Lend me your ears. I need ears. Give them to me. I’m taking those ears, bud. Welcome to Night Vale.

Hello listeners, and we have a great show today for…uh hold on.

Sorry, I just got an urgent call from Tamika Flynn. She’s been watching that boy we found in Grove Park, the one who does not remember his name or where he came from. Mostly he’s been well behaved, but lately she’s been troubled by his behavior. And just now she called me to tell me that he is holding a knife.

What do you mean he is holding a knife? I asked

Like I said. A knife, he is holding one, she said.

Did he get it from the Knife Show we went to last month? I asked.

No. You can get knives from more places than Knife Shows, she said.

Well, is he threatening you with it? I asked

No, she said.

Does it look like he might hurt himself or others with it? I asked

No, she said. But he is holding a knife.

Tamika, I apologize, I said. We’ve been friends a long time. But I’m not sure what you want me to do with this information.

I don’t know either, she said. I don’t know what anyone should do. But I know that he is holding a knife. And that can’t mean anything good for any of us.

Well, on to the news. Pulavan and Lakshmi Mahalla, whose family used to run the VHS rental annex in the Ralph’s back in the 90s, reached out to say that they are now ready to let go of their vast collection of VHS tapes. They have been holding onto it for all these years in memory of their parents, but they realize now that memory lives in the heart, not in the house, and that it is time to empty out their closets of these useless plastic cases.

All of the tapes will be available on their lawn today, after which the rest will be donated to the town dump, where the Masked Garbage Eaters hopefully will enjoy them during their night frenzies. This tape collection is state of the art and includes all the latest hits, such as Jurassic Park and Honey, The Kids Are Morose. There are also some really rare finds in there, like Night Vale resident actor Lee Marvin’s first performance, as Dougly Dougson in the nearly forgotten western The Cows, Stan! The Cows!

Get on down there before the tapes are gone, or before Pulavan and Lakshmi realize that this was a foolish idea, that they are throwing away the last remnants of their parents’ legacy and start frantically pulling the tapes out of your hands shouting “let go of mommy!”

We’ll keep you updated on how it goes and…ok sorry, give me a second.

Tamika Flynn called back to let me know that she has lost sight of the boy.

You don’t know where the boy is? I asked, a tremor in my voice.

No, she said, her voice as steady as ever.

When you last saw him, was he still holding a knife? I asked.

Oh yes, she said. He has been holding the knife this whole time.

Are there any clues as to where he could have gone? I asked

He has been writing in a journal, she said. I read it to see if it would point me to his location, but all it said was WHO AM I? over and over again in radically different handwritings. If I didn’t know better, I would say that this was all written by different people, but I think it is just one person, trying out different versions of the person he could be.

And now you don’t know where he is? I said

Correct, she said.

And he is a holding a knife? I said.

Oh yes, she said. Oh yes.

More soon, I hope. Very shortly, I hope.

Big news in the world of paper-based communication. The Night Vale post office is reopening again. Last time it reopened, it was full of strange cloaked figures and caused a wave of dizziness and nausea to anyone who dared to approach. But that’s all been fixed, says the Night Vale Post Master, who refuses to reveal their identity and puts all announcements on an old Metallica IRC under the username MetalEnjoyer9.

“That’s all been fixed,” they said, “and you can now send physical letters through the mail if you’re a sicko who is into that sort of thing, or if you are a roleplayer pretending it is the antiquated era of 1980.”

“Whatever you decide to do,” the post master concluded, “good luck out there.” They then logged off and deleted their account.

Patrons at the newly refurbished Post Office say that it seems to look a lot like the old one, which is fine with them.

“I don’t need much from the post office,” said Larry Leroy, who had come in from the edge of town to see what all the fuss was about. He continued: “As long as I can come in whenever I’m hungry and buy some stamps to snack on, I’m happy with it.”

Lakshmi Mahalla called in to let me know that she has spotted the boy. He passed their VHS giveaway and stopped to look at some of the titles. She’s looking at him right now.

He is holding a knife. He grabs a tape seemingly at random. It is Beverly Hills Cop, that movie about a cop who discovers that the police, as an institution, are essentially just another form of organized crime, acting as a violent parasite on city budgets, and so retires to instead get into a non-corrupt, people-friendly business like running a movie studio.

“Is this one good?” the boy asks. He is holding a knife.

“I like it,” Lakshmi says.

“That’s not the same as it being good, is it?” the boy says.

“I suppose not,” Lakshmi says. “But,” she continues, “if you remove human subjectivity from the equation, then no movie is good or bad. The quality of a movie only exists when a person experiences it. Until then, the movie is nothing at all.”

“That’s true,” the boy says. “Hey, can you tell me how to get to Carlos Robles’s lab?”

“Sure,” Lakshmi says, and points down the street, to the strip mall where my dear husband and Night Vale’s preeminent scientist does his important work.

The boy thanks her and walks in the direction of the lab. He is holding a knife.

I have warned Carlos and hopefully he locks everything down and stays safe. I can’t stand to think what could happen to him, with this boy. I do not trust this boy.

More soon on the boy, I am sure.

Exciting developments in the local restaurant scene, as Gino’s Italian Dining Experience and Grill and Bar unveiled plans to add a second bar in the back as an event space, renaming themselves Gino’s Italian Dining Experience and Grill and Bar and Bar.

“We believe in good honest food and good return for our rapacious investors,” said head chef Daniel Daniels. “If we don’t bump up return on investment for these vultures, they are going to absolutely devour us. Just like you’ll be devouring our new chicken piccata special!” Daniels concluded, glancing at the windows nervously.

Local diners expressed enthusiasm about this new development, saying things like “wow, cool” and “I like Italian food ok” and “if this doesn’t work out for them, I’ll torch the place. It’s worth more to me as ashes.” So, excitement in the community sure seems high.

Gino’s also understands that today’s dining is all about appealing to social media influencers by serving flashy looking dishes that do not taste good but make people stop mid-scroll to wonder why anyone would think of cooking that. Toward this end, they are introducing the Deconstructed Calamari, which is a live squid served to your table with a knife and a deep fryer. And the Tossed Risotto, which is hurled at you overhand from the kitchen door and whatever you catch is whatever you get.

Night Vale has never been much of a culinary destination, but it sure sounds like that’s changing.

Carlos called. The boy is at his lab. He is holding a knife. Carlos is looking at him right now.

The boy asks Carlos to show him any experiments that have to do with the other desert world. Carlos takes him to the window they have opened that allows them to observe, at times, some part of that parallel universe where once Carlos was trapped. So far they have seen no movement, but they do not have comprehensive coverage, only tiny glimpses of dunes and ruins, and a distant lighthouse, barely visible through the sand whipped air.

The boy stares intently into that other world, as though trying to discern a message in its senselessness.

Then Carlos shows him the samples they have managed to bring back from that other world using probes and other highly advanced techniques, like holding his breath and reaching through a portal to grab some.

The boy runs the sand through his hand. “It’s so beautiful,” he says.

“The secret of science,” says Carlos, “is that so much of it is beautiful.”

“Thank you for showing me,” the boy says. He is holding a knife.

“You’re quite welcome,” says Carlos. “I want you to feel like you can always drop in, if you need to.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary anymore,” the boy says, and leaves.

Thankfully, Carlos is quite safe, but he lost sight of the boy, and so we have no idea where the boy is now. Be on the look out for a boy, wherever boys might be.

Pulavan Mahalla called saying that they have finally gotten rid of the last of their parent’s VHS collection, when Lee Marvin himself came by to pick up the rare tape featuring his first film appearance, The Cows, Stan! The Cows! Lee told them that the studio never gave him a copy of that film, and that he had been unsuccessful in finding a copy ever since. He asked if they wanted to hear some funny behind the scenes stories from the set, and they said yes, and he said “too bad, it was a miserable week and we were all glad to see it behind us” and then marched glumly off. That’s that classic Lee Marvin charm we’ve all come to know and love.

I asked Pulavan if he feels better now that the tapes are all gone. “Yes,” he told me, “I feel lighter.” His voice sounded lighter too. He no longer sounded weighed down by legacy, but instead buttressed by fond memory.

“I think your parents would be proud of you,” I told him.

“Thank you,” he said. “I think they would too.” “Oh,” he added. “I saw the boy.”

I asked him where, fairly urgently and he said: “He is heading right for you. He is holding a knife.”

Well.

The boy is approaching the station. He is holding a knife. I am looking at him right now. He has a determined face and long stride. He no longer looks so young. Visible in the last bit of baby fat on his cheeks is the man he will someday become, and it is a man who is familiar to me. The sight of him makes me sweat, on my hands and my cheeks and my scalp. He is so calm and determined, and he is coming right for me. He is holding a knife. There is nowhere I could run that the boy could not follow. And would not follow. And will not follow. I have little time to prepare. Already I hear his small but powerful hand rapping on the station door.

While I go to open that door, and hopefully to return afterward, have a quick glance at this weekend’s weather.

[weather]

“Be calm,” the boy says. He is holding a knife.

“I won’t hurt you,” the boy says. “Or at least I don’t want to. And I haven’t yet. But past performance is not a predictor of future results.”

He holds the knife in his right hand. He holds a smile on his face. He holds still, for now.

“I only want to tell my side of the story,” the boy says. “Without apology or interruption. Everyone wants something from me. I only want to want something for myself.”

He cocks his head to one side. He glances to the other side. His hands are remarkably steady.

“Please don’t make this difficult. Please don’t make me make this difficult,” the boy says. “I wouldn’t want this to be difficult for anyone. It will be. It will be so difficult for so many people. But I don’t want that.”

He sits down across from me. He sweeps his hand across the table in a gesture only understood by him. His breath smells of wild raspberries and black licorice.

“I am speaking now to the radio audience of Night Vale,” the boy says. “To all listeners, listening. To everyone, I suppose. To all of you.”

He leans into the microphone. He holds the cord in his left hand. His lips are dry. His eyes are wet.

“I want you to know,” the boy says, and then he stops. He isn’t sure what he wants us to know. He thinks about it.

“I want you to know more,” the boy says.

“I want you to know more about me,” the boy says, “because I want to know more about me, and I have come to believe that the only way to know more about me is if we all learn together.”

My back is to the wall of the studio. The boy is between me and the exit. He studies me with calm eyes and a quivering mouth. He is holding a knife.

“Please don’t be afraid,” the boy says. “You have every reason to be afraid, but I would prefer it if you weren’t. It just will make it much easier if you weren’t afraid.”

Finally I reach for my only weapon, my voice. It has been hiding in my fear, but I draw it now. “I know who you are.”

He looks excited, childlike again, like a boy offered a toy. “You do?”

“Yes,” I say. “It was only just now, studying you, that I realized it. I cannot say that I understand it, but I have become comfortable with not understanding what I know to be true. One can’t live a lifetime in Night Vale without reaching that peace.”

“What is my name?” the boy says.

“You know your name,” I say.

“Yes,” the boy says, “but I don’t know what it means.”

“Like I said, you’ll have to become comfortable not knowing what anything means,” I say. “Now say your name.”

And the boy says:

KEVIN: My name is Kevin.

CECIL: He is holding a knife. He takes the knife, and sets it against the microphone cord. And with one smooth and easy motion, he cuts the co-

[sound of the radio signal being cut out, replaced with dead signal]