Ghost Radio (22 page)
Authors: Leopoldo Gout
Listening to Gabriel, he remembered Gabriel's mania for Polaroids, for constantly creating instant memories that would authenticate his experiences.
“Why did you bring me here?” The exposition on memory was clearly a preamble to something more.
Then he saw the gray van approaching. He wanted to close his eyes,
escape, wake up from this strange dream, but he couldn't look away. The van lost control, rolled, and skidded across the asphalt. The black Volvo crossed over into oncoming traffic and met the green Ford head on. They collided in an explosion of metal, heat, and sound. For a moment a penumbra of light surrounded them. Fragments of the car flew through the air. He saw everything: the sparks, the flames, the blood, the metal. Saw it all. Saw the death of his parents. His father decapitated, his head spinning across the hood. His mother impaled by a ghastly shard of metal. He wanted to look away. But he couldn't. He heard a concert of percussive sound, as if every noise were reaching him on its own channel. He could focus on one aspect, or every aspect at the same time. It was an unprecedented aural experience. Then he remembered that voice:
You should really listen.
“I'm gonna fuck your old lady. I wanted to let you know so we can avoid all the unpleasantness, like the last time we shared a girlfriend. You remember that little redhead I screwed in the backseat while we were waiting for you?”
“What are you saying? What the hell are you talking about?” Joaquin said. He could still see the crash, but he saw something else at the same time. It was Luca, the redhead in question, sitting on Gabriel with her skirt raised and her underwear around her ankles.
At the time, Joaquin had tried to act cool, like he didn't care. But when he heard her moaning, saw her moving up and down over Gabriel, he broke out in a cold sweat and shook with rage. He'd really dug Luca and couldn't believe Gabriel had betrayed him. He didn't say a single word, though. He just got in the front seat and drove. As the car lurched over a pothole, he heard them coming. She with a high-pitched squeal, Gabriel with a guttural grunt. No one mentioned it afterward, but the rest of the evening Luca and Gabriel would smile at each other like accomplices in some forgotten crime. Joaquin had slept with one of Gabriel's ex-girlfriends a few days before, someone Gabriel had said he didn't care about anymore. He understood that this was his revenge. But it ended like so many other things. After a bottle of Scotch and a joint, they talked
it over, gave each other a hug, and all was forgiven. Or so Joaquin had thought.
Joaquin watched the Walkman, his Walkman, fly out of the car and hit the pavement, cracking and breaking before it was crushed to bits by a Toyota. Traffic came to a halt. Several drivers got out and stood in the road, staring at the burning remains of the collision. A bloody shoe lay near Gabriel's feet.
“Come on. Let's see what was left of us,” he said.
Joaquin followed helplessly. He walked among the other onlookers, but unlike them, he stared coldly at the victims like someone contemplating a diorama; he seemed to be analyzing the parts, trying to read meaning into the scene, deciphering the motives behind it. He started when he saw himself, thrown to the ground, covered with abrasions, his chest bare and eyes open, a strange grimace on his face. No, not quite a grimace. Something else. Almost a smile. He never imagined that he'd been found in that condition. It was no wonder people had preferred to avoid visiting him; his eyes looked dead, but his mouth looked happy.
“They found us here, like that, because we were destined for something big, something important,” said Gabriel.
“Important for whom?” Joaquin finally choked out. He had to struggle to breathe.
“Important for usâimportant for everyone. Important for anyone who believes that music and art transcend a radio program about ghosts.”
“Not important to me.”
“You're lying. You aspired to something more than entertaining insomniacs and scaring little old ladies. I wasn't the only one who wanted to do something great with my life.”
Sirens blaring, the paramedics and police cars arrived.
A woman in a colorful striped sweater ran by screaming, “Shit, shit! My skin's burning, my skin's burning! Come quick, Roger, it burns!”
A gray-haired man with a limp, probably Roger, followed her in silence.
“I've always wanted to know what the fuck was wrong with that broad,” said Gabriel.
“Anyways,” said Joaquin after a moment, “it's too late for you to do anything important.”
“Think so?”
“I want to go back to my hotel. I can't stand being here another second.”
“Good luck. I should warn you that the geography here is a little weird; capricious, if you will.”
“What's that you said about Alondra a while ago?” Joaquin said, remembering the crude comment.
“That I'm going to fuck her.”
“You're an asshole. I never thought being dead could do that to people.”
“You think I'm an asshole? You can't imagine how disappointed
I
am. I thought you'd become something. Something really special.”
“So why visit me now?”
“It was that radio confession that made me realize there's no hope for youâthat I'd become the justification for your descent into mediocrity.”
“I'm leaving.”
Gabriel was silent. He didn't seem to mind being left behind. Joaquin sensed that the conversation would continue.
Joaquin had often dreamed of Gabriel's return. He wanted it, prayed for it even: ghost, human, monster. It didn't matter. He wanted Gabriel back. He'd seen the return in his mind. Played it out a hundred different ways. But it had never been like this. He never expected Gabriel to be so furious with him. He would never have thought Gabriel could become his enemy. He got into the car. It was night again; the wrecked automobiles and the chaos surrounding them had disappeared. As he pulled away, he tried to orient himself. There were no signs. He drove blindly into the night. Soon the pavement had disappeared, but he kept going, bumping through the desert. He checked his cell phone. No reception.
He turned on the radio, searching the dial for a broadcast. Nothing. Only static untilâ¦somethingâ¦voices, laughter. He recognized what it was almost immediately. Alondra was talking to a caller who had a story, but was scared they'd make fun of him.
“While our caller decides whether or not to tell us his story, let's go to a commercial break. This is
Ghost Radio.
We'll be right back.”
On the line
is Lindsay, calling in from Dighton, Rhode Island.
“Go on. What brings you here this time of night?”
“I just wanted to say that I really like your program. I tune in every night, from start to finish.”
“Thank you, Lindsay. Do you work the night shift?”
“Maybe she's a vampire, like that guy who called a while ago and said he was going to come over here and suck our blood,” Watt added.
“No, the problem is, I haven't been able to sleep for some time now.”
“Hmm. Have you considered medication?”
“Yes, and I'm in therapy. I can't take pills, though. When I do fall asleep, I have terrible nightmares.”
“Because of some traumatic experience, I would imagine?” Alondra said.
“Yes.”
“But not sleeping for long periods of time is very dangerous. You'll wind up doing yourself more harm than you would by facing your nightmares.”
“I know.”
“Well, frankly, no one here is a doctor. Why don't you just tell us what's on your mind,” Joaquin said.
For the past five years, I worked as a babysitterâjust until I graduate. But I had to quit. I really like kids; I worked for a family with two-year-old twins, and absolutely adored them. When they turned four, their parents enrolled them in preschool and didn't
need me anymore. I started looking for a new job and found a want ad from a woman who worked for a major advertising firm. She needed someone to help look after a seven-year-old girl; let's call her Angie. She hired me without asking for any references, and gave me a very generous salary. I was happy to accept. Angie was polite, but she seemed a little too quiet, almost painfully shy. After about a week, I started to worry. I suspected that her mother hadn't told me everything. Maybe Angie was suffering from some kind of condition or illness. I thought it could be mild autism or something like that, because she avoided physical contact, she would remain motionless for hours, and she rarely talked. If I let her, she would spend the whole day playing silently with a fabulous dollhouse, the only toy that interested her. Her mom was gone practically all day long. I'd see her sometimes in the morning, or when she came home at night, but most days Angie was alone when I got there and alone when I left. Her mother explained that this was why it was absolutely essential that I be punctual. Each week my pay was set out for me in an envelope on the dining-room table.
Every day I picked Angie up at eight, took her to Catholic school, and came back at three to get her. I'd spend the rest of the day with her until I left at seven. It was practically the perfect job; I could prepare for my classes, spend the morning in the library, and do my Internet research and homework while Angie was busy with her dollhouse. I tried to play with her a few times, but every time I came over, she would pull away, and if I tried to insist, she'd become alarmingly hostile.
I understood her obsession with the dollhouse. It fascinated me as well. It was a spectacular Victorian mansion of considerable size, furnished with incredible detail. It looked like an antique, but I couldn't be sure because I'd never seen it close up. One of the walls swung open to expose the interior, and the whole house could also open into two parts so Angie could play inside, withdrawn completely into her own tiny universe.
One night in February there was a snowstorm. I didn't feel one bit like going out into the snow, but it was almost time for me to leave. It occurred to me that I could wait until Angie's mother came back and ask her to give me a ride home. I'd never done it before, but under the circumstances, it seemed reasonable. But as soon as seven o'clock came around, Angie told me I had to go. I was surprised that she minded me staying. I explained that I'd only wait a little longer for her mother and showed her my shoes, which couldn't handle the blizzard coming down outside. She insisted, though, getting more and more upset. She'd run to the window and then back to me, repeating over and over again that it was letting up and I could go now. Her attitude freaked me out. I wanted to know what she was hiding, and maybe have a talk with her mother. It wasn't normal for a girl her age to want to be alone on a night like that.
After a while the electricity went out. Angie had been beside me, but she disappeared into the darkness. Outside, the streets were deserted. There was no sign of her mother. I didn't want to just leave her there, alone. I shouted out her name, but she didn't answer. After a few minutes, I was really worried, and I went to look for a flashlight or some candles. After feeling through every drawer in the house, I finally found a flashlight. As usual, Angie wasn't making any noise. I went to the room where the dollhouse was. I was sure she'd be there. I called out several times before going in, knowing how much it bothered her when I invaded her space. When she didn't answer, I went in. She was inside the dollhouse. I thought that she probably felt safe in there. I heard noises, like little voices, and I called to her again. There was no answer. Finally, I opened up the hinged wall and saw her kneeling down, playing with what looked like dolls. A red glow shone from inside the house. She looked up at me with a vacant expression. Then I saw what she had in her hands. They were body parts: torsos, arms, legs, heads that wriggled with life, like the severed tail of
a lizard. I moved closer to get a better look and saw that the heads had faces, their mouths open, screaming for help in tiny, desperate voices. In her small hands, Angie held a partly assembled human figure with a woman's midsection and a bearded male face. It tried to escape, kicking its legs and swinging its only arm. I was trembling; I couldn't believe what I was seeing, so I battled my disgust and moved closer. A boy's head moaned when it saw me.
“What is that?” I asked her, terrified and dazed by the impossible scale of these things, and their horrible realism.
“They're my dolls. Wanna play?” she offered with a disagreeable grimace that seemed like an attempt at a smile. I shined the light directly on them, hoping it would reveal them to be ingenious electronic or mechanical toys, but I merely exposed the expressions of horror and pain on their faces, and the shimmer of saliva, tears, blood, and vomit pooling around them. Angie took an arm from a small pile and stuck it to the body she was holding by pressing them together. “Now you can play with me,” she said. This shook me out of my trance. I jumped to my feet, imagining my own disassembled body writhing in that ghastly mound of body parts. She stood up, holding her doll, which was squirming in her hand and screaming with all its might. I ran to the door, afraid that it would be like a horror movie, that I wouldn't be able to open it. Thank God I could. I ran out into the snowstorm without a coat and I struggled blindly through the snow until I got home. Ever since that day, I always hear the cries of Angie's dolls. Her mother never called me again.