72 - Well of Night

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.

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Welcome to Night Vale.

I didn't sleep well last night.

I imagine none of you slept well last night, what with all the chanting and stomping?

I could see from my window a stark white V opening skyward, just to the south of our apartment.

With its inverted cone, long shadows cutting in and out, a vertical static.

I could hear a distant, repeated chant.

Bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum.

Something like that.

Again, that's not so unusual.

When you live in a city long enough, you get used to the nighttime noise of car alarms or howls of stray cats, or the occasional carolers crouching by your front door singing about some new god they invented in a nightclub.

It's basic urban life.

But this chant was different.

I first heard only the shouts of one or two people.

Ba-da-ba.

Ba-da-ba.

Whatever the chant was.

I figured they were simply college kids who discovered some dinosaur bones, which I understand is a thing college kids are into

these days.

Carlos was able to sleep through the sounds.

He can sleep through anything.

Alarm clocks, clocks, heavy construction, even that god-awful screeching the sunrise makes.

But I was in and out of light sleep all night.

By just before dawn, the handful of chanters had grown to a large crowd.

What was that chant?

Wah, wah, wah, wah, wah, wah.

I couldn't tell, but there must have been dozens of them.

Well, hopefully, they keep it down tonight.

Let's have a look now at the community calendar.

Wednesday night, the staff of Dark Owl Records will be holding a seance to try to reach the ghost of Taylor Swift.

They'll be lighting candles and holding hands and playing Swift's newest album, 1879, which was named after the year she was born into a human body, for the 15th time.

Record shop owner Michelle Wynne says it's important that they get hold of Swift's ghost so they can ask her detailed questions about what kind of music she was into back then because, well, the Dark Owl staff is running out of music that no one else has heard of.

They want to find music that no longer exists so they can get into that.

Wynne also wants to trash talk Emile Verliner, who was Swift's ex-boyfriend and who totally stole Swift's idea to invent the gramophone.

He hated music, Wynne said.

He had some pretty fly ties, so like, I could see him inventing a pocket square, but not a turntable.

Ugh, did I just use the word fly?

Wynn added.

The seance will be from 10 p.m.

to 2 a.m., and there will be a live DJ, snacks, whispering, and darkness.

Thursday afternoon, the Night Vale Community Players will hold auditions for their fall production of David Mammet's Oleana.

Director Chandra Richardson wants to take a fresh approach to this controversial play, stating that she plans on removing all of the words and stage directions.

Instead, simply presenting a stage full of actors juggling and or eating things like candles and fruit and rodents.

Richardson says that the original 1992 play took a literal approach to the broad topics of gender and power, and she wants to find a more challenging, metaphorical approach to this difficult material.

Talking in English directly about a subject is a very 1990s thing to do.

I think we can update this story by stripping it of its language and narrative and just juggling and eating things,

Richardson said.

Hopeful actors should meet at 2 p.m.

at the rec center and bring their own candles and rodents.

Fruit will be provided.

No previous acting experience or understanding of any specific language is necessary.

Friday night is the Night Vale Alive Fireworks Spectacular, put on each month by a vague yet menacing government agency.

Representatives for the event, speaking through other representatives, who we met in disguise, using code names, in an undisclosed location, said this month's fireworks spectacular promises to be the largest and most exciting of the year.

You won't want to miss it, the representative whispered from behind a granite-colored Dodge Grand Caravan.

But unfortunately, the representative added, you will have to miss it because it is a covert and secret fireworks show.

Everyone must stay inside and close all doors and window coverings.

So prepare a picnic and gather the family into the panic room this Friday night.

Saturday is already over before it's even begun.

Where does the time go?

Oh, that's not even a metaphor.

This coming Saturday ended weeks ago, but no one knows where it went or why.

An update on last evening's weird lights and chanting.

I'm getting word that the gathering of chanters was down by the old well in the south of town.

Now, of course, we all know the old well.

It's that well that inexplicably appeared a few days ago.

We call it the old well because it's been a really long week this week.

What with getting back from vacation and returning to work and school?

Plus, it's been super hot here this August.

We're all just kind of over it.

So like two or three days feels like ages.

That well's been there basically forever.

Apparently, a couple of people noticed that after sunset the well emanates a bright light.

As they approached the well, their eyes and hair disappeared, and they began whispering, well of night,

to passers-by.

They kept repeating the whisper, well of night, to anyone who would listen, but given that it is bad luck to acknowledge a stranger, most people hurried by without paying too close attention.

Eventually, someone pulled their car over near the well and asked the whisperers for directions to Chipotle.

The whisperers replied, well of night.

And in a blink, the car was gone, and the driver was standing next to the two whisperers, equally eyeless, equally hairless.

All three of them shouting, well of life,

well of life.

The three of them then did a series of moderate calisthenics, where they took large skipping steps, bringing their knees up to their chests and twirling their arms as straight sticks in conflicting circles above their heads.

Or maybe this wasn't calisthenics, but ritual dancing.

I'm not sure.

Both are important parts of a solid daily health regimen.

More on this as it develops.

But first, a look at today's traffic.

There's an accident on Galloway Road beneath the overpass of Route 800.

Everyone is very sorry about what happened.

They didn't mean for it to turn out like this.

They didn't mean for anything to turn out like it did.

It was totally an accident, and everyone apologizes profusely.

Can you try to understand how something like this could happen to anyone?

Can you try to forgive them?

Can you?

Emergency crews are on hand to help clear debris and to offer hugs and empathy to all those affected directly and indirectly.

Moving on, there's congestion in downtown right now because of construction, narrowing Somerset down to a single lane.

The sheriff's secret police has sent traffic cops down there to shout and scowl and point, which has helped considerably.

Oh, it's actually made the traffic worse, but everyone in the traffic feels stronger, more emotionally prepared to deal with adversity than they were before getting in their cars.

Tunnels and bridges are completely clear this hour, as they are most hours, because they're either totally secret or off-limits to public use.

But today, they're especially clear of even the black sedans, armored vehicles, and windowless vans that normally clog those roadways.

Listeners, the Nightvale Highway Department would like to remind you to buckle up,

then to hunker down,

then to forget everything,

then to remember everything,

then to open your eyes to what's really going on.

Don't you see what's really going on?

The Highway Department would like to call you all sheeple.

Sheeple.

They scowl as they roll their eyes.

This has been a public service announcement from the Nightvale Highway Department.

Here now with a message from today's sponsor is Deb, a sentient patch of haze.

Hi, Deb.

Hi, human broadcaster.

Hello, mortal listeners.

It's back to school time again, and the kids still need new clothes, bags, lunches, falconry gear, repelling equipment, and other basic school supplies.

So much stuff.

Where will you find time to go to all of those stores?

Well, you don't have to go to a bunch of different stores.

You only need one store, Joanne Fabrics.

Cool.

I thought Joanne Fabrics only sold fabrics.

That's simply untrue.

Why would you even say that?

Well, I just assumed from the name that Joanne Fabrics...

Stop talking!

Joanne Fabrics welcomes any parent too overwhelmed by school or life or parenthood or whatever.

Anything.

Maybe you're afraid of flying and you have to get on a plane soon.

The threat is real, you know.

I think planes are actually much safer than they used to be.

Oh my God, Cecil, can we have a conversation for once?

You're right, you're right.

I'm sorry, Deb.

I mean, the thing is, Joanne Fabrics does fabrics better than anyone.

So a creative person could make clothes and bags and all kinds of stuff for their kids.

You're obsessed with fabrics.

Well.

Fine.

Go on about your fabrics.

What do I care about your petty human concerns?

Ooh, Carlos bought a nice batik at Joanne's recently.

It's got um

you don't know what batik is.

I don't.

Joanne fabrics.

Yeah, what the heck is that?

I don't know.

I've never heard that voice before.

For all your back-to-school needs.

Oh my god, that's really weird.

Yeah, it is.

I'm out of here.

Okay, uh, bye, Deb.

Bricks.

Listeners, I'm just getting word that right this moment, the old well has begun to cast a ray of darkness upward.

As the sun reached its apex, darkness cut across the bright day in a thin, long V.

The chanters, whose numbers have apparently grown into the high hundreds, are doing their strange dance or exercise around the the well and chanting.

More and more are joining this throng.

I'm being told that all of their eyes are completely overgrown with skin, and that their hair doesn't actually fall out.

Apparently, each hair retreats rapidly back into their heads like a scared worm.

Uh, I can see from my studio that tall funnel of black against the blue sky, and I can faintly hear the chanting.

There it is.

Wah, wah, wah,

wah, wah, wah.

That's it.

That is the chanting I heard last night.

Well of night.

Well of life.

Well of night.

Well of life.

Listeners, I can feel the power of the chant.

I can feel my hair shortening and re-entering my scalp.

Oh, that feels so...

uh...

so...

rewarding.

Well of night, well of life.

My eyes are being covered in skin, but suddenly I can see so much.

More than I ever thought possible.

I must go to this well.

With the well, I will see everything.

Well of night,

well of life,

well of night,

well of life,

well of night,

I almost forgot.

Here's today's weather.

Well of night, well of life,

well of night.

In came the being-born police to take the newly undeceased.

I was the softened gaze upon a child of God.

And the sky was full of teeth, anticipating that sweet release.

I was the little engine that could, I was a courtroom bomb sniffing dog.

And the blood collector collected blood, and the cannibals all sang:

Tra la la la la la la lang.

They found a weird calling card and a puddle of body parts.

Inside a bowl of angel hearts that the children were eating.

I was a vampire hunter,

I was a pregnant mother.

I was a tear shed for the ones that die believing.

And the blood collector collected blood.

And the cannibals all sang.

Tra la la la la la la la lang.

Thunderdome, broken home.

Everybody dies alone.

I wanna give a shout out to the innocent by standing.

And at the corner of my eye

Coming out from the teeth-filled sky With eyes as red as a dog's asshole when you see it shitting

I saw the children of God As they walked on slaughter me by

the USB ports and their arms were bleeding

And the blood collector collected blood and the cannibals all sang

I think I can, I think

You chose to hit play on this podcast today.

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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 Veef or my non-eligible for Academy Award role in Twisters.

We come together to host Unschooled, a podcast where you 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.

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

Listen to Unschooled wherever you get your podcasts.

And don't forget to hit the follow button.

Oh, wow.

What fun that was, Night Vale.

Oh, those well of life people are wild, but so sweet.

I was a bit nervous at first because it's been years since I've been unwillingly inducted into a cult or chanting circle.

I kind of thought I'd get there and everyone would see how out of practice I was.

And boy, if you saw my kicksteps, you'd know I hadn't done a jumping jack or prayer dance in forever.

But here comes old Cecil with his hair withdrawn and his eyes covered in flesh, ripe for the teasing.

And they welcomed me without judgment or hesitations.

And I wasn't two steps into their circle before someone drew blood from my neck and everyone cheered.

Ah, what fun.

Then someone else turned into a bird-like animal, a little furrier than a normal bird, and we all followed it into the well.

And down in that well, we all chanted until the bird person touched each of our foreheads with its

bird.

hoof or whatever birds call their feet and some of us joined hands and droned for a little bit.

A few others were watching baseball highlights, and a few more were enjoying the hummus that someone had made.

Then, I was back here, skin covering gone from my eyes, hair returned to my scalp.

The only thing different is that now I'm wearing a black plastic poncho, cat ears, and yellow galoshes.

This was definitely not what I wore to work, as I do not own yellow galoshes.

They're orange.

Well, I don't know.

These are kind of orangish.

The lighting in my studio is weird.

Maybe these boots are mine.

Yeah, I'm wearing exactly what I was wearing before, I think.

Anyway, I met some amazing people today.

People I don't remember anything about except the feeling of love and acceptance I felt when I was with them.

Their faces and bodies are blurs.

But for a short time, we all chanted and did aerobics as one.

We all mattered to each other even though we knew we didn't matter at all.

That seems wrong, I know, but two conflicting things can exist simultaneously.

And they did.

And it was a great moment.

One I will cherish.

And one I hope to never have again because it would be ruined by the unattainable perfection of nostalgia.

Ah, the old well is gone now.

In its place, a barely noticeable bulge in the earth, slightly pink and soft to the touch.

The Parks Department has already erected a historic plaque to commemorate the well.

The plaque reads: Nothing unusual happened here or will happen here.

You have been photographed reading this plaque.

What were you hoping to learn?

Stay tuned next for less of what you once were, but more of what you think you are.

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 Joseph Fink.

The voice of Night Vale is Cecil Baldwin.

The voice of Deb was Meg Beerschwinner.

Original music by Disperition.

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

This episode's weather was Children of God by Andrew Jackson Jihad.

Find out more at andrewjacksonjihad.com.

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

Check out Welcomete.com for more information on this show as well as all sorts of cool Night Vale stuff you can own.

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

That'd be cool of you.

Today's Proverb.

When someone says, I'm a dog person, I always reply, yeah, well, I'm a lizard person.

And then I peel off my face.

Are you you squeamish about horror movies, but kind of want to know what happens?

Or are you a horror lover who likes thoughtful conversation about your favorite genre?

Join me, Jeffrey Kraner, and my friend from Welcome to Nightville, Cecil Baldwin, for our weekly podcast, Random Number Generator Horror Podcast Number 9, where we watch and discuss horror movies in a random order.

Find, here's the short version, Random Horror 9 wherever you get your podcasts.

Boo.