274 - The HOA

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Hey all, it's Jeffrey Kraner.

Night Vale is on the road in September and October, performing our newest live show, Murder Night in Blood Forest, starring Cecil Baldwin, Symphony Sanders, Disparition, and me.

We're also touring with musical guests Adult Mom in September and Aaron McCeown in October. So come see us in Atlanta tomorrow, September 16th or Tampa on the 17th.

Then we'll be back on the road starting October 22nd in Austin, working our way up through Dallas, Oklahoma City, Lawrence, St.

Louis, Indianapolis, Toronto, and finishing up in Detroit, Rock City on Halloween night. Murder Night in Blood Forest is Night Vale's take on like cheesy 80s slasher flicks and it's so much fun.

You don't need to know a single thing about Night Vale to have a great time. So check out welcome to nightvale.com slash live for all dates and tickets.
We cannot wait to see you.

One more thing, the Night Vale tabletop role-playing game is now out in the world, designed by Renegade Games with our input and writing. Thank you to all of our backers that got this game launched.

And if you haven't gotten your copy yet, if you didn't back the game, it's available. Go ask your local game store about it or get it online wherever you buy your tabletop games.

If you've always wanted to enter the world of Night Vale, get ready to dive in. No knowledge of RPG is necessary.

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Don't let perfect be the enemy of good.

Good already has enough enemies. Welcome to Night Vale.

Residents of the Desert Creek Housing Development are protesting the unexpected arrival of a homeowners association in the neighborhood.

As many of you are aware, Desert Creek has historically been a sovereign land unfettered by community standards of any kind, a lawless people with a proud aversion to rules and regulations, a collection of streets and houses held together mainly by the principles of anarchy, which they hold dear.

The announcement that they will soon be required to join an HOA has been met, unsurprisingly, with backlash.

Known primarily for being the location of the Knightville Elementary School and the house that doesn't exist, Desert Creek is quickly gaining a new reputation as a hotbed of social unrest.

Resident Siobhan Azdak, former theater critic for the Daily Journal, has been leading the charge against the new HOA, mainly by posting flyers filled with scathing critiques of the new organization.

A trite, uninspired flop of an institution that panders to the lowest common denominator, one of her recent flyers read.

It continued, Their attempts at community outreach are an ordeal in tedium, and their invitations to the so-called neighborhood appreciation block party are derivative at best and an abysmal embarrassment at worst.

Zero stars. Avoid this association at all costs.

Though it is yet unknown what the actual cost or benefit may be to homeowners, most Desert Creek inhabitants have expressed no no hesitation at preemptive uproar, anticipatory vitriol, and catastrophic predictions.

What if I have to mow my lawn? A voice wailed in the noonday air. What if they take my pets away? Someone with 37 iguanas sobbed.
What if they tell me I have to fix my fence or

that I can't have an abandoned cruise ship parked in my driveway? Captain Maxwell Werther lamented as he rang his old foghorn through the dusty streets.

When questioned why he was so concerned about this, as he does not reside in Desert Creek, Captain Werther replied that he had, quote, done his own research and that they were coming for Coyote Corners next.

Let's have a look at traffic.

The first thing you ever heard was the honking of horns, the screeching of tires, the breaking of glass.

You saw a light at the end of the tunnel, a literal tunnel, the one between Milemarker 67 and 68 on the old highway where you'd been incubating.

You emerged from the quiet darkness into a world of bright chaos. Drivers screamed and swerved when they saw you coming.
Children pointed from car windows and burst into tears.

A train derailed as you crossed the tracks. You didn't understand these reactions.
You didn't understand anything because you were so new to the world. But you could sense right away that you were

different.

You knew you were dangerous even though you felt only tenderness within you. After that experience you hid yourself in the darkness of the tunnel once again.
You drank muddy water.

You ate moss and fungus even though you wanted meat and fruit. You stayed out of sight because you knew knew your existence was upsetting, sometimes even fatal to the others who populated this world.

Your whole life was spent trying to keep others safe.

But now, you're old. Now,

you're dying. And your memory of that day, of those minutes you spent in the world, fill you with longing.

You remember the fresh air and the clear sky and and the sun, the warmth on your face. More than anything, you want to feel that

again.

With the last of your strength, you make a decision. You were born into traffic, and to traffic, you will return.

In sports, the high school football season's heating up with the Night Vale Scorpions playing district newcomers, the Oasis Gulch Cripkeepers, on Friday night.

No one knows where Oasis Gulch is on a map, but their team's reputation for being spooky little freaks on the field is well known and highly respected.

All proceeds from the Nick Teller Memorial Concession Stand will go toward the Nick Teller Memorial Scholarship Fund for Excellence in AutoShot.

Hey, uh, still alive over here, why does everyone keep thinking I'm dead? AP AutoShop teacher Nick Teller remarked at this announcement. No one acknowledged him or answered his question.

Now back to the controversy in Desert Creek. Streets are being blocked off, tents are being set up, the scent of smoke is wafting through the air.

A banner unfurls, welcoming residents to the Neighborhood Appreciation Block Party, sponsored by the new HOA.

It's a trap! Area homeowner Macon Clark shouted over and over from the corner of Agave and Thorn. Beware! a woman in a Guy Fawkes mask hissed at passers-by from the bushes near the perimeter.

Candy Longfellow, who was out walking her 37 iguanas, stopped to investigate. Looks like they have watermelon slices in there, she said, peering beyond the blockade.
My babies love watermelon.

37 small tongues flicked into space, tasting molecules of fruit musk. 74 eyes blinked rapidly with desire.

Just stop by real quick, she said, ducking past the wooden sawhorses while numerous boycotters tried to intimidate her from the sidelines by humming Garth Brooks' friends in low places and waving live snakes in the air.

More residents gathered outside the block party, some to join the protest, some only as curious onlookers.

Maybe we should find out what they want first, so we can know what to be mad about, someone suggested. Ah, I prefer guessing, someone else muttered.

They have a magician in there, another person shouted. This caused a wave of residents to breach the perimeter, as there is nothing Nightfell citizens love more than a magician.

They just go wild for them. Even a visibly nervous birthday party magician who keeps dropping the coin he was trying to palm.

Soon the block was filled with snacking, chatting neighbors having fun against their collective will.

No good can come of this, said one anonymous resident whose mouth was full of potato salad. In between mmm noises, they continued.

I heard of an HOA in Sand Plains where they made folks dress in tokas and swallow live goldfish and play drinking games and humiliate themselves in public.

Macon Clark, who was playing cornhole with Siobhan Azdak, howled, I heard one out in Red Mesa, where they make everyone in the neighborhood talk backwards for the rest of their lives, else they take their houses away.

Candy Longfellow, who was busy wiping watermelon juice from 37 scaly chins, remarked, And there's the one at that condo complex here in town that does a Shirley Jackson-style lottery once a month to keep space open for new residents.

I might move there myself, depending how things end up here.

I heard there was a payphone out in Vermillion Falls where you can speak to the dead,

added an old woman who was standing behind everyone.

Boat rides, boat rides, 10 for a penny, called out Captain Werther, who had towed his abandoned cruise ship to an adjacent parking lot to capitalize on the gathering crowd.

More people contributed their own thoughts and announcements to the conversation, but they were increasingly off-topic and generally not related to the HOA. More on this story as it develops.

In international news, a new country has appeared off the coast of Luftnarp. It materialized at 4.35 a.m.

local time yesterday, first reported via radio call by a fisherman and his son trawling the bay for cold water eel. The fledging nation initially took the form of a rocky island.

It had seven trees, all larches. Each larch had a nest and each nest had an egg.

Since those humble beginnings, the island has expanded rapidly and is now home to a variety of flora and fauna, including human beings with customs and traditions and a currency made of delicately baked phyllo dough.

Their official language is aesthetician. Their main export is designer tracksuits.
The country has no name or governing body, but they do have an Aldi supermarket in the works.

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Now, back to the HOA-sponsored block party in Desert Creek.

Though no human representatives for the HOA have been spotted yet, there is an information table with a stack of zines. The zines are printed on recycled lambskin and held in place with a dagger.

We are not your average HOA.

The zine begins. You will not be required to fix things or paint your house.
There will be no restrictions on plants or pets or vehicles or mailbox decor.

We're actually pretty laid-back and not super rules-oriented. The money we collect will go toward fun stuff.
Parties, good times.

A better life, a brighter future, true freedom, shovels, a lot of shovels and digging tools for everyone. The rest rest of the zine appears to be doodle comics and cringe poetry.

Next to the stack of zines is a magic eight ball with a piece of paper taped to it that reads, for all questions.

The neighbors crowded around.

Will it be very expensive? Macon Clark asked. No, said the magic eight ball.
Everyone cheered.

Are there going to be rules about Airbnbs? asked the woman in the Guy Fox mask, who also works a commission-only job as a telemarketer and makes side income renting out her finished basement.

Nope, said the Magic Eight Ball. She sighed in relief.
Will I ever find true love?

asked the old woman, who was standing behind everybody.

Signs point to yes, the eight ball proclaimed, and the crowd was very happy for the woman, who was almost 100 years old, and had never been in love aside from a brief romance she'd once had with a disembodied voice on the other end of a haunted payphone in Vermilion Falls.

I guess we were all worried for nothing, acknowledged Candy Longfellow, who giggled uncontrollably between words as her pets crawled all over her body like a living lizard suit.

The whole thing feels contrived and amateurish to me. huffed theater critic Siobhan Azdak, who expressed herself best in negative terms.

Someone asked Captain Werther what he thought, but he'd already sailed away. More on this after a word from the public health department.

Whoa,

what's that weird rash behind your knee? Uh, looks pretty itchy, my friend. Looks uncomfortable AF.

Ew, oh, looks like it's spreading, too. Have you had that checked out? It could be an allergy of some kind.
Have you ever had an allergy test? It's super easy.

You just go into your doctor's office, they hook you up to electrodes, ask you a series of penetrating questions about your childhood, and when you start crying, they take a sample of your tears on a plastic slide and look at it under a microscope and figure out exactly what you're allergic to.

Then, no matter what it is, they recommend that you start taking grape seed extract and local bee pollen. In the meantime,

get some calamine lotion for that rash. This has been a message from the Public Health Department.

Breaking news from the Desert Creek HOA Block Party. A group of 10 individuals has appeared, holding hands and walking among the crowd.

They do not wear clothing, but are modestly covered by a cascade of long flowing hair. adorned with twigs and leaves.

Hair that has never been cut and trails behind them on the ground like wedding trains, collecting more twigs and leaves as they walk. They are radiant and calm.
They smile and nod.

They wear hats, each of a different style.

We are the HOA, they murmur in musical voices. They hold out their hats as they walk.
It is time to collect the dues, they sigh.

Um,

how much? asked Macon Blair suspiciously. Whatever it is worth to you to live a life of true freedom, one said.
Overpriced, Siobhan couldn't help yelling.

But

what does the money actually

go toward?

asked one of Candy Longfellow's iguanas. the one who could talk.

Many voices began competing to suggest where the funds should go. What about a community swimming pool? Someone asked.
We could plant trees, someone proposed. Free Pizza Friday, a young voice shouted.

A payphone might be nice, an old woman's voice pined from somewhere behind everyone. One that's disconnected but still works sometimes, anyway.

The money has already been spent, one of the HOA members said, looking down at her outstretched arm as if speaking to a row of butterflies that was perched there.

On what, though? asked the iguana, who was good at keeping conversations on track due to his limited vocabulary.

Before this could be answered, a parade of bulldozers appeared on the horizon, rolling in military fashion toward the housing development of Desert Creek.

Only when we are the most wild

can we become the most civilized, the HOA declared in gentle unison.

More on this story after the weather.

In a lonesome, crowded place. We were found

with horns in my embrace.

I was younger.

In my broken car replaced, we were bound.

Finding separate ways

when I was younger.

I

was so lost.

I

was so lost

in my coat that sips halfway, bottled down

are unforgiving ways.

I was younger,

solar mantled down in space, and you were done

with self-fulfilling days

that vacant nowhere.

God

was so lost,

I

was so lost.

So the preacher hide his face, he couldn't tell

my arms extended pain.

I was younger.

Heard the choir sing away with anguish swell.

I tried to scream in vain

when I was young.

I

was so lost.

I

was so lost.

long.

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The neighborhood of Desert Creek has been demolished. Every house absolutely flattened to the ground.
The wreckage already being hauled away.

There seems to have been some misinterpretation over the new direction of the HOA.

If one had looked closer at the comics and cringe poetry in the official zine, they would have understood that the group who is now governing the area is a movement of militant back-to-the-landers, vehemently anti-house and strongly pro-holes in the dirt.

Houses only serve to separate us from the natural world, the HOA explained to the block party attendees who all just watched their homes torn to pieces right in front of them.

Welcome to a fresh start. Welcome to a new life.
It is your time. It is your right.
Stop observing and start living.

We can exist without misgiving, chanted the entire HOA with full Tommy Toon-inspired choreography.

Siobhan Azdak called the number, quote, unexpectedly charming, despite having just paid off her mortgage and now finding herself without shelter or personal belongings.

Fortunately, the Nightvale Elementary School is still standing, as destroying children's art projects is a municipal crime under the Protected Documents Act.

The house that doesn't exist is still standing and not standing, as it is impossible to tear down logistically, though several attempts were made. Everything else, though,

pretty much dirt. Many residents are leaving the area and surging into other neighborhoods.
Overcrowding and resource scarcity is expected in the nearby developments of desert pines and cactus bloom.

One old woman started out for the Midwestern city of Vermilion Falls on foot.

She had stopped there with her family once on a road trip when she was a teenager, and they stayed in the town for several days waiting for a car repair.

She'd spent most of her time in a defunct payphone near the cemetery, where she talked and laughed and listened to sweet talk over the receiver as the hours melted away and the fog swirled around her like a comforting shroud.

She can hear the phone ringing again for her now.

A handful of residents have chosen to remain in Desert Creek. They are currently digging holes in the dirt, which will serve as their new dwellings.

They have expressed approval with the changes to the neighborhood and are ready to live their best lives, or the lives they didn't know they wanted, or at least, totally different lives than the ones they had before.

Stay tuned for Dead Air. Legend has it that if you listen hard enough and long enough, you will find meaning in the nothingness.

Good night, Night Vale. Good night.

Welcome to Night Vale is a production of Night Vale Presents. It is written by Joseph Fink, Jeffrey Craner, and Bree Williams.
Sound design and production by by Disparition.

The voice of Night Vale is Cecil Baldwin. Original music by Disparition.
All of it can be found at disparition.net. This episode's weather was Thorns by Nico Ray.

Find out more at the link in our show notes.

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Hey, y'all, it is Jeffrey Kraner. And if you're like me and you love horror, check out the podcast, The Gentleman from Hell.
An entire town gone. No signs, no warnings, just silence.

This is Cold Sparrow. 24 years ago, every resident of Cold Sparrow vanished overnight, including the eccentric billionaire, Benjamin Veers.
No bodies, no clues, only questions.

For decades, investigators have chased every theory, cults, kidnappings, mass disappearances, but nothing has brought them closer to the truth until now.

Three renowned private investigators, famous for taking down one of the most dangerous cults in history, have been called in to uncover what really happened.

But the deeper they dig, the stranger the whispers become. Whispers of something far darker than anyone imagined, something that might not be human at all.

Cold Sparrow didn't just disappear, something took it. Some mysteries should stay buried.
The investigation begins now.

Check out The Gentleman from Hell on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Hey, Jeffrey Kraner here to tell you about another show from me and my nightvale co-creator, Joseph Fink.

It's called Unlicensed, and it's an LA Noir-style mystery set in the outskirts of present-day Los Angeles.

Unlicensed follows two unlicensed private investigators whose small jobs looking into insurance claims and missing property are only the tip of a conspiracy iceberg.

There are already two seasons of Unlicensed for you to listen to now, with season three dropping on May 15th.

Unlicensed is available exclusively through Audible, free if you already have that subscription. And if you don't, Audible has a trial membership.

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Our ability to keep making this show is predicated on audience engagement. So go check out Unlicensed, available now only at Audible.com.