Hope: A Welcome To Night Vale Fan Episode

If you haven’t heard of Welcome to Night Vale, it’s a podcast that tells the story of a creepy desert town where Lovecraftian horrors exist alongside everyday people, and the madness that ensues. It’s normally told through radio broadcasts, narrated by the voice of Night Vale, radio presenter Cecil Palmer. While listening to several episodes, I was really amused by a lot of the humour, and just started writing down some notes for jokes of my own that I thought would fit into an episode, and before I knew it I had a brief little fan episode written out. So I thought I’d share it with you. Enjoy!


Roses are red. Violets are red. Red is everywhere. Everything is red and there is no going back.

Welcome to Night Vale.

Good mourning Night Vale. Good morning to you, and to all the other mourners in the procession of mourning. Mourning is a good thing. Only through mourning can we heal and grow and find the strength to live.

City council has announced that the ancient temple on the outskirts of town, hidden deep and unreachable within a cluster of trees whose oaken trunks are older perhaps than time itself, will be demolished to make way for a parking lot. The parking lot will not be attached to any businesses or attractions, and will also be unreachable. As always, any attempts to park cars in a parking lot will remain illegal.

Wednesday is currently lost. Because of this absence of a day of the week, a time vortex has opened in the town square, which threatens to engulf the entire town. The sheriff’s secret police have promised a reward for the safe return of Wednesday, or any information leading to the recapture of Wednesday. Remember that if you find Wednesday, it is be to returned to the sheriff’s secret police alive, or else you will be unable to claim the bounty, and the time vortex will consume us all.

The body shop is offering a two for one sale for a limited time. Any body you purchase will come with a second body of equal or lesser value.

The Night Vale PTA bake sale has raised just a hair over $300. Really. The bake sale brought in $300 and a long stand of hair. Dark hair. Hair that looks suspiciously like the dark hair of that girl you met in college. You know the one. You shared an intimate night together and forgot to get one another’s names, and the next day you saw her on the front page of the school paper, momentarily excited to learn her name before you realized that the story was about an annual memorial for a girl who had been hit by a bus years before, and who you discovered had in fact lived in your very dorm room.

The bake sale continue tomorrow, but city council would like to remind you that there will be metal detectors. Anyone found to contain traces of common bodily metals will be detained indefinitely.

Listeners, I don’t often talk about the details of my personal life, being a radio professional and all, but since Carlos vanished into a desert otherworld, he’s only been able to communicate by occasional phone calls, or by drips of strange blue liquid, leaking from my ceiling, landing on the kitchen floor in rhythmic drops resembling Morse code. And frankly, I’m feeling a bit down about the whole thing. With Valentine’s day just around the corner, I know that many listeners will be feeling lonely as well. After all, Valentine’s day can be difficult for those of us with significant others, as we are required each Valentine’s day to sacrifice whoever or whatever it is we love most in the world to the creature in Grove Park, only to have them returned to us the next day, changed in unspeakable ways. But this year I won’t be able to make my offering, because the person about whom I care most is currently trapped in a desert otherworld.

I crawl into bed at night, look over to my nightstand where, amongst my collection of antique doll heads and bone-hewn knives from the Before Times, sits the stethoscope that Carlos gave me on our anniversary. I myself don’t quite understand how to use a stethoscope, after all who has the time to bother learning how to properly throw stones at passing birds with a stethoscope, as is customary in science, but I always enjoy listening to Carlos explain it to me. Sometimes it’s nice just to hear his silky voice, even if I don’t understand what he’s saying. Carlos, if you’re listening to this broadcast, know that I miss you, and I eagerly await your next coded message, dropping in blue rivulets into an undulating quivering mass on the kitchen floor.

The absence of Carlos has caused me to spend a lot of time thinking about hope, dear listeners. Hope is a fickle thing. When it is absent, we despair and long for its presence, lamenting that we’ve lost something we didn’t at first realize we had. And then, over time, we find that we had hope after all, only it was a tiny hope, a little flame that burned in our chests, growing larger and larger, photosynthesizing the sunlight of our thoughts and pumping out the will to continue. When we wake up one morning to discover we have hope, it can be alarming. After all, after you’ve lived so long without any hope at all, how are you to deal with finally having it?

Being able to see a light at the end of a tunnel is, in its own way, more difficult than giving up, and accepting the endless darkness of the tunnel. But hope is a responsibility, a responsibility to ourselves. It is a gift we are given by that little flame within us, which always burns, no matter how small it becomes, and we must hold hope, burning and sometimes singing our weary fingers, and carry it with us. It can sometimes be a burden, in the vast vast darkness, it can illuminate our path, while we wait for the sun to rise. The night is long, listeners, and hope may sting our hands, but still we hold the flame aloft, and let it guide us through safer paths, to shelter, to safety. When the morning comes it begins with a chill, and then as the dew settles in on the wet grass beneath us, we see the sun reaching its bright tentacles up over the distant mountains. And we have morning.

Morning is how we heal, how we grow, how we find the stength to live.

Be safe. Keep hope alive, even when it stings.

And good night, Night Vale.

Good night.

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words from the dark

words from the darkness
all in lower case
warm and sinking, deeper still
the warm and rotten place
the core, dirty, bleeding
the questions bouncing back off the walls
lay down, little one
be quiet now, and close your eyes
there aren’t any physical tears anymore
the rivers run over in the world’s inside
the fields that once were green now deep within the oceans
the plants have rotted through, drowned and soaked to death
if my eyes roll back
the dark comes again
and in it is peace
peace in acceptance
nothingness and oblivion
falling on and on until all existance is a part of nothingness
(there are too many mirrors
mirrors in people and in sand, telling me things that i can’t hear)
nobody and nobody and nobody
lay down now, stop eating
stop drinking, stop blinking, stop thinking
the end of all things, the beginning of nothing that stretches out into eternity
it’s like a fluid but it’s too soft to be, it’s black like thick honey
once it’s in a pool surrounded by cement but to touch it is to fall into it
this embrace, the embrace of the acceptance of fear and of death
death smiles, he welcomes
i don’t fear him, he speaks to me and his voice must sound terrifying but it isn’t like that
the devil is real and is all those things they said he was
but he’s living too, he understands love
no one knows love like those deep in the darkness
my residence here is temporary, everyone here knows it
the ghosts walk by and pat my head, “poor little one,” they say
“he’ll leave soon,” some smile as they reply, and they walk on
he
boys and boys and boys
can i swim up?
can i climb up?
i haven’t decided yet
let me sleep a little longer, i’m not ready for school
i have more to learn
more to find on the edge of death
behind these bright eyes is a darkness
these sockets are empty
this body is hollow
this spirit is gone and hasn’t returned yet
blood everywhere, and skin that’s ripped
ugliness and horror, screams
invite them in
whispers of darkness
pain and horror and fear don’t actually hurt
they can feel good if you love them in the eye
the sound here is like a womb
is it the womb of the earth?
the womb of the soul?
fluids are everywhere
what is solid is liquid here
can I say it? can I ask it?
can I ask you to sing for me?
can I ask you to touch my skin, with no meaning? just my friend?
can I ask you to be a lover that doesn’t care?
i’ve had enough
enough of the world above
but i don’t want to stay here
i don’t actually want to die
death knows this, he is sympathtic
he asks me when i’ll be going back
i don’t know what to say to him
disfigurement and horror dreams live here, demons possessing me and us all
but so warm, so thick, so simple
the glass up there is fragile
i waved goodbye to them and tried to go up but i fell again
always falling, he fell from heaven
cast out
cast
cast
cast