The Red Radio (826 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.8 on 23 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Ess2s2 (View user info) at 2006-12-16 22:19:51 EST
This...is the story of two young children.
Two young children who feared one another for very different reasons.
The younger boy was named Glen. Glen was just like any other boy. He played short-stop in T-ball and loved pizza and liked to watch movies with his mother and father. On occasion he would misbehave, doing something he knew just as well he shouldn't. His favorite food was chocolate milkshakes served with the mixing cup, and his favorite thing was the small battery operated radio he used to listen to the weekly baseball games, and sometimes some rock and roll if it would come in through the hail of static. Many a warm summer eve had been spent sitting on his mother and father's front porch watching the neighborhood and listening to the soft sounds of the game or a Chuck Berry tune straining out of the small speaker.
The other, older boy's name was Scott. Scott was also just like any other boy his age, goofy, energetic, and just a little mean-spirited sometimes. More often than not, Scott would misbehave, doing something he knew just as well he shouldn't simply for the fact he knew it would make someone mad. Scott told the other kids his favorite food was crow, although no one really knew what he meant by it. His favorite thing was girls, though he would never admit it to any of the other boys. When the mood would hit him, Scott would troll the neighborhood, looking for anything that looked like a potential adventure.
It was on one such occasion that Scott found more than he could have ever bargained for.
It was Saturday afternoon. The sun was still high in the sky, and kids littered the streets, playing in their front yards, riding various wheeled implements along the sidewalk, or playing kick-ball in the street, yelling "Car!!" whenever one trundled up the street, bound for home. Scott was floating around the neighborhood with a couple of his friends, trying to find something or someone that would provide some momentary entertainment. Scott and his group moved in a nebulous lurch through the neighborhood, frequently chasing the smaller children around or banging sticks on nicely painted mailboxes. Most kids stayed clear of Scott.
Glen wasn't most kids.
Glen sat happily on his front porch, listening to a random rock 'n roll tune, something that had a pretty good beat, since Glen was tapping his foot lightly as he gazed at the clouds high above. His mind was wandering, taking off on flights of fancy, and landing just as quickly. Around the same time Scott turned the corner down the street, Glen was smiling as he imagined himself standing in the infield at Wrigley Stadium between second and third bases, waiting for the short pop-fly that was to come. He could see the batter tense as his pitcher wound up and let fly. He could see the ball, little more than a white streak, glance off the bat and zing high up into the sky. Glen's grin widened as he imagined the ball streaking right towards him. He set his stance, raised his glove and--
"Hey Kid!! Whatchoo doin'?" Scott shouted as Glen jumped out of his reverie. Scott grinned as Glen reached over and turned his radio down. Scott eyed the candy red transistor radio sitting near Glen in such a way as to make him look very much like a vulture. Glen stood up, holding his radio, and shrugged his shoulders. Scott grinned once more. "You wanna hang out with us?"
Glen was a little afraid of Scott, but not enough to back down or run away, if he had the vocabulary, he would have agreed that intimidated would have been a great word to describe it. Scott certainly was intimidating, he was tall for his age, his shock of blonde hair only made his green eyes seem brighter, and his arms bore the scars of many a cigar burn from his father. Most kids thought it was the burns that made Scott most terrifying, after all, if a kid could take that and keep smiling, he must be pretty tough. Not many of the other children really considered where the burns came from, they just knew he would show up with a new one every few days or so. Glen chanced a look at Scott's arms for any new burns, and wasn't surprised to see a reddish-white ring right below the crook of his elbow slowly oozing some clear fluid. Glen looked back into Scott's face and saw a dull shimmer of anger on it. Scott smiled faintly and repeated his invitation. "You commin'?"
Glen stuffed his radio in his pocket and left the relative safety of his porch. As Scott and his gang wove through the streets and alleys, whooping and hollering, Glen tagged along, every once in a while kicking a garbage can or a light post. Scott and his posse made their way slowly to McCormick's, an old, abandoned junkyard which straddled the separation between the residential neighborhood and the shop district. Old man McCormick had long since died in the war and his sons had inherited the property, with which they promptly did nothing. So as it was, it sat there, neglected, every season becoming more and more overgrown, making it a haven for any kid old or brave enough to explore its treasures. As Scott, Glen and the others slipped through a wide crack in the fence, Glen saw that the yard had been all but taken over by rival groups of kids. Hastily built forts were as common as the weeds that sprang from the earth, and sloppy paint jobs had been applied to various landmarks as a way of claiming ground. Although the yard was littered with automobiles, not a single pane of glass was left, long ago having been sacrificed in the name of target practice. Dents littered many metal surfaces, the remnants of many a miniature turf war between opposed forts. Scott ushered everyone into an old school bus that was turned on its side. In between every seat was a small pile of stones and unidentifiable gadgets. While the gadgets probably only held any significance to its owner, the piles of rocks were definitely ammo stockpiles, collected in anticipation of the next big war. Glen was fairly pushed towards the back of the bus, urged towards the rear exit which stood ajar and opened access to another part of the junkyard. Scott's group of friends began to disperse and find separate items of interest, while Glen and Scott himself strolled around an island of rusted out stoves.
And that's when Glen saw it, an older model refrigerator settled against an old, dead oak tree trunk. The door canted open at an angle, revealing the slightest sliver of the fridge's eggshell white interior. The outside was painted a faded salmon color, and despite however long it had been left outside to rust, the chrome locking door handle still gleamed brightly in the afternoon sun. A ball of iron sank into Glen's guts, making him feel uneasy, he looked up into Scott's face and was met with that same grin, the same grin he had worn when he had walked up to Glen as he sat happily on his porch.
"This's gonna be your fort," Scott announced proudly, "You get your own fort because you're gonna be our rear defenses. You're gonna hide in there until the enemy comes along and then you're gonna pop out and pummel 'em." Scott was still ushering Glen towards the fridge when he stuck out his hand. "We're gonna need some way to communicate, so I need to borrow your radio, that way you can tell us the enemy is coming."
Glen wanted to shake his head, and tell Scott no. That his radio was just for listening, and it was his anyways, but Scott was so intimidating. With a couple of sour looks and some more bargaining, Scott had talked Glen out of his red radio, and had pulled Glen right to the door of the refrigerator. Scott swung the fridge door open with a loud offending squeal and made an inviting gesture with the hand that wasn't holding Glen's radio. The iron ball of fear hung heavy inside Glen's stomach now, trying to keep him on solid earth, but Scott was impatient, and grabbed Glen by his collar and dragged him into the fridge before slamming the heavy pink door shut.
Glen screamed for just under three hours before he passed out.
By the time Glen was officially dead, Scott had already played with his new toy, eaten dinner, brushed his teeth, gotten a brand new burn for getting dirt in the house, and gone to bed. As Scott slept with the red transistor radio on his bedside table and Glen's mother and father frantically called everyone they knew looking in vain for their son, a faint scratching came from inside the salmon-colored refrigerator.
Weeks passed, a funeral was finally held, even though the casket didn't have a body inside of it. Everyone attending the wake commented on what a small casket it was, first making sure neither Glen's mother or father were in earshot, then tossing back a stiff drink. Glen's body never was found, Scott was smart enough to keep his mouth shut, and frightening enough to keep the other kids silent as well. After a while everyone simply attributed it to a kidnapping, some perverted transient passing through town with some chocolate. It was a tragedy, they would say over coffee and Irish cream, a tragedy and a warning. Scott slept well, and got more fresh burns on his arms for various things, but had suddenly grown out of his bus-fort at Old McCormick's. Scott spent most of his time in his room, listening to the small, red radio, listening to radio shows, music, even news broadcasts. Though Scott didn't know it, he was searching for something.
That winter, the snows came early.
Like every year before it, warm breath hung in the air as old friends and neighbors greeted one another on the street, plows were dispatched to clear the streets for all the hardworking shmoes, and shops began offering hot cocoa in the evenings. Snowmen were assembled in front yards after school and on the weekends, and the nearby pond was littered with ice skaters, bundled up and gliding around singly or in pairs on the shimmering ice. The local hockey clubs were enjoying the jump start on their training season, hoping to take the championships. Kids were looking forward to the holiday break which was looming just around the corner. Scott had all but turned away from all his friends, away from the season and the snow games going on outside, away from everything but the radio and its battery powered companionship. He sat in his room, the only light coming from the fading winter sun outside, and turned the tiny dial that scanned through the airwaves. Slowly turning through static and garbled transmissions from other towns, pausing momentarily on the clearer stations where some ad or news headline would be rattling forth, talking about the state of affairs in the white house, or trying to get someone to buy more hand soap. Scott held the radio to his forehead, eyes squeezed shut, listening to the rock and blues and jazz music fade first in, then out, eventually drowned out by a wall of white noise. The stations were fading faster, the volume lower, Scott knew the batteries were dying, and he would have to replace them again. Scott was busy trying to think about how he would get the money for the new batteries, thinking he might wrestle some from the smaller kids, and hadn't noticed that he had spun the tuner past the end of the dial. All at once, he heard something come out of the radio that chilled him to the bones.
He heard scratching. Faint, slow, wet. It wasn't the scratching that was the worst though, even though it was bad enough. What was the worst was the sobbing that was barely audible behind the scratching and the static. Scott pricked his ears as the hackles on the back of his neck stood on end. Outside, the last of the winter sun had gone and Scott's room was now in total darkness, Scott was in total darkness, listening to the scratching and thinking about one thing. He looked at the small red light on the radio, it sputtered and faded into the blackness of his room. The scratching continued to seep quietly out of the radio, galvanizing Scott with fear.
The next night was scheduled to be the beginning of the area's first storm, the weatherman was only wrong in his predictions of the storm's ferocity. The snow blew in with the fury of a baby lamb, which is to say, hardly at all. People littered the streets, braving the grave forecasts and finding instead a gentle blow, almost pleasant and with all the qualities of an easy spring shower. Scott roused himself out of his room and decided, since he had gotten some lunch money from Suzie Smith down the block, that he would go get his batteries. He wrapped himself lightly in his tattered winter clothes and stuffed the radio in his jacket pocket before slipping out the front door into the night. The moon was high and bright, shining out through the clouds in the sky, leaving a dim grey light and short, soft shadows on everything. Scott wove through the neighborhood as he had done a thousand times before, taking routes that were all too familiar to him, this house, some kid who he liked to terrorize, that one, one of his little friends. Alleyways that held Scott's secret hiding places, where he would put small things that interested him like a piece of melted glass from an old house fire, or a small collection of soda bottle caps. He trekked through the dark neighborhood, almost as if on autopilot, he knew the way so well.
All at once, Scott's feet stopped moving, and Scott's train of thought was broken in two. He slowly craned his head to the left and saw where he was, which happened to be McCormick's Junkyard. His flesh suddenly crawled with goose bumps, his bowels tingled, and his chin quivered. Every old burn his father had given him began to sing with a dull ache, Scott ground his teeth and fought down a wave of shivers. A part deep within him told him to run, run as fast as he could in any direction but the one he was facing, run until his legs ached and his head throbbed, run until McCormick's was far, far behind him. But Scott didn't run. With his entire being trying to pull him in the other direction, Scott crept slowly towards the junkyard, towards the wide gap in the boards, towards the salmon-colored refrigerator resting against the dead oak tree. As Scott squeezed between the old boards in the fence, he thought he heard the radio in his pocket squawk quietly, as if in protest to his actions. He paused and listened, but could hear nothing more than light clatters in the far reaches of the junkyard as the wind rustled loose metal. Scott wept quietly as he climbed into the old bus-fort, unaware of the cold tears that slipped down his cheeks. The metal body of the bus was cold, and the chill ran straight through his gloves to his flesh, making Scott shiver even more. Again the radio seemed to let out another squeal of noise as Scott climbed through the exit door in the rear of the bus. As he stepped back into the open, the wind seemed a bit stronger than it had when he had left the house, and Scott pulled the lapels of his jacket up around his cheeks, hoping to stave off some of the chill. The wind blew snow directly into his face and he squinted his eyes as he rounded the pile of old, broken stoves. The light from the moon wasn't enough to see all the way to the oak tree, and Scott, now literally peeing his pants in terror, edged ever closer to the place he knew the refrigerator was. Every part of him wanted to run, but he was now far too close to turn back, he had to see, had to. The boxy shape of the old appliance came seeping out of the darkness and Scott let out a soft moan of terror.
The door was open.
Shadows fell on the inside of the refrigerator, making it impossible to see the interior. Scott shuffled closer, now crying openly, his tears rolling down his cheeks. He reached the opening of the fridge and leaned in slowly, not really wanting to, but driven to all the same.
"Hey kid..." a voice trembled right next to his ear. Scott looked and saw Glen's pale face just inches from his own. Scott screamed in horror, feeling the refrigerator door close him in. He was in the refrigerator alone. Darkness pressed in on him from all sides, and all at once, the radio in his pocket crackled to life. Scott pulled it out and saw the red light was glowing strongly as static poured out from the tiny speaker. In the dim red light, Scott sobbed weakly, pushing on the door, and feeling for anything he could use to get out.
When his air ran out, he started scratching.
User Reviews
Submitted by ess2s2 (user info) at 2006-12-21 21:21:04 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
See you bastards next year...Maybe.
Submitted by ticklish_squirrel (user info) at 2006-12-18 19:11:05 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Creepy
Submitted by Coffeeisgood (user info) at 2006-12-18 14:34:42 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2006-12-18 11:38:07 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by St_Jimmy (user info) at 2006-12-17 15:43:41 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
This was really good. I enjoyed immensly. The only thing is that you introduce Scott as "just like any other boy his age, goofy, energetic, and just a little mean-spirited sometimes." Then you have him go on to murder some random kid in a very cruel fashion. I just didn't see Scott's motivation for this. The fact that his father beat him?
But that's just a small issue. Overall, excellent.
Submitted by ess2s2 (user info) at 2006-12-17 13:31:19 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
I've been here, there, other places...
Submitted by ih8u2man (user info) at 2006-12-17 12:56:23 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Where the fuck have you been?
Submitted by ih8u2man (user info) at 2006-12-17 12:55:35 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by RPharazon (user info) at 2006-12-17 11:16:15 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Neat. One of the best stories I've read.
But, you could see the ending a mile away.
Submitted by lungfish (user info) at 2006-12-17 04:57:42 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Again...to help make up for Doodles.
Submitted by lungfish (user info) at 2006-12-17 04:47:58 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Excellent. I'd change some of the punctuation, though (periods needed where you've got commas, but I'm a technical writer...which is not to say that I know how to write; I certainly am not a creative writer).
Also, I was only a little disappointed that this turned out to be a ghost story, and not a story about gnawing guilt.
Still...excellent. I'll be checking out your other stuff. thx
Submitted by kaos-king (user info) at 2006-12-17 04:26:22 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Excellent as always...
Submitted by WatchMyStep (user info) at 2006-12-17 02:10:27 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Susie_Derkins (user info) at 2006-12-17 01:05:45 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Wow.
Submitted by chipolatte (user info) at 2006-12-16 23:32:03 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
not bad, but i hate it when kids die and even more when they kill each other
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-12-16 23:17:56 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I see what you are saying, Doodles. When it takes you 45 minutes to read that far, no wonder
you get bored. Third grade was a bitch at age 24, huh?
Submitted by Doodles (user info) at 2006-12-16 23:01:38 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
ALright, I read half of the sixth, still doesn't hold my attention.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-12-16 23:00:25 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
So I guess I'm the downer.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-12-16 23:00:05 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Not that it makes much of a difference, but I meant to plus 2.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-12-16 22:59:33 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by scourge (user info) at 2006-12-16 22:54:46 (#)
Ranking: 2
doodles is a fucking idiot.
this was quality.
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Submitted by Doodles (user info) at 2006-12-16 22:50:09 (#)
Ranking: -2
I'm sorry i couldn't make it past the fifth paragraph.
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The fifth paragraph is a single sentence, you goddamn downer.
Submitted by Doodles (user info) at 2006-12-16 22:58:11 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
Scourge, I'm sure it *is* good, but it couldn't hold my intrest.
Short stories don't require so much background information, they should be fast paced from the git-go.
Eitherway I'm entitled to rate how I see fit, even if you disagree with my rating.
Submitted by scourge (user info) at 2006-12-16 22:54:46 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
doodles is a fucking idiot.
this was quality.
Submitted by Doodles (user info) at 2006-12-16 22:50:09 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
I'm sorry i couldn't make it past the fifth paragraph.