks.

Copy and paste slogan again here.

Also, just reminding the future me that comes back to rewrite this, that I need to grab some milk.

I think the one in the office fridge is starting to turn.

As long as I'm reminding myself things,

I'm a good person, worthy of love, both from myself and others.

And writing press releases and ads like this is just the start of a great writing career.

You have a novel in you, kid.

You have a novel in you.

This has been a word from our sponsors.

In economic news, the White Sand Ice Cream Shop has gone out of business and will never open

again.

The owners, Lucy and Hannah Gutierrez, have gone bankrupt, and, as is usual for bankruptcy cases, have had their lives confiscated by the nearest friendly large business, which in this case was

Strexcorp.

We were only too happy to help.

Strexcorp carved into a large slab, uncovered this morning out in the sand wastes, and dated to several thousand years ago by reputable scientists and experts.

The carving continued.

Lucy and Hannah are valuable members of this community, and now their value has been added to our value.

We are even more valuable now.

Everyone wins, even if it seems like some of the everyones are gone, or absorbed, or dead.

This is just part of the natural process of winning.

Archaeologists were baffled when presented with the content of the carving and evidence of its age, saying that just moments ago they were working in a museum in Los Angeles and they have no idea where they are or how they were so suddenly brought here.

Let us go home, they said to the person presenting the carving.

Please, let us go home.

In a story that will interest no one,

the new woman is sitting on a bench in Mission Grove Park reading an old paperback copy of a book apparently called Bridge of Birds.

Her hair flutters a bit in the breeze.

She turns a page in the book.

She crosses her legs as she leans back and relaxes into the story she is reading.

She...

The woman from Italy, oh end of all things.

She has seen the fall of Babylon.

She has drunk the blood of kings.

Her robes are shadow, her eyes are dusk, her voice is amber and chalk dust and rust.

The woman from Italy has honed in on your scent.

She seeks out your refuge.

Oh, yes, she knows where you went.

It's your skin

that she wants

bound and brown

into leather.

But first, pre-decease,

I give you the weather.

Well I

die

in Penn Station tonight, oh Lord

Well I

die

in Penn Station tonight, oh Lord

in Penn Station

with a

toothbrush and a comb

Five dollars and a dead cell phone, oh Lord

No photo ID

No past to torture me, oh Lord

No past to torture me

when I die

in Penn Station tonight, oh Lord,

well I

die

in Penn Station the night, oh Lord

In Benn Station tonight

Oh, how sweetly I do sleep

on the bathroom tower where I bought a sweep with a nickel in mind

like the star behind the ham.

All on like the star behavior ham

and the low

track number seven.

There's a train that take me to heaven,

but a faster train's coming near

the devil engine.

There's a Lord that the devil engineer

Well I

died

in Penn Station and I lowered

Well I

died

in Penn Station and I loaded

in the pen station,

and I go

track on the sun.

There's a train to take me to heaven, Lord.

But a faster train's coming near.

Devil engine,

oh Lord, back a devil engineer.

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 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.

You chose to hit play on this podcast today.

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Welcome back, listeners.

Usually, after the weather, I am here to tell you about how we have been saved from some world-ending danger that for whatever reason has failed again to end our world.

But today I have no such report because there is no such danger.

Or there is an infinitude of such dangers.

Rocks hurtling unseen from space, gamma-ray bursts created by chance and utterly destroying by chance, disease,

war, hunger, or the slow dissipation of it all, not by the sudden, but by the gradual always.

But now is not the time for such light-hearted, childish thoughts.

Now is the time for me to talk.

Um let's see.

What can I talk about?

Ah,

well,

that new woman, the one I have been for some reason reporting on, she is leaving town.

She has bought a razor scooter from the pawn shop and is using it to skim her way down the shoulder of Route 800.

Destination and origin both unknown.

But we know where she is now.

Good for us.

Any information is impressive in such an opaque world.

Cars honk and swerve.

There are a few accidents.

A man gets out of his car and looks at his bumper, fists on his hips, his mouth half open, saying, well, what is this now?

Well, what is this now?

The woman does not seem to hear him or anything else.

She is skimming slowly out of town.

Her hand raises.

It waves goodbye.

Her shoulders bounce slightly with the imperfections of the road.

She turns to look back, and we all see her face and we.

The woman from Italy, oh merciful goddess.

Her victims are legion, but this evening they're not us.

We grab grateful breaths from the night-shaded air.

Baited breaths, fearful breaths, but breathe deep, nothing there.

The woman from Italy is gone, but then not for always.

She waits behind doors and at the end of dark hallways.

She follows no logic.

exists solely for spite.

But you are safe for now, dear listener.

So good night, Night Vale.

Good night.

Welcome to Night Vale is a production of commonplace books.

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

Some additional material in this episode was written by Glenn David Gold, who writes amazing books.

Read them.

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 Penn Station by the Felice Brothers.

Find out more at thefelicebrothers.com.

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

Check out welcome to nightvale.com for more information on this show as well as all sorts of cool nightvale stuff you can own.

And while you're there, consider clicking the donate link.

That'd be cool of you.

Today's proverb.

Your Bitcoin address is your middle name followed by the name of your first pet and the first street you lived on.

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 Unspooled, 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 Grease 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 Unspooled wherever you get your podcasts.

And don't forget to hit the follow button.

Hi, we're Meg Bashwiner.

And Joseph Fink of Welcome to Night Vale.

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 The episode of Star Trek, where Beverly Krusher has sex with a ghost.

The episode of the X-Files, where Scully gets attacked by a vicious house cat.

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.