246 - A Story about Him

Welcome to Night Vale has a lot of really amazing merch, and it's all at welcometonightvale.com.

And you click on store, we've got t-shirts, leggings, blankets, stickers, posters, mugs, bags, holiday carts, throw pillows, blankets, etc., etc.

Oh, ugly Christmas sweaters, whatever you need.

Even if you've been to our merch store before, it's different now.

We're constantly taking down old things and putting up new things.

So if something looks pretty dope to you, get it soon because who knows if it'll be there for long.

I'm really right now, I just got a bunch of stuff.

I'm really enjoying my mutated vegetable tea towel designed by Jessica Hayworth, my University of What It Is sweatshirt, and of course, my Moonlight All-Night Diner coffee mug.

Plus, we have dozens more things for you or someone you love for the holidays or just on a lark.

Go to welcometonightveil.com and click on store.

CRM was supposed to improve customer relationships.

Instead, it's shorthand for Customer Rage Machine.

Your CRM can't explain why a customer's package took five detours?

Reboot your inner piece and scream into a pillow.

It's okay.

On the ServiceNow AI platform, CRM stands for something better.

AI agents don't just track issues, they resolve them, transforming the entire customer experience.

So breathe in and breathe out.

That CRM was then.

This is ServiceNow.

Hey, it's Jeffrey Kraner.

Two disclaimers before you listen to today's episode.

First, this episode contains a couple of moments of casual swearing in case you're listening with kids.

Second, if you haven't listened to episode 245 yet, I recommend you do that before listening to this episode.

All right, that's all.

Here's episode 246.

I'll tell you again.

But please, try not to forget this time, Cecil.

This is a story about him.

Mom

never acknowledged dad.

It's not that she didn't mention him or didn't want to talk about him.

Yes, those things, but also when I would ask questions about him, she would change the subject or go quiet.

Sometimes I pressed her harder, but she wouldn't bite.

I would say, Mom, stop ignoring the question, where is our dad?

And she would say something like,

you really shouldn't smoke, Abby.

And I'd find myself telling her, I don't smoke.

I've never smoked.

And she'd say, I can smell it on you.

Bad habit.

Bad habit.

And then she'd stare at the wall with translucent eyes.

It didn't matter how I tried to approach the topic, I always fell into that trap.

She would put me on my heels.

My attempts to interrogate her would end in her questioning me about something completely unrelated.

You know how it is.

I remember when you were 16, you tried to borrow the car to go out with what's his name.

And 20 minutes later, she had you repairing the leaky bathroom faucet instead of going on your date.

She was good at that sort of thing.

I spent years

trying to find a picture of our dad.

I dug through photo albums and scrapbooks.

I even waited until late at night when mom had passed out

for Maxes.

I rifled through her dresser and even her purse.

No pictures of him anywhere.

I believed for a long time that maybe I imagined him.

That we had no father.

That can't be true, though.

I know we have a father, and I know it's the same

man

for you and me.

Look at us.

We have matching noses, with these thin bridges and the upturn at the tip.

And we share dimples.

Mom didn't have those features.

We look alike, well beyond our mother.

I can't remember dad's face though, and I should.

I would would have been old enough to see a dad around before you were born.

I should have some kind of visual, but

nothing.

That doesn't mean I don't remember him.

I do remember someone else in our house besides mom.

I remember a voice, a presence,

a smell, a temperature.

I know he was there.

When I was four, I was lifted into the air.

I could see mother across the room glowering.

I squealed as I was raised and lowered.

There was a voice laughing along with me, deep and resonant, more of a vibration than a sound.

Mom never cracked a smile, and I never saw the face of the one who flew me around the living room like a helicopter.

But I could feel his joy.

It sticks with you, like a chill deep in your bones.

I don't need a picture of something to know those moments were real.

Like,

we can't photograph love,

but we know it's there.

There are no pictures of hurt, but we feel it deeply.

To this day, there's not been a single picture taken of Taylor Swift, but we know she's a real person who sings incredible songs.

I get goose flush every time I hear her version of the Macarena.

You believe me.

I know you do.

Even though dad, or whatever he was,

disappeared right after you were born.

You didn't experience him in the house.

You felt him there, I'm sure,

but not actually there, but I did.

I'm sorry to bring this up again, though I know you'll forget it, like you always do.

I blamed you for many years for his leaving.

I was a kid, of course, and I didn't know any better.

All I understood was that you were born, and suddenly the presence I called dad disappeared.

Maybe you had something to do with it.

I don't know.

We'll never know.

But however it went down,

it was never your fault.

Before you came along, Dad tucked me in at night.

He read me stories.

I don't remember which ones.

I can't remember his exact voice either.

It's

in my head.

I know what his voice feels like, but I can't place its pitch or pattern.

Like a voice in a dream.

Mom never read me stories, but dad did.

And then you arrived.

Another person in the house, and I felt so alone.

Worse than dad's disappearance was mom's disappearance.

But hers was a metaphorical disappearance.

Her body was around, but she was absent.

Dad was there, but not.

Mom wasn't there, but was, you know?

She provided nothing.

That's unfair.

She gave us a house.

She put us through school.

She fed us.

But hugs?

Touch?

Smiles?

Too few.

I don't have to tell you, right?

I don't think I spent enough time trying to understand

her.

I definitely tried to reach her, to talk to her, but I don't know that I ever asked her any questions that weren't about me.

I was too young and bitter to say, you look tired, mom.

Do you want to talk about it?

Steve tells me not to beat myself up over it.

It's not the child's job to take care of the parent.

But it is humanity's job to check in on each other.

Of course, I never did.

I don't think you did either.

And we'll never know what her life was really like.

But how could I think of her life when she was so distant?

I resented you for her inadequacy, Cecil.

I resented having to be your de facto guardian.

helping you with your homework, driving you around,

cooking for you, cleaning up after you, disciplining you, and you were never grateful and always belligerent towards me.

I hated you,

but only because we were both still children.

Years and years, I didn't hide my anger well, and you didn't either.

Even into adulthood, the way you picked on Steve?

In public?

On your radio show?

You didn't fight with me because you were scared of me.

I'm sure my demeanor, my face that reminded you of our mother, you wanted no part of that.

But Steve, he was a gentle proxy, a nice man who would take your abuse

an easy target for you to unleash your pain.

I understand because I did it too.

We all have scapegoats for our pain.

And Steve...

Steve full of grace.

Thank you, babe.

We sucked as siblings, Cecil, but we're growing up and we're starting to suck less.

I love our game nights, like tonight.

I love our family outings.

I love getting to see you and Carlos and Esteban so much.

I love how involved you've been in Janice's life and how welcoming you've been to Steve the last few years.

I forgive you.

I forgive myself

and I hope you will too.

Sorry.

This shit always makes me cry.

I hope you finally remember what I'm telling you tonight.

I don't know how many times I've told you this all before,

and you never retain any of it.

But I'll tell it again.

Dad returned when you were old enough to start drawing and telling stories.

Like I said, he wasn't physically there, but he was present, you know?

When you were about four or five, you really took to your crayons and watercolors.

You draw the family the house the sun you drew pictures of our dog backgammon i'm not gonna lie they weren't great drawings but

i

couldn't stop looking at them

they were so

familiar

i dug up a box of my old drawings and discovered you and I had drawn the same exact things,

years apart.

You and I had both sketched a large tree, heavy with owls.

We didn't have a large tree or owls anywhere near us, but we'd both drawn the same thing.

Weird coincidence, I guess.

Kids' drawings all start to run together.

But then,

you told me about the hiking trip dad took us on, just you and me and him, through the redwoods.

We caught butterflies and dug holes looking for treasure, and we even saw several owls.

The owls made sounds like telephones ringing and vibrating easy chairs.

I knew for sure you were lying.

Childish tall tales.

But then I started having the dreams.

Same imagery.

Owls, redwoods, digging holes.

I sometimes saw other things in my dream.

A sitting man with his back turned.

A framed photo of the same man next to him.

His face unseeable and thin clouds moving dizzyingly fast across the sky.

You remember how I would ask you about your dreams and you would tell me you didn't remember them?

Then I would ask you about dad and you would tell me these wild stories.

That we had gone to the lake together and fought an octopus.

That dad taught us to make our own hot air balloons.

That he picked us up in his soft arms and flew us up to the top of a mountain where we could see the entire valley unfurled below like a dusty rug.

That the owls told us to dig a hole beneath a tree and then crawl inside until our shoulders ached and the world smelled like worms.

and no sunlight could harm us.

These stories you told told weren't lies or childish fabulations.

They were recaps of my own dreams.

You were having the same dreams, Cecil, only you thought they were real.

Maybe they were real.

Maybe I was wrong and you were right.

I wanted to believe that.

I wanted more than anything for dad to be real.

Once I got up in the middle of the night, I went to the kitchen for a glass of water,

and there was someone sitting in the dining room.

It was dark, but I could make out an outline of a man with his back turned.

I was too scared to approach him to say anything.

I didn't even want to move.

for fear he'd hear me and jerk around.

I watched him breathless for a long time.

Then he stood.

I froze

and he turned.

I shut my eyes before I could see his face.

I heard him shout my name.

I screamed and when I finally opened my eyes,

he was gone.

Across the table was our mother.

Again, it was dark, but the ember of her cigarette lit up her face.

She didn't look at me.

Pretended I wasn't there.

I went back to bed,

and we never spoke of it.

I don't think I dreamed that.

But dad seemed to only come to me in dreams.

Maybe that was the only place I could be open to receiving him.

I don't know what dad is.

In my dreams and in my drawings, I used to think he was an owl.

A bunch of owls.

I think that's called a parliament of owls.

Like a murder of crows, a parliament of owls, a

calamity of abyss, a paucity of parents.

It's more likely, though, that he's just a ghost.

and he's haunting us.

I was always scared to dream about him.

I couldn't sleep well for days after one of those dreams.

I don't watch horror movies, but I know enough about them to be terrified of vengeful spirits.

Is he vengeful, though?

The way he shouted my name when I closed my eyes that night, Abby!

scared me but he might have just been surprised like he was shocked to see me there Abbey!

He wanted me to go back to bed.

He didn't want me to see him and mom arguing or whatever they were doing.

Who knows?

The separation between worlds is not a veil, but mud.

He can't make himself as visible or tangible as he wants.

I wish he could.

But you,

Cecil.

when you were younger, your contact with him was much more substantial.

Maybe you're the key to reaching him.

Or do you not want to?

I don't want to pressure you to.

Oh, wow.

Can you hear that?

It sounds like rain.

Steve, hon, can you pop your head out the front door and check the weather?

I'm disappointed we didn't last.

I guess we just moved along too fast.

But living isn't easy when you live in the past.

I'm off to Easter Island tonight.

Giant statues, the sun so bright.

You can see all the stars at night.

There's no one there to tell me about the guy that you like.

Easter Island,

Easter Island.

Off to Easter Island tonight.

Can't afford a ticket and I'm scared scared to fly.

I wouldn't make it there anyway.

But I can go there anytime I fall asleep.

Just close my eyes and drift away.

Now I'm here and you're gone from my mind.

Just a small puffy cloud passing by.

No blatant sign of terror, though I think it's implied.

Easter Island,

Easter Island.

I'm on Easter Island tonight.

The crashing waves make it hard to think.

Can't find food or fresh water to drink.

I thought I saw a giant statue give me a wink.

Easter Island,

Easter Island.

I'm on Easter Island tonight.

I'm on Easter Island tonight.

You chose to hit play on this podcast today.

Smart Choice.

Progressive loves to help people make smart choices.

That's why they offer a tool called Auto Quote Explorer that allows you to compare your progressive car insurance quote with rates from other companies So you save time on the research and can enjoy savings when you choose the best rate for you.

Give it a try after this episode at progressive.com.

Progressive Casualty Insurance Company and Affiliates.

Not available in all states or situations.

Prices vary based on how you buy.

There's only one place where history, culture, and adventure meet on the National Mall.

Where museum days turn to electric lights.

Where riverside sunrises glow and monuments shine in moonlight.

Where there's something new for everyone to discover.

There's only one DC.

Visit Washington.org to plan your trip.

No rain?

Just the wind, you think?

Wow.

It really did sound like rain.

No one else heard that?

Every time I tell you a story about dad, Cecil,

I think I hear rain outside.

Or maybe it's the owls.

I don't know what all of this means.

I wish I had a satisfying, definitive answer for you about who our dad was, where he went,

when,

what for,

why,

how.

I

am pretty sure

our dad is dead.

And I think our dreams and drawings are doorways for his ghost.

Does he want something?

These days, I'm pretty sure that whatever he's doing is innocuous.

That more than anything, he wants us to know him.

To not be forgotten.

Though though you have forgotten him so many times.

I say ghost,

but not the ghost of horror movies.

A real ghost, the kind that actually exists.

Ghosts are watermarks, stains.

They're the wear and tear of repetition over millennia in our physical world.

Hiking trails are ghosts, footpaths for months, years, centuries past.

The laughter and applause night after night, decade after decade in an old theater still resonates through the floorboard and roof beams.

The vibrations are ghosts.

Dreams are ghosts.

Language is a ghost.

Faces of children are ghosts.

People laugh, cry, get angry, fall in love, and those emotions are like tire tracks on their souls.

But unlike tire tracks, people can't see these marks, so they can't understand them.

They get scared, like me, or avoidant,

like you.

Ghosts would be a lot easier if they just looked and talked like a person.

But they're not people.

They're ghosts.

And now I want to go back to what I said about mom earlier.

I didn't ever try to understand her.

I tried to understand dad through her.

You and I see, so we're haunted by him.

We've talked about it a million times, but he haunted mom too.

I don't know what he did to her or what he was like around her.

I'll never get that information.

I can only guess.

It's not incomprehensible.

that two living physical people

could haunt each other.

She never shared anything about their relationship.

She grew quieter and more solitary in her later years.

She was angry at the world, at us, at herself, and we never got the chance to be with her in those feelings.

We never really tried.

I've tried spending more time with dad in my dreams and in my art, but he's...

good he's impossible

just give me a straight answer man

a word a gesture a look at your face even

i think he was like this in real life cecil

i think his ambiguity his vagueness is why mom hated talking about him He's not enigmatic or magical.

He is fucking frustrating.

All these cryptic images.

But I don't think there's much to understand about an absent father.

I'm looking for mom's ghost now.

But I don't think she wants to be found.

I think she's happier.

Far away from the ghost of our father.

That's my journey though.

You should keep looking for dad in dreams and in drawings if that's what you want.

Like I said, I don't think he means any harm.

I don't think he means anything at all.

He's a smudge.

A haze.

A feeling.

A tire track.

But he is there.

Now, can we please finish our game of Scrabble?

It's my turn to try and spell the name of God.

Let's see.

Off of your M, Carlos, I'll play

Akimitsu.

Ooh,

that's worth 33 points.

And loud footsteps in the attic.

So close.

Your turn, Cecil.

Cecil.

Cecil!

Better not have forgotten my story again.

Welcome to Night Vale is a production of Night Vale Presents.

It is written by Joseph Fink, Jeffrey Kraner, and Bree Williams.

It is produced by Disparition.

The voice of Abby was Ashley Atkinson.

Original music by Disparition.

All of it can be found at disparition.bandcamp.com.

Today's weather was Easter Island by the Violet Hourglass.

Find out more at the link in the show notes.

Comments, questions, email us at info at welcometonightvale.com or follow us on Instagram and on Tumblr at nightvaleofficial.

We now have a TikTok at Nightvale Official as well, so check that out.

Most importantly, check out welcometonightvale.com, where we have a twice-monthly mailing list that is the best way to keep up to date directly from us to you.

Abandon social media and take to the seas of email newsletters.

Today's proverb: Dress for the job you want, senior accountant, not for the job you have, naked accountant.

Mike and Alyssa are always trying to outdo each other.

When Alyssa got a small water bottle, Mike showed up with a four-litre jug.

When Mike started gardening, Alyssa started beekeeping.

They called a truce for their holiday and used Expedia Trip Planner to collaborate on all the details of their trip.

Once there, Mike still did more laps around the pool.

Whatever.

You were made to outdo your holidays.

We were made to help organize the competition.

Expedia, made to travel.

I'm Amy Nicholson, the film critic for the LA Times.

And I'm Paul Scheer, an actor, writer, and director.

You might know me from the League Veep or my non-eligible for Academy Award role in Twisters.

We love movies, and we come at them from different perspectives.

Yeah, like Amy thinks that, you know, Joe Pesci was miscast in Goodfellas, and I don't.

He's too old.

Let's not forget that Paul thinks that Dune 2 is overrated.

It is.

Anyway, despite this, we come together to host Unschooled, a podcast where we talk about good movies, critical hits, fan favorites, must-sees, and in case you missed them.

We're talking Parasite the Home Alone, From Greece to the Dark Knight.

We've done deep dives on popcorn flicks.

We've talked about why Independence Day deserves a second look.

And we've talked about horror movies, some that you've never even heard of, like Kanja and Hess.

So if you love movies like we do, come along on our cinematic adventure.

Listen to Unschooled wherever you you get your podcasts.

And don't forget to hit the follow button.

Hi, we're Meg Bashmaner.

And Joseph Fink of Welcome to Night Vale.

And on our new show, The Best Worst, we explore the golden age of television.

To do that, we're watching the IMDb viewer-rated best and worst episodes of classic TV shows.

The episode of Star Trek, where Beverly Crusher has sex with a ghost.

The episode of The X-Files, where Scully gets attacked by a vicious house cat.

And also, the really good episodes, too.

What can we learn from the best and worst of great television?

Like, for example, is it really a bad episode, or do people just hate women?

The best, worst.

Available wherever you get your podcasts.