In a remote, unremarkable stretch of sandy wastes in the United States, the aggressively hot wind skims dirt into the air where it rushes, suspended, as if scooped into the hands of frantic, rushing ghosts. Clouds are known to converge here, glowing and – it has been speculated – sentient, though these are witnessed only by those indigenous to the inhospitable desert. They swirl into an angry vortex and below them, far below, sits a town.

Night Vale is a secluded settlement, perched almost uncomfortably on a stretch of highway as though it had simply decided one day to sit there and never get up. Its clusters of low, dilapidated buildings shelter the peculiar and precocious alike. Parks spatter the town, although it would be difficult to recognise them as such for they contain no facet of life or greenery. The streets sit quiet and empty, by night and day – when a pedestrian must travel, they do so by scurrying through the ghost town, their eyes kept firmly to themselves. The buzz of helicopters overhead can occasionally be heard, permeating a near-omnipresent wailing that sounds to the ear like a child crying for a mother who is already dead. It is a peaceful town; it is a secret town. When outsiders come, they do not stay past a day or they never leave – there are no further options. This is a story about two such outsiders.

Night has fallen, though the sad remnants of twilight yet linger on the western horizon, awaiting the show and wishing they could stay to watch. It is dark enough for torches, and so a flashlight cuts like a scythe through the dark. Shadows fall where it hits, silhouettes dragged backwards through the dirt. The torch is attached to a hand which, in turn, is attached to a boy. He speaks.

"Mabel." His tone is insistent and more than a little annoyed. "Mabel, stop squeezing my hand."

"I can't help it!" Whines a voice close behind him, affected by the hint of a lisp. "I'm scaaared." At this, she squeezes her brother's hand tighter, causing his brow to lower in frustration.

"We have to check this place out, Mabel," responds the boy, exasperated. "I've checked the book a thousand times, it just says 'run'. Nothing else. Just 'run'. Aren't you curious?"

"No, Dipper," answers an increasingly desperate sibling, "I'm scared. I want to go home!"

"We're just checking it out. We can go home afterwards. If it makes you feel any better, you can hold the torch." The beam judders skywards for a second, before falling back to the earth with a renewed shakiness. The hand to which it is now attached quivers visibly, though it is far from cold.

"I don't feel any better," Mabel sulks. "I still want to go home." Dipper abandons the conversation, peering into the darkness ahead. They are near the town, and it has been in sight for a while, but despite this they can't make anything specific out. The buildings themselves appear inexplicably hazy, blurred at the edges, and the signs are illegible. A low hum sits below the background noise of cicadas and wind, though it has no apparent source. Before long, the shaky torchlight splashes against a building's wall and the disc of light it projects begins to grow.

"Can you read this sign? I can't... make it out..." Dipper mutters, half to himself, as he squints at a sign mounted upon the side of the closest building. The words actually say "Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex", yet he cannot understand them. They are not in an alien language. They are not especially dim or intricate in font. They are simply impossible to read. Dipper decides to ignore them; his twin follows, her eyes on the sign as she passes it.

The hum has intensified now, and taken the form of what could be electrical current coursing through wires nearby, or a generator turning fuel into power. It remains hard to pin down, though, and the twins' focus is on the buildings themselves. The storefronts are all adorned with signs. All are in English and in plain view, yet all are equally incoherent. Dipper considers them for a moment, before his thoughts are shattered by a sharp, electronic crackle. He turns to it and immediately finds the source of the hum: an appliance store's window is arrayed with row after row of radios, and these have been left on overnight. All come to life simultaneously, and all communicate the same smooth-voiced, inappropriately serene message. The man delivering the broadcast seems pleasant in stark contrast with his words, and there is an impression that he is watching the twins yet there are no apparent means of doing so. He speaks, and he says this:

"Two twins have entered a strange and distant town, one compelled by its mystery and the other unimaginably repulsed by it. The darkness invites them with an extended hand, and the former takes it in his own, dragging his sister in with him. They wonder how the voice on the radio knows this; they scan the area around them, but find nothing. There is nothing to find. The voice – my voice – asks for nothing but their trust. Well, and their patience." There is a pause, only a moment, as if the voice was licking its lips in preparation for a line well-rehearsed and often spoken, an involuntary reflex drawn from muscle memory.

"Welcome to Night Vale."