Table of Contents
- Home
- Introduction
- Where Goths Come From - Neef
- The Watcher - Hobbes
- The Resurrection Shuffle - Barbarella
- Cassandra - Cosey Mo
- Drunken Old Bastard - Sandro
- Alcohol - Trayce
- Shadows - Entrippy
- Entropy - Kage-Ryu
- Is There A Point - Trajik
- Whispers - Kitsune
- Confessional - Sandro
- Garden - Entrippy
- Radio - Cam
- Cold Spell - Nikolai
- Slices - Neef
- A Bottle of Something Strong - Jraff
- The Light Fades - Tim
- Rain - Tim
- Self Help - Gothic Gallae
- Cato - Trajik
- Addiction/Fragment - Trayce
- Heal Thyself - Nikolai
- Shattered - Hobbes
- Travelling Song - Solitaire
- Distance - Stranger
- Legacy - Stranger
Radio
The radio was flanked by seven faded black and white portraits as old, or older, than the radio; seven Chinese people. From the candles and incense and dried flowers placed around I figured they must have been family. By the radio was a notepad and a pencil. She had divided the page into a grid, seven squares across and four down: a calendar.
There was a 'fireplace' with a decrepit three-bar heater in it. There was a flowerpot at either end of the thin mantle on which was arranged a selection of pill bottles. Figured she must have found a chemist that delivered. There was more brown paper on the only window.
"Family?" I asked, indicating the photographs and portraits in a feeble attempt to put her at ease.
She waggled a finger. "Not for you." She crossed the room and turned the portraits away, hiding their eyes and faces. "Not for you." Then she stood there, hands held at her waist, face stern like an undersized golem, saying nothing.
"Lady," I explained. "I can't fix it if you don't let me open it."
She shook her head until I got the idea. I sighed and checked my watch. If I was going to get home in time to meet Diane I was gonna have to make this one quick. I sidled between the brown sofa and the table with the radio and photos and candles, and sat down, feeling a spring trying to break through the upholstery and up my butt. I examined the face of the radio. No sound, no tuning, not even static. Nothing. Great. Super.
"I make tea," she said. "No forecast, no go out." I said fine, having no intention of sticking around long enough to drink anything. Once she was out of the room I went through the routine of checking for all the stupid shit people chalk up to mechanical failure, starting with the power. I got up and scouted the running board for an outlet. I found a double socket. Only one was being used, and that cord led to the heater. Hoping she simply hadn't plugged the thing in I went back to the radio looking for the cable.
No cable.
Not only was it not plugged in, the thing didn't have a cable. Not even a battery slot or cover or anything. Straight teak at the back, seamless.
I could hear her puttering and clinking in the kitchen.
I couldn't believe this. Ignoring the photos and candles and incense and memorabilia I grabbed the radio, picking the box up in both hands. It lifted so easily I overcompensated and almost threw it through the ceiling. The thing was light; light and mostly empty, except for something soft and shifting inside. I'd had enough. It was Friday and Diane would totally write me off if I turned up late again. I grabbed my toolbox and headed for the door. Nursing the senile wasn't part of the job.
There was a whisper - a sighing susurration like a distant ocean - and from that whisper a word formed...
...hurry...
and the hissing-sighing continued, unbroken.
I turned and looked back. No power in the thing, no light inside the face or on the dial. Nothing. I sat there blinking for three full seconds. Just that soft rolling sound from the canvas mesh of the box's cathedral window.