This episode was co-written with Brie Williams.

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Success is not final. Failure is not fatal. It is the courage to stand by in silent frozen horror that counts. Welcome to Night Vale.

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Good news! There are no more vacancies in the town cemetery. Every single grave, crypt, and vault at Rattlesnake Rest is filled. And you know what that means — no one else can die! Yay!

I mean, death is still physically possible of course, but municipally frowned upon. So be a good citizen and hang in there.

Annette Jacoby, director of Night Vale’s Prince of Sorrow Funeral Home, is already preparing for a potentially long period of unemployment by taking a creative writing class at the community college. “I've always wanted to be a novelist,” Jacoby remarked. She then added with a toothy grin, “I have lots experience with plots.” A long silence followed as her smile faded slowly. We wish you all the best, Annette.

Likewise, Al Kincaid, the Grave Digger, plans to spend more time with his daughter, Sophia, now that his evenings won't be occupied by ceaselessly making holes for decorated corpses. He timidly suggested a family game night, to which his daughter rolled her eyes in annoyance even though she was secretly pleased.

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With the news that Rattlesnake Rest has been completely filled, I thought we should have a retrospective of our favorite graves.

Like all cemeteries, this one is located at the end of a winding dirt road. And like all cemeteries, the grounds are tangled with dense vegetation in the middle of a desolate, howling plateau. It is a normal cemetery, with a chill in the air even on the hottest summer day and an impenetrable darkness even on the brightest full moon-ed night. And nearly everyone buried here died somewhere else. Nearly everyone.

The most important grave in the cemetery lies at the southwest corner. It is the grave around which all the other graves were built. Instead of a formal headstone, it is marked by a gaping hole in the earth and a broken wooden sign that reads Rattlesnake Mineshaft. Seventeen miners are buried here. All of them headless. To understand the history of this important grave, we go to the year 1851.

The new player-piano in the Earl Street Saloon was on its tenth repetition of Buttons and Bows. The first few times, the rowdy patrons sang along but now no one could get it to stop and the song was putting everyone on edge. It seemed to get louder with each verse, more frantic with each chorus. At least that's how it felt to saloon owner Tamsen Zylphia. She tried to drown out the pounding chords with whiskey, which worked, but it also made everyone sad and chatty. Talk soon turned to the topic of the missing miners. A group of seventeen siblings had come in on the train from nearby Red Mesa. They had been working their claim out at Rattlesnake Mine but hadn't been heard from in several weeks. Some folks thought they must have struck it rich and were busy kissing their numerous gold ingots, or whatever it is wealthy gold barrons did. No one in the poor town of Night Vale was sure how the other half lived, but they were certain that if they had gold ingots, it would not make sense not to kiss them. But some feared something tragic had taken place in that mine.

At some point that night, the player piano stopped abruptly and a faint skittering sound could be heard outside. When Tamsen and her saloon patrons investigated, they were shocked to witness a gleaming army of human skulls running over the desert toward them on tiny thrashing legs. It was a family of seventeen hermit crabs, wearing the new shells they had discovered out in Rattlesnake Mine, some still hanging with ribbons of flesh.

The settlers of the unincorporated township of Night Vale decided the collapsed mineshaft was as good a place as any to establish an official cemetery. There were already seventeen skull-less bodies buried there, which was a higher concentration than any of the other random collections of bodies buried around town at that time. And so Rattlesnake Rest was born. The town blacksmith commemorated the event by constructing a wrought-iron fence for the new cemetery, featuring a beautiful decorative inlay of a skull-wearing hermit crab harbinger on the front gate.

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Listeners, I’ve just been handed some breaking news. Smokehouse Brisket Sliders are back! Slow-smoked for thirteen succulent hours, topped with aged gouda, crispy onions, barbecue sauce and mayo. At Arby's for a limited time only. You never know when they're going to show up, you never know when they're going to disappear again. And when they do disappear, you don't know if they're ever coming back. But they're here now. And when they're here, everything feels right. Isn't that good enough for you? Can't you just live in the moment? Don't ruin things by asking for a bigger commitment. Let your hair down and get wild with Smokehouse Brisket Sliders. Only at Arby’s. And only when we say so. Got it?

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Back to our retrospective of Rattlesnake Rest.

Opposite the old mineshaft is the grave of the Town Crier. It's a modest grave, with its crumbling headstone and faded Latin inscription: clamor viventem est: vivus est clamor. Which is supposed to mean “Crying is living, living is crying” but I've been told by my niece Janice's friend Marcy, who attends Catholic school, that it actually translates to something more like “cry creature is living outcry”. Which doesn't make a lot of sense. The Town Crier was a tortured individual, employed by the city to walk aimlessly through the streets, ringing a bell and weeping openly. After his death, many residents said they could still hear his sobs floating upon the early morning air.

And in a large crypt at the back, shrouded by a grove of whispering elms, lies the Mahalla family. The Mahalla family owned a very important video store annex inside the Ralph's back in the 1990s. They kept a melted VHS copy of the movie Powder displayed on the front counter to warn people against keeping videotapes inside of hot cars, lest they incur a hefty fee. We have never forgotten that valuable lesson.

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Listeners, a breaking news update. The Arby's drive-thru is closed until further notice. The same teal Honda Civic keeps entering and re-entering the drive-thru, ordering and reordering the Smokehouse Brisket Slider. Although he’s ordered over seven hundred sliders and counting, the driver expresses how hungry he is during each appearance, before frowning and glancing nervously at his watch, and there's no Arby's packaging visible in the car. The cashier theorized that the driver, identified as Jim Saling (pronounced like “sailing a ship”) of Desert Elm Drive, is stuck in a time loop and has not actually retained any of the sliders, despite each order being successfully charged to his credit card. After the employees expressed concern for Saling’s plight, everyone gathered together for a briefing on the situation.

“Maybe the pity we feel for him is wrong,” suggested shift manager Sigrid Borg, who was recently awarded Employee of the Month for her positive attitude and dovelike white wings, with which she gloriously soars through the golden afternoon skies.

“Maybe getting to order his favorite Smokehouse Brisket Slider after such a long absence from the menu was the happiest moment of his life,” Borg said. “And now Jim gets to relive that moment over and over again as if for the first time.”

The employees huddled up, chanted softly, and broke apart, sufficiently motivated to continue selling sliders to Saling that he will presumably never get to eat. Arby's is advising that all other customers please come inside the restaurant to order at this time, and thanks you for your understanding.

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And now, I have here an exclusive excerpt from Best Fangs, the upcoming YA horror novel by Night Vale Funeral Home director, Annette Jacoby.

“Chapter One. On the outskirts of town, there was an old, dark house. Everyone said it was abandoned, but Claire Delmonico swore she saw things moving past the windows at night. Not just things. A girl. Maybe even a girl her age. Claire was new in town, and all she really wanted was to make a friend. A real friend, someone she could have sleepovers with and make brownies with and dance to WAP with.

“Claire was the child of a funeral home director, and the only guests that were ever invited into their house were already dead. One day, brave with desperation, Claire marched up the crumbling steps to the old, dark house and rang the bell. A girl answered, tall and pale, with long hair that hung across her face.

“’Whattup?’ the girl asked softly, barely looking Claire in the eye.

“Claire explained that she had just moved in next door and was wondering if anyone lived here. ‘Ha ha ha,’ the tall girl said, ’I guess you could say someone lives here.’ Claire laughed too, though she didn't understand the joke. She needed a friend, and a weird friend was better than no friend at all.”

Annette is still shopping to publishers, if anyone has any leads. Oh, and if it helps, Annette's creative writing instructor at the community college wrote “Pretty good” on her last assignment. Once again, we wish you all the best, Annette.

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More breaking news. The Night Vale City Council is under investigation for misconduct.

Leaked surveillance footage from the Arby’s has revealed the council soliciting a free Smokehouse Brisket Slider.

In the video, which has gone viral, the cashier is seen refusing the request from a single being with multiple heads and arms, which is clearly the Night Vale City Council. There aren’t many other entities who meet that very specific description, except for the McReynolds Family over on East Bedford Rd. But the McReynolds are vegans. The cashier’s refusal prompted the council to tap their collective chest several times in a self important manner. The cashier again declined to serve them, citing Arby's Constitution Article 5 Section 1, which as we all learned in 7th grade civics, grants Arby's employees the power to declare war, enter alliances with foreign powers, and disallow free sandwiches to government employees for any reason the cashier sees fit, barring a two-thirds vote by shareholders.

The City Council became belligerent, yelled the S-word, crushed a sauce packet beneath their fist, wept, hugged the confused cashier, rapidly blinked in and out of existence, and eventually fled the restaurant, dragging the rest of its many heads and arms behind.

The video then shows a baby raccoon entering the restaurant through the open door, eating lettuce scraps underneath a table, and falling fast asleep. Which is unrelated but super cute. If you haven't seen the video yet, you should really check it out. Or you could just go down to Arby's. The raccoon is still there. I've named it Honeymustard.

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And now, more on Rattlesnake Rest. Since the cemetery has been declared full, we’ve all been freed from the bondage of certain death. Of course, there are a few people who aren't exactly happy about this. Let's look in on them now.

[Music transition]

Night Vale funeral director Annette Jacoby gazes out the window at the abandoned house across the street. Unlike the character in her book, she has never seen anything pass by the windows at night, except an occasional bat tapping at the glass, eating bugs. No publishers are interested in her work. She considers self-publishing but the thought makes her feel like a failure. Validation is important. The kind of validation she used to receive when she did a nice job on a deceased loved one's makeup or tracked down their favorite flowers for the service or played a flawless rendition of Wind Beneath My Wings on the pipe organ. Annette misses funerals and the feeling she used to get from them, that special connection to the community that once filled her life with purpose and meaning.

Across town, Al Kincaid, the Grave Digger, loses his third consecutive game of Scrabble to his daughter. He can't spell, he discovers, and doesn't know very many words. He's spent most of his life digging, and he’s never needed the written word for that. Sophia is a great speller. Al learns that she’s been winning ribbons in spelling bees for years at her school. He’s proud of her, but he doesn't know how to say it. Instead, he grunts and nods and gets dirt on the furniture. As much as Al enjoys spending time with his daughter, there’s more tension between them now that he’s home more. Sophia is used to having time to herself and Al misses working with his hands.

Just moments ago, Al dug up the entire backyard of their house for no practical reason. This infuriated Sophia, and the two are barely speaking right now. Al knows things can't go on like this much longer. He calls his former colleague, funeral home director Annette Jacoby, and the two talk in hushed secretive tones, long into the night.

Now, The Weather

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WEATHER: “Hands Like Helios“ by Crystal Eyes http://crystalofficial.com/

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Mark your calendars everyone. This weekend, Rattlesnake Rest cemetery is having a grand re-opening! Chock full of giveaways, discounts, raffles, and a book signing by local self-published author and funeral home director, Annette Jacoby. Freshly-cleaned, like-new plots and crypts will be offered at bargain prices. Oh, and a cake walk featuring the confectionary of local celebrity chef Earl Harlan! With pastries so fresh they still have the salmon bones in them. This weekend only! Come on down.

Wait a minute, you might be saying to yourself. How do graves just become vacant all of a sudden? Aren't they supposed to be our final resting place on this earthly plane? Like, final-final? Well, the gods work in mysterious ways, with their gnashing teeth and glittering eyes and long, silky manes. Gnashing their teeth on their sweet apples and cute little heaps of oats, eyes glittering because they love oats so much. Majestic creatures. Honestly, I might be thinking about horses. My religious studies coursework and 4H Club activities sometimes run together.

Anyway, I asked Annette Jacoby how every single grave, tomb, and crypt in Rattlesnake Rest became empty overnight.

“I've been reading The Secret, and just manifesting things like crazy,” she said. “Self-help and magical thinking really work, you know?” She then deliberately avoided eye contact with Al the Grave Digger who was standing nearby, his face, hands, and coveralls completely caked in dirt.

“Been helping my daughter learn to play Scrabble!” Al blurted without prompting. “That's why I'm covered in so much dirt,” he barked, still looking at the ground.

“Okay. Sounds reasonable,” I said, which is the motto of all good investigative journalists. I then bought six raffle tickets. I'm really hoping to win that Starbucks travel urn. Fingers crossed!

“Don't go out to the Scrublands!” Al added with a shout.

“I wasn't planning to?” I said.

“Good!” he said. “Just a bunch of lumps of recently upturned soil out there. Stay at home and ignore that place. That’s my advice,” he concluded, and I could see his pupils shaking.

“Cool,” I said.

“Sooo cool!” Annette chimed in .

“Good interview,” I said.

Well, listeners, we are free to die once again! Death is scary, painful, and permanent, but it is our right as Americans. I for one, am glad it has been returned to us. The possibility of immortality was nice while it lasted, but it was kind of a lot of pressure too. I didn't even realize it at the time, but now I really feel like I can breathe again.

And if you go out to the Scrublands, make sure you avoid the giant mass of hermit crabs. They’ve really taken over that part of the desert.

Stay tuned for the skittering of a hundred tiny legs weighted down by gleaming, grinning shells, approaching rapidly in the dark.

Oh, and a reminder from our sponsor that the Smokehouse Brisket Slider is back at Arby’s, but it is no longer for sale. Not to the likes of you, anyway.

Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight.

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PROVERB: Don’t bite the hand that feeds you. Go for the legs. It’ll throw them off-balance.