54 - A Carnival Comes to Town

Did you know that Nightfall is not just a podcast, it's also books?

That's right.

It's like movies for your ears, but in written word form.

We have four script collections that are fully illustrated with behind-the-scenes intros for every single episode.

And then we have three novels.

The first Welcome to Nightfall novel, in which two women have their lives turned upside down by a mysterious man in a tan jacket.

We reveal the origin of that, the man man in the tan jacket in that one.

Then the New York Times best-selling thriller, It Devours, in which we really try to get to the bottom of a certain smiling god.

Finally, my favorite, The Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives in Your Home.

Part Pirate Adventure, Part Haunted House, all Faceless Old Woman.

Find the three novels and four script books wherever you get books.

Okay,

enjoy this episode of a podcast.

If you're dying for the next batch of Wednesday Season 2 to drop on Netflix, then I'll let you in on a secret.

The Wednesday Season 2 official Wocast is already here.

Dive deeper into the mysteries of Wednesday with the Ultimate Companion Video Podcast.

Join the frightfully funny Caitlin Riley along with her producer, Thing, as she sits down with the cast and crew.

Together, they'll unravel each shocking twist, dissect the dynamics lurking beneath, unearth Adam's family lore, and answer all of your lingering questions.

Guests include Emma Myers, Joy Sunday, Hunter Doohan, Steve Buscemi, Fred Armison, Catherine Zeta Jones, the Joanna Lumley, also show creators Al Goh and Miles Miller, and of course, Wednesday herself, Jenna Ortega, plus many, many more.

With eight delightfully dark episodes to devour, you'll be drawn into the haunting halls of Nevermore Academy deeper than ever before.

But beware, you know where curiosity often leads.

The Wednesday season two official wocast is available in audio and video on todoom.com or wherever it is you get your podcasts.

The secret to a long life

lies in how acutely you perceive time.

Welcome to Night Vale.

A quiet caravan of flatbed trucks rolled into town last night.

The trailers were unmarked, except by age and neglect.

The trucks parked along Bandera Street in an abandoned lot in the heart of the up-and-coming Abandoned Lot neighborhood.

People we do not know emerged from the trucks and began to unload tall lights and heavy speakers.

Perhaps many of you were jostled from slumber by the faint pulsing of music that sounded like music you know, even though it was music you had never heard.

Perhaps you woke unaware there ever was a sun, confused by your own consciousness.

Hearing the echoes of these unknown choruses, and found yourself singing along, mouthing familiar words placed in an unfamiliar order.

We do not know what these trucks have brought or what those within them intend.

All I can say is, you should not go near that abandoned lot on Bandera Street until we find out more.

Which might take a while.

It's a very busy day.

We can't investigate every horrifying fleet of unmarked trucks.

We've got more important things.

Like this voicemail from my boyfriend.

Hey Cecil, I made so much progress today.

Doug and some of the other members of the army of warriors who roam this otherworld desert took me to the top of the mountain, to the lighthouse up on it.

Oh, right, I'm still stuck in the desert otherworld.

How are you?

I miss you.

Anyway, they showed me the photos on the walls inside the lighthouse.

One of the warriors, whose name is Alicia, and who is not a woman or a man, and who is Doug's partner, and who has a dog, and who is trying to make a new currency based on sand, walked me through the pictures.

There were photos of living rooms and parks and lawns.

Photos of Night Vale.

I asked if Alicia took these photos because they were good photos, colorful, well-composed, alive.

Alicia shook their head no, and the other warriors in the room pointed quietly back to the photos, and I saw that they were literally alive.

The people and all of the things that were not people moved in the photos.

Blades of grass in the breeze, small bees spiraling, a man refusing to smile.

And all within the confines of rough driftwood frames.

Inside the lighthouse, you can see anywhere, although you cannot go to any of those

wares.

And as I leave this message, I can see you, Cecil.

Yeah, I'm watching you shave.

It's cute how you pull up your nose like that.

Oh, but you missed a spot.

I'm sorry, I haven't had time to go looking for the doorway back to your dimension.

I'm learning so many things, though.

I promise, I promise to return soon.

This desert otherworld is just so scientifically interesting.

Maybe it's the most scientifically interesting community I've ever seen.

I love you.

I'll try calling you again tonight.

Is it even nighttime there?

I've lost all sense of time.

So, I don't know.

All of that and such.

And now,

the news.

The foundation is finally being laid for the new old nightvale opera house.

Old Woman Josie was on hand for the ceremony.

In fact, she brought her own cement mixer and poured it herself.

Several creatures, claiming to be angels, wearing yellow and orange triangles, the logo of Strexcorp, now of course owned by the same creatures, were on hand to assist.

But Josie kept slapping their many hands away when they attempted to help her with the heavy mixer and strenuous work.

I'm fine, Erica.

I have this.

Go get me some water.

Josie said, wiping her shriveled brow with a green handkerchief.

I ain't that old, she said before adding,

Hey, you forgot to record Castle last night.

Make yourself useful and double-check the Ti-Vo before I get home.

One of the supposed angels, all of whom are named Erica, pointed out that Castle is in reruns and she could probably download the episodes she missed from iTunes.

There was a long pause as Old Woman Josie stared at Erika in silence, concrete churning its dull pulsing hum, onlookers forgetting to exhale, a single drop of sweat rolling down one of Erika's seven cheekbones.

And then Josie said,

okay,

whatever.

Is the chopped marathon on tonight?

And continued her pour.

The angel-like beings claim that Strexcorp is Nightvale's first angel-owned and angel-operated company.

They claim this proudly and even placed it on their brochures and signs, despite the great risk of arrest and imprisonment for the felony of acknowledging the existence of angels.

Completion of the new, old Nightvale Opera House is scheduled for this coming spring.

Many town residents are excited and confused over the return of this cultural landmark, as none of us know what an opera is.

Is it a type of deli?

asked one bystander, who shielded his eyes and asked not to be identified, before dissipating into a black cloud and joining the rest of the cowardly air molecules.

I heard opera is a virus you get from kissing,

said another bystander, who was clearly former Mayor Pamela Winchell, wearing a fake mustache and clumsily altering her voice.

Nobody but Old Woman Josie and her mysterious friends know what an opera is.

Hopefully, we'll all find out soon, Night Vale.

Hopefully.

It's a good thing.

I have my doubts, though.

I am sometimes more doubt than man.

The strangers at the abandoned lot have begun unloading the fleet of trucks, removing large metal cases from the trailers, and assembling gargantuan machines covered in rust and the faint echo of bright color.

Residents of the abandoned lot district, who usually just talk hopefully about a day when they'll be allowed to finally build homes, have reported hearing organ music and smelling deep friars.

They saw carnival workers carrying bags of strange candy and leading packs of unfamiliar, loping animals into the lot.

Many of the strangers wear large wigs and bright painted faces.

They carry foolish hats and mangled balloons.

Listeners, I know

what this is, and it is not

good.

A carnival has come to our city, Night Vale.

I do not even know how you can protect yourself from this wicked cultural affront to our community.

I reached out to the city council, but I just got their voicemail, which was the council saying in unison, We're not here anymore.

Good luck with whatever that is in the abandoned lot.

If you'd like to scream or cry in horror, please do so at the tone.

So, at least their voicemail is the usual one, but I don't think we'll get much help from them.

Night Vale.

I have only ever heard of carnivals.

I never thought I would ever have to actually see one.

No one knows what they will do in the face of catastrophe until they are in that face, and here I am, still

not knowing what to do.

A carnival.

Oh,

all the mysterious lights in the sky.

I do not know how this carnival found us, nor what they intend, but I am certain it is not good.

It is rumored that our neighbors in Pine Cliff once welcomed a traveling carnival.

Pine Cliff is now inhabited only by ghosts.

But I don't actually know if that was related to the carnival at all.

They might have been that way already.

And you know, there is a certain sweetness to the hastily assembled rides, to the thought of eating air-blown pastel sugar, your boyfriend winning you a stuffed animal at the bird mocking booth.

Exchanging known quantities of fiat cash for meta-fiat paper coupons.

Oh, it sounds just...

it sounds just...

dreamy.

No!

These wicked magicians of the Midway, they must be using mind control to draw us in.

Do not fall victim to...

Holding hands hotly under the cool lights, the undulating swirl and discordant fugue of the merry-go-round about us.

Carlos, oh, Carlos, let's go to the carnival.

No.

Stop it, Cecil.

No.

Nightvale, avoid the carnival.

Hide in your homes.

This Thursday at the Nightvale Public Library is the twice annual cleaning of the books.

The Sheriff's Secret Police Super Secret Special Forces Unit will be on hand to subdue the librarians, who regularly attempt to not only undermine our city with dangerous books, but also sink their sharp claws and pincers into library visitors before flying them off to eat or toy with or whatever it is they do to their victims.

The cleaning of the books is our way of double-checking that the librarians are keeping a clean stock of municipally approved books, such as the biography of Helen Hunt and all four of Dean Koontz's novels.

Librarians are well known for sneaking in books by dangerous authors.

In 1988,

two

copies of Pride and Prejudice were found in Nightvale.

No one knows quite how many people read these copies, but the ensuing riots inconvenienced hundreds and led to the current cleaning schedule.

Not everyone is in favor of this practice, though.

New Mayor Dana Cardinal issued a public rebuke of book cleaning.

The mayor admitted that while books are pretty dangerous and she doesn't recommend them for everyone,

we should concentrate more on protecting ourselves from the librarians themselves, who are the real danger.

Teenage book lover and heroic militia leader Tamika Flynn also offered her protest of this important event, saying, Books and libraries are dangerous, which is exactly why we should protect them.

Librarians are conniving and vicious monsters, but they also know how to recommend a good read.

Their methods may be violent, but we must be willing to face great challenges in order to achieve great things.

Tamika continued, We will grow soft without books, Night Vale, as she waved her favorite copy of Helen DeWitt's The Last Samurai, onlookers shielding their eyes from the forbidden tome.

I don't want to disagree too much with young Tamika.

I respect her leadership and her vast knowledge of books, but

not

everyone is cut out for reading difficult literature.

Perhaps

perhaps we could split the difference.

We could select just a few people in town who are allowed to read challenging books.

That way the masses don't have to be exposed to complex ideas, and a small committee of trustworthy people, like Tamika, can tell us in a gentle way what those books say.

Very quietly, so we don't have to hear them.

It'll be all the fun and simplicity of an intellectual oligarchy, but without all the awful reading.

Intern Maureen has returned to our studio.

She was swept away a few weeks back by an enormous gust of wind, and we thought her lost.

We held services for her at the rec center.

Her whole family was there.

Many of her friends from the Nightvale Community College came, or at least I assumed they were friends from school.

They all had human bodies with coyote heads, and they were eating armadillos out of a duffel bag.

Huh.

College kids.

Well, we were all glad to see Maureen come home safe.

Or most of us.

Her family seemed disappointed.

This being the second time they've mourned her her death in vain.

They seemed emotionally exhausted, not angry.

They told her, this is the last time, Maureen.

This is it.

No more.

Anyway, today at work, Maureen's been doing some research into carnivals, and according to her, carnivals need money to operate.

If we do not want a carnival in town, then we should just not give them them our money, and the carnival will go away.

Maureen has also handed me a report saying, oh my,

nightvale, the carnival grounds have been completed.

A 40-foot-tall wheel with empty compartments spins lazily in the hot sun as broken speakers sing cacophonous platitudes over simplistic chord progressions.

Carnival workers workers are brandishing hammers next to a tower inscribed with ascending numbers and topped with an alarm bell.

Nightville residents have gathered near the grounds but are not yet entering.

A group of the carnival workers with white faces and bulbous noses and large shoes have opened the gates to the carnival grounds and are cooing and beckoning our citizens to enter.

These masked interlopers wish to sway you with broad, toothy smiles, but they are nightmares, Night Vale.

They are lies incarnate.

Remember that we are a great town.

We are a great town that does not back down to grave danger.

Are we not the same town that defeated a smiling god and a fascist corporatocracy and once,

once, survived a street cleaning day?

I said earlier that I did not know what to do in the face of a catastrophe, but I was wrong, Night Vale.

I was wrong.

When I think only of myself, I am scared.

But knowing I am with you, I am not scared.

We are in this together.

I have a community I can trust and love.

There is no need to be frightened of treacherous outsiders.

Outsiders...

Wait,

how did these outsiders get in?

Nightvale is not so easily found, so how have they so easily found it?

Oh,

oh!

The carnival gates have opened.

All of Night Vale is there.

Only I sit contained in my booth, helpless, as usual.

The carnival workers smile wider and wider and wider

and wider.

Breath is heard, loud and wet.

and without an obvious source.

And the birds are gone.

There is a fearful infinity of an instant.

I take you now, uncertain of what this next instant will bring, and none of you near a radio anyway,

to the weather.

are we going?

Said the brown dog

to the hen.

Just because

they were animals

doesn't mean they couldn't have been men.

Oh, let's go down to Bremen.

Take my pot

in your hand

and we'll sing

for our supper

in that freest of the freest

people

need to see us,

the freest of the freest

land.

It was part of the plan.

Everybody would stand on their hind legs, hands holding high the other

like a tower brothers.

And the one on the top would blow horns and call in the morning and call out the storm that was coming.

The one on the bottom would steer till the road was clear.

And people would learn to rejoice and to fear our coming.

But how long did we think we could walk, we could sing before our voices gave out and our limbs gave in.

On the road, on the road, on the road, on the road, on the way, on the way, on the way to Bremen, to Bremen, to Bremen, to Bremen, to Bremen, to Bremen, to Bremen.

Oh, all

the road to Bremen.

I came across some brothers three.

At first, I took everything

away from them.

Then they took

everything

away

from me.

Charlie Sheen is an icon of decadence.

I lit the fuse and my life turns into everything it wasn't supposed to be.

He's going the distance.

He was the highest paid TV star of all time.

When it started to change, it was quick.

He kept saying, No, no, no, I'm in the hospital now, but next week I'll be ready for the show.

Now, Charlie's sober.

He's gonna tell you the truth.

How do I present this with any class?

I think we're past that, Charlie.

We're past that, yeah.

Somebody call action.

Yeah, aka Charlie Sheen, only on Netflix, September 10th.

Tires matter.

They're the only part of your vehicle that touches the road.

Tread confidently with new tires from Tire Rack.

Whether you're looking for expert recommendations or know exactly what you want, Tire Rack makes it easy.

Fast, free shipping, free road hazard protection, convenient installation options, and the best selection of BF Goodrich tires.

Go to tire rack.com to see their BF Goodrich test results, tire ratings, and reviews.

And be sure to check out all the special offers.

TireRack.com, the way tire buying should be.

The carnival has left.

Nightvale citizens resisted entering the metal gates.

They formed a semicircle around the opening and shouted, Interlopers!

while pointing,

as is our friendly, mandatory way of welcoming strangers.

Soon the painted people backed away, closing themselves into their miserable flatbed corral.

They disassembled their mechanical monstrosities and drove them away.

Night Vale, en masse, waved fists and sticks and farm tools and cactuses and animal parts.

Our citizens chanted curses upon the carnival.

The carnival employees, in their haste, left behind several artifacts of their attempted threat to our sanctity, our sanity.

We found clear plastic bags filled with cheaply produced dolls.

There was a large styrofoam stuffed green and orange squirrel.

As the trucks drove away, proud and vigilant nightvale citizens set the squirrel ablaze, that unholy totem of that unholy carnival.

With the sun long gone, presumably scared away by the unexpected visitors, the happy fire of victory shone out to meet the taillights of the retreating trucks.

Witnesses heard the carnival perpetrators saying things like, Run

and get out of here.

as they made their way to their trucks.

Shouts of, What the hell is this town?

And where the hell are we?

And this is definitely not Modesto.

And I think they're gonna kill us, Stacey.

Run!

Were the verbal white flags signaling our triumph as a town, as a proud community that stood for itself once again.

And intern Maureen, who is

Hey, Maureen,

you look upset.

Are you upset?

Is everything okay?

Uh, Maureen does not look happy, listeners.

I'm not sure why Maureen is not happy about today's victory she helped bring about.

You are part of this, Maureen.

This victory is also yours.

Maureen?

Do you not love victory over outsiders who mean us harm?

Maureen, do do you...

Well,

Maureen

left the control booth.

She just got up in a huff and left.

Huh.

Teenagers, I guess.

Stay tuned next for people arguing about sports.

Not on the radio.

Somewhere else.

Somewhere and soon people will be arguing about sports.

I don't know what's happening next on the radio.

I never do.

And as always,

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.

The voice of Night Vale is Cecil Baldwin.

The voice of Carlos was Dylan Marin.

Original music by Disparition.

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

This episode's weather was Gremen by Pigpen Theatre Company.

Find out more at pigpentheater.com.

That's theater with an RE.

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

Check out welcometonightvale.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, say what you will about dance, but language is a limited form of expression.

Trip Planner by Expedia.

You were made to outdo your holiday,

your hammocking,

and your pooling.

We were made to help organize the competition.

Expedia, made to travel.

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 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.

Hi, I'm here to tell you about Good Morning Night Vale.

Welcome to Night Vale's official recap show and unofficial best friend food podcast.

Join me, Meg Bashwiner, and fellow tri-hosts, Hal Lublin and Symphony Sanders, as we dissect all of the cool, squishy, and slimy bits of every episode of Welcome to Night Vale.

Come for the insightful and hilarious commentary, and stay for all of the weird and wild behind-the-scenes stories.

Good morning, Nightvale, with new episodes every other Thursday.

Get it wherever you get your podcasts.

Yes, even there.