"Hello? Hello? Night Vale? What is this studio? What is this damnable studio?
Night Vale? I do not know if you can hear me. This is Cecil, and I do not know where I am. It is clearly a radio studio, but the walls are covered in blood, and instead of dials and buttons on the soundboard, there is just animal viscera, glistening under the green LED lights. I hope this microphone works. Am I in hell?
Dana? Dana, can you hear me?
Listeners, if you can hear the sound of my voice, please contact the Sheriff’s Secret Police. There is so much blood, it is seeping into my shoes! There are — oh, masters of us all, no! — teeth scattered across the floor. The window into the control booth is shattered and there is a swath of skin and a fistful of long clumping hair hanging from a sharp glass point! I do not know if this is even Night Vale.
I know that I can hear the sandstorm raging outside. There is a low buzz and deep hum that might be my own heart ready to tear itself from my chest in horror or grief — I cannot know which.
There is a photo, a single photo of a man on the desk here. He is wearing a tie. He is not tall or short, not thin or fat. His hair and nose are like mine, but his eyes…his eyes are black as obsidian and his smile—
No. It is not a smile!
He must be wicked, this man!
Dear Night Vale, please pray in your bloodstone circle for me and pray, too, that no one should ever have to meet this vicious wretch of a man.
I want to be home, Night Vale! Oh, Cecil, you fool! The vortex…the vortex is still there. But here, it is white.
Okay. Dear listeners, from this vile, vile place, I leave you to your prison, but before I go, because I am a radio professional and it is sitting right here on this blood-spattered desk, I give you the weather."
What is this damnable studio?
Night Vale? I do not know if you can hear me. This is Cecil, and I do not know where I am. It is clearly a radio studio, but the walls are covered in blood, and instead of dials and buttons on the soundboard, there is just animal viscera, glistening under the green LED lights. I hope this microphone works. Am I in hell?
Dana? Dana, can you hear me?
Listeners, if you can hear the sound of my voice, please contact the Sheriff’s Secret Police. There is so much blood, it is seeping into my shoes! There are — oh, masters of us all, no! — teeth scattered across the floor. The window into the control booth is shattered and there is a swath of skin and a fistful of long clumping hair hanging from a sharp glass point! I do not know if this is even Night Vale.
I know that I can hear the sandstorm raging outside. There is a low buzz and deep hum that might be my own heart ready to tear itself from my chest in horror or grief — I cannot know which.
There is a photo, a single photo of a man on the desk here. He is wearing a tie. He is not tall or short, not thin or fat. His hair and nose are like mine, but his eyes…his eyes are black as obsidian and his smile—
No. It is not a smile!
He must be wicked, this man!
Dear Night Vale, please pray in your bloodstone circle for me and pray, too, that no one should ever have to meet this vicious wretch of a man.
I want to be home, Night Vale! Oh, Cecil, you fool! The vortex…the vortex is still there. But here, it is white.
Okay. Dear listeners, from this vile, vile place, I leave you to your prison, but before I go, because I am a radio professional and it is sitting right here on this blood-spattered desk, I give you the weather."