Your nights are haunted by dreams that are too close to reality for comfort. You now can no longer even tell when you are awake and when you are sleeping Welcome . . . to Night Vale.
Listeners, I . . . don't quite know where to begin. When I came into the studio this morning, there was an old notebook sitting on my desk with Carlos's name on it. When I asked Rafael, the intern, where it had come from, he said he found it in the Lost and Found. When I told him I didn't know we had a Lost and Found, he replied, "Oh, yeeeaaah, I, uh, found it in the break room. Most of the stuff in there looks really old, like, two or three years old, maybe, or more. I was looking through it because I lost my watch the other day. You remember. But I found this notebook and I figured, like, you could give it back to Carlos, or whatever."
I mentioned to Rafael that this notebook could not belong to my Carlos, because the date on it is from three years ago, long before Carlos ever came to Night Vale. Rafael suggested that maybe Carlos had brought it with him when he came here, and it just somehow got lost in the past year and a half and I really shouldn't be freaking out like this. I told Rafael, in no uncertain terms, calmly flipping the table over and throwing small and fragile objects across the room while screaming at the top of my lungs, calmly, that I wasn't 'freaking out' at all, that I was perfectly calm and in control of myself and my emotions. He let the matter drop after that.
I haven't opened the notebook, listeners―because, of course, that would be a breach of privacy. I mean, what if it's Carlos's diary? I couldn't just go looking through it to find out all of his innermost thoughts and feelings, including perhaps those first impressions he gleaned upon his arrival in Night Vale, his first perceptions of our little community and everyone in it, including but not limited to his initial thoughts about, well, me. . . .
...What if it's Carlos's diary.
But it's probably nothing. It's probably not even Carlos's. And it's almost certainly not his diary. Probably. Certainly, definitely, probably, improbably not.
Ahem. Well, Carlos, dear, I have your notebook here from three years ago, if you would like to come pick it up. Or, I can just bring it back with me tonight. You know, which ever. Just, shoot me an email, or text. Or something.
Are you tired of looking for satisfaction in your life? Well, stop. You won't find any, anyway, no matter how hard you look.
And now, for the Community Calendar.
Monday, there will be a sunrise, followed, approximately twelve hours later, by a sunset. It is advised that you take no notice of these events and carry on with your daily activities as though they are not happening. Remember, what you don't know, can't fill you with horror and dread.
Tuesday will happen twice. You will not remember the first time when the second time rolls around, but you will experience a vague sense of unease, slightly less severe than the feeling of deja-vu, as your subconscious wonders if you have changed anything since last time, and what effect, possibly devastating, it may have had. This feeling of unease will persist throughout the day, growing slightly stronger each time you make a decision, but ebbing when you are focused on other things, though never to the point of going away completely.
Wednesday is dollar-off day at Taco Bell! Bring in a taco wrapper containing at least one of your teeth or eyeballs for a dollar off your next taco purchase.
Thursday is sleeping. No. Thursday is dead.
Friday is Night Vale Bring Your Child to Work Day! Sponsored by StrexCorp. StrexCorp. We're looking for your children. Bring us your children. We are only interested in their well-being. You do not want to know what the penalties are for hiding your children from us. What do you need children for, anyway? Shouldn't you be looking after yourself?
Saturday will be uneventful. Or, possibly, extremely eventful. It depends mainly on what you define as, 'an event.'
Sunday has been cancelled. All events previously assigned to Sunday have been redistributed throughout the week. Consult your local shaman for more information.
Listeners, you remember that young woman who wandered in from the Sand Wastes a couple of weeks ago, right? Well, she's been staying in Carlos's lab, and, I have to say, I've . . . actually kind of started to like her. She still hasn't spoken, and she still won't let that device out of her sight, but she hasn't attacked Carlos again and having her around is kind of . . . nice, actually. She's very quiet, she doesn't cause a lot of trouble, and, it turns out, she's really good at puzzles! She's been helping Carlos out around the lab a little bit, recently, which is nice, because it means he spends less time in the lab trying to organize things. Whew! What a chore that must be, especially with Random Object Rearrangement month going on.
Oh, by the way, listeners. . . . This month is Random Object Rearrangement Month! Probably should have mentioned that earlier. I swear I had a note about that in my stack. Sorry about that.
Anyway, the young woman. She drew us a map of where she came from, and, apparently, it's only a few miles out in the Sand Wastes. Carlos suggested he should go have a look at it, but the young woman took offense to that―at least, I think that's what happened. At any rate, she tore up the map and stuffed the pieces into a beaker of acid, which I'm pretty sure is the textbook definition of 'offended.' Then she went and hid under a table for a few hours, until Carlos and I got back from lunch, by which time she had come out from under the table and had gone back to organizing the lab―I'm pretty sure that's the textbook definition of, 'offended, but also sort of sorry for stuffing a torn-up map in your beaker of acid.' Otherwise, she's been integrating well with the Night Vale community at large. Why, last week, she even used her device to aid Missing Child Tamika Flynn and her child army in launching a large pile of rocks at a StrexCorp helicopter! This young woman is certainly getting into the fun-loving spirit of Night Vale, despite her various shortcomings.
As always, if you have information on Tamika Flynn's whereabouts, or any of her associates, keep it to yourself. StrexCorp has everything perfectly under control. StrexCorp is in control of everything. StrexCorp is competent, and merciless. StrexCorp. Friendly. Merciless.
And now, traffic.
There is a grain of sand being blown by the wind outside. It has traveled vast continents and vaster oceans, carried by the relentless air as it circumnavigates this enormously tiny world on which we are all endlessly trapped until the last faltering death-throes of the sun have engulfed this world and every molecule that once was us has been broken down into its constituent atoms, and when our sun chuffs off its skin as it shrivels and dies some of those atoms will be scattered into the void, nearly as tiny and alone and meaningless as we here are upon this tiny and meaningless planet until the entire universe tears itself apart and every atom occupies its own tiny, enormous universe, completely and perfectly and horrifyingly alone, forever, for longer than time is capable of existing.
There is a grain of sand being blown by the wind outside. Once it was part of a mighty rock, which has been worn down through the centuries by wind and rain and sea and sun until it crumbled into little more than dust. Dust which now travels the globe helplessly, a shadow of its former might, scarcely remembering what it was to stand tall against the onslaught of time, scarcely daring to recall when it was something more than what it is now, scarcely able to hate everything that it has become, only able to drift aimlessly on the winds that now dictate its entire life, a dictation that is void of all voice and meaning.
There is a grain of sand being blown by the wind outside.
Also, expect delays on Route 800, due to a localized section of slowed time.
This has been traffic.
Listeners, during traffic, Carlos arrived to pick up his notebook. He told me, upon seeing it, that he didn't remember this notebook at all; it doesn't look like one of his, and he doesn't remember writing it, but it's certainly his handwriting. He has not yet opened the notebook, as, he says, 'weird things happen in this town, and I want to run a few tests on it first, you know, to make sure it's really mine, and everything?' Oh, Carlos. We all know that no 'weird things' happen in Night Vale. Such a funny idea, 'weird things' happening in Night Vale. Why, we're the most ordinary town in the world. Officially. Just last month, the City Council released a statement saying just that. "Night Vale is the most ordinary town in the world," they said in unison, standing atop City Hall. "Nothing weird ever happens here. We are perfectly ordinary. Everything is fine. Everything. Is. Fine." They repeated, through clenched teeth with eyes flashing like shards of broken glass, before slithering through the nearest window and vanishing into the darkness within.
At any rate, Carlos has gone back to his lab to run some tests on the notebook, but he promised he would come back here before opening it, in case there was anything interesting inside. Isn't that sweet? He knows how curious I am about that notebook, and he wants us to share the experience of looking through it. What a guy.
Meanwhile, a word from our sponsor.
Don't worry. Be happy.
Don't worry about anything.
Be happy. About anything.
Worrying will only make things harder for you. Worrying will only make this more difficult for both of us. Is that what you want? To make things... difficult? Worrying will not do you any good. Worrying will only make you unhappy. Worrying can only hurt you. Worrying will hurt you. It will hurt you badly. It will hurt for a long time. Worrying. Hurt. Fear. Pain. Death. Pain. Pain. Pain.
Be happy. Be happy all the time. Never stop being happy. Being happy is the only thing that will save you. Being happy is the only thing that can protect you. They will know if you are not happy. They already know you are not happy. Be happy anyway. Pretend. They will only be angry if you do not pretend. You must know by now how pointless it is to fight. Be happy. Be . . . anything. Be pretend.
Be happy. Pain. Fear. Pretend. Be happy. Be happy, for God's sake, be happy.
Relax. Strex.
Smile! Strex.
We know where you live. Strex.
We own you.
StrexCorp Synernists Incorporated. Don't worry; be happy!
Carlos has returned, and he has the notebook with him. He says that, although he doesn't remember writing it, or even ever owning it, he's run every test he could think of on it, and, it seems okay. He's standing outside the booth now―oh, hello, Carlos! He's waving at me. I'm waving back. Hello! Oh, he's . . . he's looking down at the notebook. He's holding it up to the window. Pointing at the notebook, himself, the notebook, raising his eyebrows, nodding. Oh, I think . . . I think he's asking if it's okay with me if he opens the notebook now. Well, I . . . have to admit, I was looking forward to looking through it with him, but, well, maybe it's urgent. I don't have any objections. . . .
He's opening the notebook. . . . He's . . . he looks very startled―no, not startled―afraid, Carlos looks afraid. He's reading. He's turning the page. He's . . . it looks like . . . listeners, it seems he can't let go of the page! He's pulling hard . . . he's―oh, no, it looks like―yes, he's being pulled into the notebook. He's fighting it . . . he's making some headway, he's managed to get his arm back out. . . . We might have to go to the weather shortly, listeners. It looks like he's―Carlos! Carlos!
Listeners, I don't know how to tell you this. Carlos . . . Carlos is . . . gone.
I ran out of the booth as fast as I could, but . . . by the time I got there, he . . . the notebook had swallowed him completely and . . . vanished.
I . . . I don't know what to say. I don't know what I can say. Someone or something has taken my beautiful, perfect, imperfect Carlos and . . . left me here. All alone in this tiny recording booth. All alone with only my voice and my regrets. My so many, many terrible regrets.
There's nothing else to say, listeners. Carlos . . . my Carlos . . . is gone. Maybe never to be heard from again. And listeners, this tiny little world we live on has never felt so lonely. So very, very, awfully, achingly lonely. Stay tuned next for the sound of quiet sobbing as a lonely, heartbroken, stupid, stupid, stupid man cries himself to sleep.
I'm afraid I have no choice now but to bid you all . . . good night, Night Vale. Good night.
Liking it so far? Listen to the audio version here: watch?v=lW5FqJiWi44&feature=c4-overview&list=UUVVlU-NB3JLTps_ivltNqTQ
