The Great Glowing Coils of the Universe (7 page)

I know we still don't understand who built the subway, or where it goes, or what has happened to all of our family and friends that have gotten on trains today. I know there are concerns, Night Vale, but this subway seems to be a major step forward for our town, for our environment, for our—

[
Deep subterranean booming sounds
]

Oh dear, something is happening, listeners. This does not appear to be a standard government-created earthquake. Across the street, there are shimmering waves of heat curdling the air above the subway entrance. A black cloud of large insects is swirling above. I do not know what this means, Night Vale. And since Intern Dylan never returned from his errands, likely because I told him to take the new subway to save time, I myself must go investigate. In the meantime, I give you the weather.

WEATHER: “Poor in Love” by Destroyer

It's spring somewhere, Night Vale, and I must admit the last few minutes—even stretched as they were seemingly into aeons—have left me feeling renewed, returned as I am to my home after so long away. It's like I'm walking to fresh, clean water, even as I lean into the mic.

I entered the subway, like many of you. And like many of you other riders, I saw and felt the cosmic suffering of millennia, was witness to eras of countless births and deaths and wars and discoveries and kisses and plagues and knives and cold empty void. I saw it all at once and I could not make sense of any of it but I understood it fully and it took years, Night Vale. Years I have been missing you since I left you to the weather. What was the weather like then? How much time has passed for you? Only four minutes?

What of the ground shaking and the cloud of insects and the immense heat? Well, that's apparently what happens when an express train arrives. People hurrying to faraway (long away) destinations, the
clickclickclick
of rush-hour commutes, reading unimportant news stories, solving unimportant number puzzles, looking up briefly to give seats to the elderly or infirm. All the while not knowing where they were going or why or what terrible things they would never unknow upon choosing to commute through whatever that singular point below our city is. That intersection of space and time. A sort of navel of the universe.

And somehow we are all better, wiser, kinder for going where we went for as long as we were gone, though we did not age but a few moments.

We still do not know who the deer-masked transit people are or whether they are people at all. Perhaps they are thousands of roaches packed inside a business suit, hiding behind a mask. Or perhaps the mask was not hiding them at all, but hiding us. Sheltering them from our immature, solipsistic minds. But now there is a subway. Now we can go anywhere and perhaps we can know anything if we ride for long enough.

Listeners, there's another child in the studio. This one is faceless, covered in denim and dust, with a long swoop of unruly brown hair covering what would be the right eyebrow. The child is holding a handwritten note. It reads: “Because of construction, all subway service is suspended until further notice. For your convenience, free shuttle buses will be provided. At the moment of greatest despair and hopelessness, when you least suspect it, a shuttle bus will come to you. Thank you for your patience.”

The future of urban planning is here, Night Vale, and like our own eminent futures, it is buried in the earth.

Stay tuned next for a swarm of flies circling a hot mic. And as always, Good night, Night Vale. Good night.

PROVERB: Your body is a temple. A temple of blood rituals and pagan tributes, a lost temple, a temple that needs more calcium. You should maybe try vitamin supplements.

EPISODE 30:

“DANA”

SEPTEMBER 1, 2013

GUEST VOICE: JASIKA NICOLE

J
ASIKA
N
ICOLE WILL TELL YOU MORE ABOUT THIS LATER, BUT SINCE
I
MET
her I wanted to write something for her.

Are you an intuitive person? I like to think I am. I rely a lot on intuition to reach conclusions. Sometimes this works out really well. (See the first sentence of this introduction.) Sometimes it doesn't. (See my time spent as a civil engineering major at Texas A&M, not to mention my single day in their ROTC program.)

My intuition about Jasika being a sincere, interesting, funny, talented, and kind human turned out to all be correct. And the first moment she read a Dana monologue aloud (September 2013 at Largo at the Coronet in LA), I fully understood this character Joseph and I had created.

Dana was determined and lost. Dana was scared and smart. She was removed physically from the correct place and time. Literally this happened to her. Although given her status in life as a young person going from college to the real world, this was figuratively happening to her as well.

Interns in Night Vale don't usually succeed at much other than gruesome deaths and disappearances. And worse than that, they rarely have their stories told. They're just a name and a hastily constructed Cecil obituary. But Jasika made Dana vital. She made her full. Jasika made Dana live past all this, because you don't create a fully-formed human full of sympathy and agency and needs and character and just let her die or vanish.

So I finally found things to write for Jasika. And more and more and more, and my intuition paid off gloriously.

Now, about that career as a bridge and highway builder . . .

—Jeffrey Cranor

It takes heart. It takes guts. It also takes cash. It just needs your payment immediately.

WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE.

Mayor Pamela Winchell announced again today that she is stepping down as mayor later this year. This is the fourth announcement this week. She said again through tight teeth that this is totally her call and was never ever discussed in a room with no windows by small men wearing large pelts and decorative soft-meat crowns. That is not how we do things, she said. That is not how we do things, she whispered. That is not how we do things, she mouthed silently as a single, dark red tear formed in the corner of her eye and then slowly rolled down her taut, olive cheek and onto her clay-stained smock.

Elections for a new mayor will be held at some later time. When asked by the press for a specific date and location, masked representatives from a vague yet menacing government agency purred loudly. They then began rubbing their sides against the journalists' legs. Several reporters began sneezing.

Listeners, many of you recall our station intern Dana who, while reporting on strange goings-on, was locked in the forbidden Dog Park back in April.

I've received occasional texts and e-mails from Dana, but then this morning, well. Let's listen.

DANA:
Cecil. It's Dana. I've found a way out of here. I walked the perimeter of the Dog Park looking for a crack or a hole or a weak spot in the obsidian walls. I never found an opening, but—and this is very strange—the walls just keep going. If you stand still, the Dog Park seems to take up a single city block, but I walked one direction for about two weeks, and I could no longer see the monolith where I started, or the people I was with, or even hear the tinfoil rustling of the leaves from the tall, black metal trees that protect us from clouds.

There's something else. I found a door—an old oak door standing unsupported by any other structure. I didn't know if it was an exit from the Dog Park or an entrance to something much worse, but I went through it. Now, I am in some old house.

Cecil, I can hear someone moving around upstairs. I need to go. I will try to call you soon.

Thank you for everything, and I hope our time and place match again soon.

CECIL:
Oh, listeners, I so wish I could have talked to Dana this morning. They were showing
Cat Ballou
again on TBS, and I just couldn't break away. I tried to call Dana back, but my phone caught briefly on fire and something sharp cut open my thumb as I selected her number.

And now a Public Service Announcement from the Night Vale SPCA. Thinking about getting a dog? Dogs are not only great family companions but also help childhood development. By regularly feeding, walking, fighting, denying the existence of, and ultimately soul-merging with the family dog, young children learn about responsibility, empathy, and pyrokinesis.

There are, of course, some breeds of dogs that are not right for children. Those breeds include: Spider Wolves, Double Wolves, Switchbladed Mountain Dogs, Secret Terriers, Flesh-eating Spaniels, Pit Vipers, and Table Saws. Visit the SPCA for more information on the right dog for your family.

[
Phone ringing
]

Hello. Dana? [
There's some static or noise from Dana's line
]

DANA:
Cecil? I can barely understand you. Cecil, are you there?

CECIL:
Yes. I'm here. Dana are you still in the old house?

DANA:
No, I'm still in the old house. I made my way out of the basement, which was empty except for a single photograph of a lighthouse. It's a framed five-by-seven black-and-white photo of this old lighthouse. It hangs crooked, just to the right of center on one wall. The lighthouse in the photo looks to be in the middle of a field. There's no water. Why would there be a lighthouse not near the water?

CECIL:
I have no idea.

DANA:
No, that doesn't sound right. Maybe it's some other reason. Anyway, once I heard the footsteps above me stop, I opened the door to the first floor. I saw a man standing in the middle of the living room, staring straight ahead at the wall. I couldn't see his face, Cecil, and I knew I had been through this moment before. Not like déjà vu, more like a clear but fleeting memory of a dream. I was scared he might hear me, Cecil.

CECIL:
What did you do, Dana?

DANA:
Yes, that's exactly what I did. I got up the nerve and spoke to him. I said “Hello, sir. My name is Dana. And I'm sorry to intrude, but I was wondering, is this your home?” And he didn't move. He didn't make a sound. He just kept staring at another small photo on the wall. I walked closer to him and said, “Excuse me, sir. Excuse me, but” and then I saw. Cecil, I saw who it was.

CECIL:
Who was it?

DANA:
No, it wasn't her. It was John Peters, you know, the farmer? He was staring at this photo and I walked closer and said, “John, it's me, Dana,” but he didn't respond. I looked at the photo he was examining, and it was just a picture of a window. A worn driftwood frame, inside of which was a photograph of a worn driftwood pane with gently warped glass. I couldn't see what was beyond the window in the photo. But there was a shape. Maybe a tree, maybe a person. John just stared ahead, looking sad. No, not sad. Concerned. He looked concerned.

I didn't say another word to him. I waved my hand gently in front of his eyes, and he didn't notice me. I tried to touch his shoulder but my hand went right through him, like through a cold wind. He wasn't even there, Cecil. He eventually turned and looked at another photo on another wall of another window, but he never saw or heard me.

This home has no furniture, no furnishings, no belongings. Only photos. Single small photos on occasional walls. Most of them are of windows. Different windows with different panes and different photo frames. The house itself, I realize, has no windows of its own. So, I don't really know if there is a basement or a first or second floor. The upstairs is the downstairs is the ground floor.

But I know one thing, Cecil.

CECIL:
What is that?

DANA:
No. But you're close. I know that John Peters entered through a door in the kitchen. I can see the door right now, Cecil. It is open. And beyond that door is sunlight. I can see sunlight and sand.

I'm going through.

CECIL:
Yes. Dana, do that. Go through the door now. Go through that door!

DANA:
I'm sorry, Cecil. You make a good point, but I have to go through that door, no matter what. I've got to get back home.