An old Chevy sat in the midst of the barren desert like a carcass picked clean by time, its once gleaming chrome now dulled into a rusty morass of corroded metal and dusty sand. The driver's side door hung ajar, creaking squeakily and morosely back and forth on battered hinges, as if contemplating a daring escape from its eternal automotive purgatory.
Inside the car, the radio sputtered stubbornly, a ghost amongst the ineffable frequencies of the Crossroads, an evocative melody wandering through the snowy static like a lost traveler, the notes distorted yet persistent against the backdrop of the star-pocked void twinkling high overhead.
And from that static melody emerged a Voice, steady and sure:
"In the beginning, there was the word, and the word was a signal—a signal twisted by a shadowy figure who could be you... or not you, one hand upon a broken dial, flickering on the static edges of half-forgotten tapes and the dark corners of obsolete electronic devices...
Welcome... to Night Vale."
High above, the starry canopy of the horizon stretched into infinity, indifferent and empty. But in the eastern sky, a strange anomaly shattered the monotony of velvet black: a cloud, pulsating with an otherworldly rainbow glow, drifting lazily across the void-like expanse. Its ethereal, multi-faceted hues shifted fluidly, like a great cosmic bruise, alluring and alarming in equal measure.
The voice rattling from the car radio paused, as if gathering breath, and then continued to speak.
"Listeners, imagine looking into a mirror, but instead of your own familiar face, another visage stares back, unsettling in its similarity... yet fundamentally wrong. We're not talking about a bad hair day or the sudden, inexplicable appearance of a beauty mark. I'm referring to the recent reports of strange visitors who can take the shape of your worst nightmare.
Yes, listeners. Yourself. These beings, citizens of our little desert community, are—of course—not creatures from some nefarious dimension. We don't speak of such things. We speak, instead, of coincidence and déjà vu.
The City Council, in their infinite wisdom and velvety cloaks, issued a statement during their recent séance slash press conference from an undisclosed location that was certainly not the echoing void behind the Ralph's. The Council advises all residents to remain calm and under no circumstances address the doppelgängers that may appear in your periphery.
If you see 'yourself' offering advice or criticism, or even just sitting silently across from you at the Moonlite All-Nite, do not engage.
It's rude to stare at yourself, don't you agree?"
Abruptly, a lone vulture swooped down from the star-filled sky, its shadowy, feathered silhouette a striking contrast to the faint celestial glow that warped across the great cosmic expanse above.
It alighted upon the dead Chevy with an air of grim entitlement, its talons clinking against the roof, scratchy and echoing hollowly in the silence. A shaft of silvery moonlight cast over the car in full: the windshield, once a smooth glass pane, lay in jagged ruin, marred by a spider's web of fractures as fine as sugar glass—a testament to some unspeakable violence... or, perhaps, a narrow escape. Dark, dried blood was splashed across the dashboard and seats, a heady and coppery scent simmering in the air, thick as maple syrup and turned putrid by the disc world's burning sun.
The vulture perused these offerings, its neck bent low as it swept its hooked beak over the detritus. All the while, the voice over the radio continued, speaking into the black of the desert night.
"...Furthermore, the Sheriff's Secret Police added that these occurrences should be documented, but only using number two pencils and the oldest paper you can find in your home. Do not use your electronics, as these devices are particularly susceptible to the whims of our non-existent friends and angels alike—and we all know that angels do not exist.
So remember citizens, if an angel—which does not exist—whispers to you from your television or car radio, suggesting you are not alone, and that perhaps the empty chair at your breakfast table isn't so empty after all, or asks you out for a bowl at the Desert Flower, just ignore it. Pour another cup of coffee, preferably into the lap of whatever is not really there, and turn the channel.
Now, about your VHS tapes. Your collection of 90's sitcoms and home-recorded football games you've been hoarding in your attic or crawl space? They must be destroyed. Immediately. The Council recommends a bonfire as a means of disposal. And while you're tossing in those tapes of days gone by, maybe throw in any suspicious mirrors or particularly mouthy pieces of furniture. You can't be too careful.
Listeners, I've just been handed an emergency bulletin: an entity resembling an angel—which cannot be so because angels do not exist—has been seen leading a parade downtown. He, or it, is playing a trumpet. A trumpet that sounds suspiciously like the whispers of temptation and ruin.
He also appears to be dispensing garden statuary fashioned into—unreal, hypothetical—angelic shapes.
But, let us pay no mind to the sweet nothings of non-entities, and whatever celestial lawn ornamentation they may recommend. Instead, let's focus on the upcoming community picnic, which will now also include a bonfire for the aforementioned tapes. This is a mandatory event.
Attendance will be taken. Absence will be noticed.
Here at the radio station, we've taken precautions to avoid any... misunderstandings with our own reflections. Intern Stacy was tasked with boarding up all our mirrors, but she insisted on using three-inch finishing nails instead of the city-mandated seven-inch spikes. Poor Stacy. She was so dedicated to her unpaid work here. We will never forget her enthusiasm, and we will always wonder what she saw in that last shimmering glimpse of the break room window.
Remember, dear listeners, mistakes can be as fatal as they are simple. Never forget that the face you wear is yours and yours alone.
And now, the weather."
As a song began to play in a wheedling, static-littered tune across the dunes, a sudden and gargantuan shadow of wings, too immense for this world, engulfed the battered Chevy. The vulture screeched in terror and took flight as the radio's eerie broadcast flickered and dulled, the music reduced to a tuneless, unmelodic crackle—
Until finally, the signal stabilized, and the radio announcer's voice returned.
"Welcome back, listeners.
Stay tuned next for the sounds of various objects being thrown into a bonfire. Does it not warm the cockles of your non-duplicated heart? Remember to smile, Night Vale. Especially when you're certain no one—and nothing—is watching.
Until next time, goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.
Today's proverb: Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, unless it's your other self from a parallel universe, then it is just super creepy."