Entering Night Vale

I

You are in a car.
It is a bright red Cadillac. You are driving down a quiet and winding road. Desert sand and tall, almost mountain-like, red rocks surround you.
With both of your hands on the wheel and your eyes staring dead ahead, you realize that you can't remember getting in this car. You can't remember picking out a destination either. You are driving, but you don't know why.
You were at home, and then you were in a car. You have no memory of the transition.
You do not normally black out like this. You can't help but wonder... Am I alright? Do I need to see a doctor?
You keep driving down the seemingly endless road. You have no other choice. There is only this one, narrow road.
The sun is beginning to set. It burns bright red in the horizon, streaking the sky with shades of pink and orange. You realize how hot you are. Sweat dripping down your neck, and underneath your armpits. You hadn't noticed before. But it is getting cooler now, and you can feel the difference already.
You see something, far into the distance. Lights, several of them, floating in the sky. No, not stars. It is not time for stars- not yet.
These are floating lights, hovering above...
What is that? You wonder, squinting.
A bright red Arby's sign.
Your stomach grumbles. You realize that you are hungry as well. You hadn't noticed that, either.
The long winding road breaks off onto an exit. You drive, approaching the Arby's. In the corner of your eye, you can see the old wooden homes and quaint businesses surround you. They are shrouded in shadows. The night is dark now.
You don't take mind to them. All you can think of is your need for a sandwich and curly fries. Your stomach grows more and more pained.
You park your car- is this your car? You're not sure- in the parking lot bordering the Arby's. You enter.
The Arby's is quiet. White, fluorescent lights flicker up above. A jaded teenager stands behind the counter.
"Can I help you?" He drawls, his head tilted back in ultimate laziness and boredom.
"Food," you growl, overcome by the growing pit in your stomach. You are surprised. Your mother taught you manners. You know better than this. Why are you acting this way?
I really do need a doctor, you think.
The teenager just heads to a kitchen, unfazed by your inconsiderate and somewhat disturbing demand. You clutch your stomach in the meantime. You are too hungry to worry about your current mental state.
The boy comes back. He is holding a brown bag, marked by the Arby's logo.
"That'll be $12.50," he drawls again. The words crawl out of his mouth like snakes shedding their skin.
Your hands roughly snatch a $20 bill from your pocket. You push it into his hands and grab your bag, not bothering to collect your change. The boy doesn't seem bothered either.
You rush outside, and lock yourself in the red Cadillac. Eagerly, you open up the bag and began to devour the beef sandwich tucked inside. You quickly realize that you are eating the wrapper as well. You peel it off, and continue.
The radio flickers on. A smooth, low voice fills the car.
You don't recognize this station, you realize.
"Welcome," prompts the voice, dramatically, "to Night Vale."
Calming yet ominous music follows.
You mute the radio, unnerved by the voice, by the unfamiliar station, by the foreign town. Where are you? It is finally dawning on you, how lost you are. Both physically, and mentally.
You finish your beef sandwich hastily.
Help, you think. I must find help.
You pull out of the driveway and start driving around this foreign town you've encountered. You quickly realize, however, that you can't find your way out. It was so easy to be drawn in, by the floating white lights and the glowing red Arby's sign. And yet, as you scavenged here and there, you could not find a road that lead back to the empty desert. You found a cellular tower, a broken old home with a wooden porch, a school. You found everything that should be found in a simple town- except for an exit.
"Lost," you mumble, almost erratically. "Lost, lost, lost,"
You see bright lights flashing in your rear view mirror. That sounds of sirens accompany it.
Sighing frustratedly, you pull over outside what appears to be a record shop. "Dark Owl Records", that sign reads.
An officer climbs out of the vehicle and approaches you. He is wearing a brown uniform.
You roll down your car window. He bends down to peer at you.
"So, yer lost, huh?" He says, in a thick Midwestern accent.
You stare at him, mouth slightly agape. "How did you know?"
"I'm pard of the Sheriff's Secret Police," he says plainly, as if this thoroughly answers your question. "Any whosit- you better be careful 'round here. People ain't that open to interlopers. Now, you seem like a good kid but if you keep being lost so obviously..."
"I just want to get home. Please, could you give me directions?"
The officer stares at you, his brows furrowed. "That is privileged information. Tellin' you would be against the law." He says this as though it were blatantly obvious. He shakes his head at you, bemused by your strangeness, before patting the hood of the car. "You have a good night, then. Don' be causin' anymore trouble." He retreats back to his vehicle and drives off.
You are confused. You don't know what trouble you've caused. You don't understand the reason behind that transaction. Still, you follow the officers advice.
You try to be lost more subtly.
You turn on the car radio. The man's smooth voice fills the car, once again.
"Listeners, there is a new stranger driving around Night Vale. This stranger, whoever they may be, seems to be incredibly lost. Many complaints have been made over the blatant confusion and lack of coordination. I, for one, believe we should welcome such refreshing obliviousness. After all, knowledge is such a dangerous thing. The alternative is also dangerous, but it is oddly refreshing. And besides... aren't we all lost, really?"
You flip the radio off. Your stomach churns. There is something very disturbing about this town.
The realization is dawning on you: you may be here for a long while.
You push your drivers seat back, until it is nearly flat, but not quite. You close your eyes, and relax. You know, somehow, that things will be better in the morning. They always are.
The radio, somehow, flips on one more time- just for a small instance. Just long enough for you to hear...
"Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight."