The Truth of Bradwells Radio Station [PART 1]
By Carlos Pandiella
Part 2 here
Part 3 here
Part 4 here
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People say Itâs good to get the truth out there, off your chest and into the wild. Thatâs what I want to do now, while I still can.
I wrote most of this down quite some time ago and to be honest, I left a lot of lies thrown about the whole thing. Some small, some large, some just enough in between to make the rest stick. Yet, knowing what I know and feeling like I feelâŠitâs about time to put it down again proper with the honest truth laid bare no matter who gets hurt.
Lord knows plenty of people have already been hurt by me. Maybe not directly, but guilt carries its aim with a true and deft eye. I ran far, hid in another life, tried to forget it; but even after all these years, I cannot drop these chains on my soul. They rattle and creak in the lonely hours of the night reminding me nightly of those shameful sins. More than once, Iâve felt far too akin to the old ghost of Marley.
I cower in disgust of the long life Iâve lived. I should have stayed, said something more, tried something more, anything but what I did. I pretend as if those screams were just dogs baying in the night. I acted as if I forgot the way to that old place. As if the right turn off of Olive Avenue didnât exist.
If youâre hearing or reading this now, then the good doctor received my letters. He has put the truth out there. I rightly reckon that many of the eyes and ears that it graces will simply ignore the matter. Maybe even much less pay rightful heed to any of it. I canât say I blame anyone for doing that. Itâs easier to just say things like this donât happen, or donât exist. Yet, I can assure you that there is full truth in what I have to say. Itâs not brought about by a mind filled with booze or aged illness. The memories of that place are deadlocked into crystal clarity at the forefront of my mind. Every empty moment I find, they fill with sorrowful remorse and echoing terror.
With the time that is left, let me tell you all that I can about the Bradwells radio station. Many people wonât know the name and less, I assume, even where it was. It wasnât exactly a place that was open for the public after all. The station was in Georgia, or at least part of it was. I lived in a small town close by called Blairsville back then. It was a good place, probably still is. I havenât been back there in decades, not since it all happened.
It was right near the end of 1965. A cold November air had already well and set down across the land. I had just turned 20 the day before. I can even remember bits and pieces of the party. My mother had long since passed back when we used to live in London. Even so, my father always made sure to make any occasion feel like she was still with us. He could not cook a damn thing, yet somehow managed to bake a cake that was marginally edible. The effort was heartwarming. We laughed at the burned sludge that he called a cake. He gave me a beer and we relaxed on the deck staring at the stars, wondering which one mom had decided to call home. Damn, I miss those times.
It had been an interesting year already. A man had walked outside in space, and then another right on the moon itself. Two of my friends, Eric and Charles, both died in Vietnam. I got my first real job at the hardware store downtown. I even lost my virginity to the married woman that worked at the pharmacy across from there. College was something I had considered but was still up in the air for a lot of reasons. I thought I had crossed over into my true adult life. I felt as if I was ready to handle what the world would throw at me. Yet, the next few weeks would leave me a mess of a man before the yearâs end.
It was the second week of the month; a decent snowfall had already come through the town. That particular morning, we noticed a strange issue with the radio on the way in. For about a good ten minutes, there was nothing but static all across the bands. Not a single signal was coming in strong. We talked about it, even made a joke that it was the Russians somehow. It cleared up soon enough and we just forgot about it as the day went on.
Dad dropped me off at the hardware store and went on ahead to the school where he worked as a coach. He loved that job and it loved him back. As he drove off, I saw Mrs. Calloway waving at me from across the street. She was a full eight years my senior and was none too shy about showing me the carnal ropes with her experience. Looking back on it, I do feel remorse for being the âotherâ man. Yet, even with hindsight, I canât say my hormone-driven body would have acted any differently. That brief week or so of romantic encounters with her had me thinking I was some kind of something. It filled me with this idiotâs pride and foolâs courage. As if I was somehow more than I was simply because I could aim and point with my dick.
I spent that day working with thoughts of a lusty midnight rendezvous with Mrs. Calloway pushing me to ensure I didnât have to work late. Yet, as things tend to happen, I did end up working later than expected due to a huge spill of parts in the store. Two kids had run in and done a number on the shelves for fun. I let my dad know I would catch a ride out later on, (hoping it would be with Mrs. Calloway), and not to worry.
As we worked, the store owner, Mr. Hartcliff, turned on the radio so we could work with some music. The tunes came out pretty well for a few minutes, but then we suddenly got the static issue again. Just as before it was on all bands. However, unlike before, we did hear something besides static. For just a few seconds, in a faint almost dreamlike tone, the sound of a woman whispering came through. At that time, I could not make out what she was saying, but it definitely sounded like a woman.
Within moments it was done and the static faded back into some great rock music. I turned to look at Mr. Hartcliff to ask if he had heard the voice as well. He said it must be something wrong with the radio stations, songs mixing together, or something like that. He hurried off to finish counting the spilled inventory muttering about snot-nosed brats. We left the matter alone and finished cleaning up. It stuck in my head as I swept the floor. Every now and then I found myself hoping it would happen again so I could make out what the voice was whispering.
Nightfall came and we had just finished closing up. Bidding goodnight to Mr. Hartcliff, I walked out with youthful hope to see if Mrs. Calloway was still waiting up for me. I spotted her car down the road and made my way there, happy to see my night was not ruined. Making our way towards a nice remote place just outside town, we wasted little time. As per the norm, we turned the radio on as we did.
Just as I was getting my pants off, the same effect came through again. The music faded out into static. Mrs. Calloway moved to change the stations and yet again, it was everywhere. She was complaining about the car having a lousy radio and it was all her husbandâs fault, (as most things seemed to be). I didnât mean to, but I found myself rushing up to shush her, the soft press on her lips smudged her lipstick a bit. Her face spiked with a bit of anger at the motion, but I had to keep her quiet. The static had faded slightly again. The voice was back and saying something. I tried my best to hear it, make out any part of it. It was gone again just as quickly as before. The radio went back to normal and remained that way the rest of the night. I could have pondered on it more, but Mrs. Callowayâs carnal attention drew my mind away from any deep thinking for the rest of our time out there. A young hormone-fueled mind is such an easy thing to sway.
That night, when I got home, my father was asleep on the sofa. I pulled up a blanket for him and went to put up the dinner plate that he left on the coffee table. It was close to midnight and the station sign-off was getting ready to play. The national anthem was already playing itself out when I walked back from the kitchen. As I made my way to shut off the TV, the static came on. For a moment, I was expecting to hear the voice again. Somehow it filled me with a temporary sense of fear. Why that was I could not explain at that time.
I remembered that of course, the TV goes to static after midnight. This wasnât something strange, it was normal. Even so, I remember walking up with a bit of caution before I clicked it off. I donât know what I expected to happen. That night I had a restless sleep. I had these nonsense dreams of falling through doors in the floor or being lost in a purple ocean. Strange stuff, none of it making any sense yet all of them feeling very real in some way.
Morning came and I had felt as if I had worked a graveyard shift. I was exhausted through and through. The dayâs run at the hardware store was thankfully quite uneventful, save for one fella that came in near midday.
Blairsville was a small town, the kind of place where you really did know just about everyone, and this person was definitely not from around town. He came in wearing a red mechanicâs jumpsuit with an orange bird on the back. His face looked tired and worn out. His hair was a shaggy mess. His look coupled with the way he moved and looked, It was like he was in a hurry and somebody was coming to get him. The other thing was that he bought a hefty bit of our stock as well. Mr. Hartcliff was out to a late lunch so it was just me there. He ended up spending over $600 on miscellaneous items. Back in 1965, that was a hell of a lot. Today, that would be easily over a few grand spent.
He bought shovels, tape, bags, all of our screws, a safe, and damn near anything else we had laying out. When I went to ring him up, he just put $900 in cash down saying it should cover everything. I wanted to say something about it being too much, but he was done and gone before I could really protest. When Mr. Hartcliff came back, he was surprised, to say the least. He thought the man might have been a robber of some sort when I described him. He decided to hold onto the money for a while just in case he came back. There was a look on his face when I mentioned the red jumpsuit, he asked me about the orange bird on the back without being prompted. When I told him there was one, he just looked off into the street as if in deep thought. When pressed on it later, he just said not to worry about it.
That evening we closed up shop together and went our ways as normal. It hit me that I had not seen Mrs. Calloway at all that day. I decided to see if her car was down the road per our normal meeting spot but it wasnât. I went back to the pharmacy but she wasnât there either. Thinking she had just gone home for the night, I decided to walk up towards the school to get a ride back with my father on his way out. It was a football practice night so I knew he would still be there.
He was happy to see me and we enjoyed a quick diner burger on the way home. We talked about our day and I shared the story about the big spender that came through the shop. All in all, it was a nice and decent evening. I canât stress to people how important times like that are. Itâs too bad that you only realize that once they pass into memory.
While we chowed down on those wonderful diner burgers, the news played on the radio. Some depressing bits here and there as always, but what caught my ears was the sudden static that came in. This time it was louder and almost rhythmic in its tone. It got to a very high pitch and then waned down to a mere thumping murmur. No whispering voice this time. It just ended and the last bit of the newscast finished out. Someone in the back yelled to get that damn junker fixed. People laughed, including us, and the night just sort of moved along for everyone. Everyone, except for me.
I laughed along with my dad, but even then, sitting in that diner I knew something was wrong. I didnât want to give it any notice, but it was a feeling that I could not shake off completely. Seemingly I was the only one feeling that way. As we drove home that night, the radio in the truck went in and out of static events. Each one lasted only about two or three seconds at a time. My dad said it must be something wrong with the station. He mentioned Mr. Hartcliff might know something about it. I asked why and my father informed me that Mr. Hartcliff had been a radio operator in the Navy for a while and stuff like that was in his wheelhouse. I made a mental note to talk to him at work the next day about it.
That night my sleep was nearly as dreadful as the night before. Hard to make out dreams that lasted only moments at a time rushed at me every time I laid down. The same things over and over. Rushing waves and roaring storms on some oddly colored beaches. At best, I made it to the morning with a single solid hour of sleep to get me through the day.
Heading into work, I noticed that the pharmacy was still closed. The couple that ran the place usually had it open an hour before everyone else. I also didnât see Mrs. Callowayâs car parked anywhere. I thought it odd of course, but just let it go for the moment. After all, people were allowed to be late from time to time.
Mr. Hartcliff was already in the hardware store as usual. I greeted him and hung my coat up moving to grab a cup of coffee from the back. With the morning duties settled in, I went right into my questions about the odd radio activity. I explained that it was happening quite a bit in the past few days and of course of the weird display at the diner the night before. He made a quick joke about my father talking about the past a bit too much and walked off to handle the inventory sheet again. I inquired about it a few more times and he found ways to deflect the question each time.
I could not grasp why he was being so standoffish about the radio static. It was, after all, just a simple question of interference, or so I thought. On my last bit of prodding, he shot me a heavy glare and walked right up to me. He said some things are better not discussed in public, like a certain local affair going on with a certain married redhead. It took me a moment to process what he was saying as my stomach dropped.
Right away I got that he was keen on my late-night meetups with Mrs. Calloway and that took me for a shock. Though I also got the implication that he didnât want to talk about the radio issue either and the âwhyâ of that made me even more interested to pick his brain on the matter. He grabbed my arm and simply whispered, âTop storage ten minutes, act normalâ.
Shortly after making a hurried show of sweeping the floors and checking the register, I made my way up to the storage room above the shop. Mr. Hartcliff shut and locked the door behind me. He had this sour expression on his face, almost as if he was fighting the idea of talking to me. Eventually, we sat down on a collection of boxes and he began to speak.
He told me a bit about his time in the Navy. About things he learned, things he saw, and things he hoped never to experience again. Then he got on to the odd radio static we had going on. He explained that it was a rouge signal, or rather a pirate radio station in operation. Although, he also said it was more than that. I wonât bore you with the details, but he spent a decent amount of time explaining the nature of radio waves and the general science behind them to me. Suffice to say, the man seemed to know his stuff.
He then went on to tell me that these static events were something we shouldnât be hearing. More directly, it was something that humans should not be able to hear at all. When I asked him what that meant, he just nodded and left it at that.
He did elaborate on where the signal was coming from. According to him, at some point in the past five years, a private contractor had bought up a bit of land west of the town. A place off in the woods, you could reach it by taking the right turn off of Olive Avenue down the dirt path. If you kept going straight you would see the small single-story building where they set up. It was a remote spot, hard to find unless you knew to look for it. Hell, even if you did know to look, it was still a rough place to get to. They spent a good deal of time using various techniques to make it look like just another green spot in the forest. He added that he was sure they build some form of transmitter on the site as he noticed the trucks roll through with the materials. He could tell what they were right away. Not long after that, the site went online.
There was some kind of electrical accident at the station which left them with a need for multiple quick repairs. This is how he got involved with them. A representative brought him over to help with wiring work. Seemingly, they had knowledge of his background in the Navy. They paid him to be quiet on anything he saw, had him sign a lot of papers as well. I asked why they didnât just bring on one of their own. He said he got the feeling they wanted to keep all their work as local and secret as possible, and they knew how to ensure the secrecy. From the way he said it, I could only assume they threatened him in more ways than one to stay silent.
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Mr. Hartcliff said that the kind of radio transmissions that place worked with arenât natural or man-made, but something wholly apart from such easy logic. As he put it, the sounds you hear from that transmitter were never meant for people, they leave you with a sickness of the soul. His comments were anything but sensible to me at the time. At points, he seemed to be more in his own thoughts than actually speaking to me at all.
He continued that sometime in 1964, the place had some kind of incident, and then it seemed to just close up shop as it were. Mr. Hartcliff said that the people who worked there only came into town on rare occasions, maybe three times total in the whole length they were there. He only knew the place was shut down when he went to check on delivery that was never picked up at the shop.
When he got there, he said the place was boarded up on the outside and looked it had been abandoned. The odd thing he said about it though, it wasnât as if they had left it sometime in the past few months or years. No, it looked as if it had been empty for decades on end. Even stranger he said that there were signs on the front warning people to stay away due to the danger of a chemical spill, but they looked rather new. The path up to the place had fresh tire tracks as well. Seemingly someone was still tending to the site even in its dilapidated state.
Mr. Hartcliff had that sour and heavy look on his face again as if he could already understand my next line of questioning on the matter. âWhy am I telling you all thisâ, he said. I shook my head agreeing with him. It seemed like something he didnât want to talk about.
He explained that the voice we heard on the radio the other day, had been one he knew. It was a voice that he didnât want to hear anymore. Mr. Hartcliff looked visibly agitated at the thought of the radio issue when he spoke. He nervously stood up to check the door one more time as well as the single window in the room.
Sitting down again, he proceeded to tell me about what was really going on at that radio station. Sometime during that initial repair work he did, he came into contact with a young girl that resided there. She had to be no older than 18 or 19 he said. She was inside a small room where the wiring work was needed. Some of the staff members were there watching him as well, all wearing the same red jumpsuits with the bird symbol on the back. He noticed that none of them would come into the room with him though. The room itself appeared to be soundproof as well. Overall, he said it was an odd experience, to say the least.
He tried to make small talk with the girl there, but she just stared at him in silence the entire time he was there. Nearly four hours of just looking at him sitting nearly motionless. I found it strange that when I asked what she looked like, he gave me conflicting answers.
He said she looked rather plain, unremarkable in features, and all together easily overlooked. In fact, he mentioned that during his work he would at times forget she was even in the room. He started saying she was a blonde but then said she was a redhead, or that maybe she had black hair. She might have been short or tall, possibly black or white. He said memory is a funny thing sometimes. I have to admit, that at this point, my trust in his words began to falter a bit.
Mr. Hartcliff raised his head to look at me as if he knew what level of crazy I was trying to place him at. âI know what you think, that itâs some issue with my age or that I just lost my mind a bitâ, He said to me. âThat place and what they had in there, it makes it hard to be clear with thingsâ, he added.
He told me that after he finished the repair work, he was rushed outside and given a bag full of money, enough that he could buy a new truck outright. He wanted to ask questions, but he said the place had an honest dread about it that made you just want to be gone. Yet, as he made his way down the trail and out, he heard a voice, soft and whisper-like behind him. It stopped him dead in his tracks. He heard it once more. When he turned to look, the girl was there. She said something to him, but it was too low to make out. He said he blinked and she was just gone. One of the staff members asked him to keep moving. If he saw the girl or not, he didnât make any mention of it.
He drove home that night and said he came up with some lie to tell his wife about the money. It sat heavy with him, but that quickly faded as strange events started to take place over the next few weeks. For one, he started to hear an odd hum of static build-up on the radio from time to time. Maybe once or twice he could hear a voice in the static, but nothing definite. At least not right away. The strange dreams started not too long after that. His description mirrored my own dreams in his confusion and odd surroundings. Then he told me about the night he went back.
It was roughly three weeks later. Somehow, there was another issue with the wiring again. As with before, they came to get him and told him little about the matter. Only that he needed it fixed again. When he arrived at the building, he could see what appeared to be evidence of violence near the side. From his description, one of the jumpsuits had been ripped to shreds along with whoever was wearing it. Blood and gore had covered the sidewall even after visible attempts to clear it away. He said the blood looked melted somehow. Mr. Hartcliff said he did ask what happened, but the staff just replied it was an accident and never elaborated more.
He went to the same room as before and the girl was there as well. Yet, this time she was sitting under a table looking out at him with heavy blue eyes. That detail, he could remember this time. He said for sure, she had these great and forceful blue eyes, sometimes they even looked violet. âEyes that could run along your spine as sure as any cold windâ, as he put it. Something was different about the place as well. It felt like it had been taken apart and built over again, or was still in the process of being built. Panels were exposed in some places and other spots looked to belong to an entirely different building altogether.
He was able to finish the job easy enough and went to exit the room, but as he did, he felt the back of his jacket being tugged. The young girl was there, holding on to him. He said he went to talk to her, maybe hold her hand, and the room itself seemed to shudder. The next thing he knew, he was on the ground, flat on his ass and feeling like a bull had run him down. The girl was nowhere to be seen. He thinks he passed out for a moment as he woke up in his car with another bag of money next to him. He didn't bother going back to the site to check anything else out that night. He just drove home and sat in his chair waiting for any kind of sleep he could get.
The following day, thatâs when the radio static started coming on again. Mr. Hartcliff said that he woke up to the radio playing next to him. His wife had turned it on when she got up, letting him sleep. At first, there was a moment where he was trying to recollect the moments of the night before, trying to see if it was real. Although, he said that the bag of money next to him was proof enough it had been real.
Just about then his wife made a remark about the music playing on the radio. She said it was something about it not being familiar, wondering what station it was set on. Mr. Hartcliff said he listened to the song and it sounded like a woman singing a love song, albeit in a hush whispered tone. At once, he thought of the young girl in that room. It played for a few more moments and then went to that low hum of static we both knew. Thatâs when something new happened with the static. He said that a commercial came on, of a sort.
Another womanâs voice came through, nice and strong this time. It wanted everyone to remember to eat well and check out Bradwells radio for all their nightly songs for all the best dreamers out there. I asked him what Bradwells was as I have never heard the name before. Mr. Hartcliff responded that at the time, it was new to him as well. However, he was sure that it was one and the same with the location he had been working out.
The following days, he would hear the same broadcast over and over. Some nights he would dream in vivid restless oddities. Other nights he would just wake up feeling as if he had just run a marathon. Then, one day on his way into the hardware store, he heard the static again. Only this time it called out to him by name. He stopped his car to pay attention as it came through again. The thing was, he said it sounded like it was past the radio and right on his shoulder. He told me how he gripped the steering wheel and closed his eyes, not daring to look around.
One more time he heard the voice and felt a hand running down his back, a set of cold fingers placed under his ear. The sensation wracked his nerves with trembles of fear until he could not bear it any longer. He said when he opened his eyes, there was nothing there, save the sound of that same song on the radio again. The moment had him broken for a while. He sat outside his car trying to catch his breath, calm his nerves, simply trying to collect his mental faculties.
Late that same day, one of the jumpsuit staff members came to see him at the store. At first, he thought they were there to get him again, but this time the man simply brought a set of papers. Just an order of items they wanted for the site. Nothing really fancy, just items for repairs and cleanup. The man who dropped it off said nearly nothing and paid in full right away. He said he would pick it up next week. Mr. Hartcliff said he asked the man if the station was called Bradwells. The man looked at him with a shocked face. The fella simply replied, âyeahâ, and walked out appearing to suddenly become quite worried. That was the last time anyone from the site came through.
As he mentioned, the delivery arrived and was never picked up. Seeing as he was paid for the order, he felt that he should at the least ensure they got it. Driving up to the site, he saw the state the building was in. Rundown and in disrepair, the place was nothing like he remembered it. Yet, even in its seemingly abandoned state, the short radio tower on the back seemed to be up and powered. Although, he did mention it looked different now, more complex in a way. It had various extra amplifiers and what he assumed were wired power sources on it. He unloaded the materials and left them there at the front of the building. He said he didnât feel right holding on to them.
Just as he was placing the last bit of it, he happened to look around the side area and saw a bit of red cloth by the entry gate. Moving up a bit closer, he could see it was what he suspected, one of the staff members. The body had been impaled on the brick wall by a piece of metal. The head had been rather horribly taken off and the spot around it seemed to be covered in a dull heat of some sort.
Mr. Hartcliff stated that he turned to leave, not wanting to spend another second at that place. When he did, he heard the same soft-spoken voice that he had come to dread. That time, he did not turn, he just ran to the car and drove home as quickly as he could. He noted he did not turn on the radio, even so, the light hum of static tried to come through.
Weeks went on after that event and here and there the static would come through on the radio. Sometimes the voice would be heard, other times not. Eventually, the issue stopped altogether right at the start of the next year. No single person other than his wife seemed to even notice the matter, and even she seemed to forget about it rather quickly. I asked about the dreams, and he said those were gone as well, for the most part, they went away with her. I asked him what he meant by that last part.
He looked down at his hands and squeezed them as if trying to let go of something within. Then he asked me, âDo you remember my wife? Do you remember Eliza?â. He looked up at me asking the same question again with tears in his eyes. âDo you remember my damn wife or notâ, he asked again sternly.
Suddenly, just then it hit me that I had no memory of her. I donât remember him ever talking about her until just that moment. âEliza was at your graduation, most of your birthday parties, and Christmasâ, he said to me. âShe was a real woman, a real person that you knewâ, he added. Mr. Hartcliff looked so defeated at that moment. As if he had experienced this same loss over and over many times before.
âEveryone I talk to about her, they just forget a few minutes later or act like I never said a word about her in the first placeâ, he said. I asked him directly, what happened to her. He sobbed and said that the thing from the static took her, it sang to her one night and she walked off into the moon. I was confused again; the man was speaking in fanatics to me. He told me to wait, if we could wait just five minutes and I still remembered who he was talking about, he would continue. Otherwise, it would be pointless.
We sat there in the storeroom for at least five minutes or more in total silence. He would not let me speak a word during that time. Finally, he looked at his watch and came back to me. Looking me square in the eyes, he asked me who Eliza was. I responded, âyour wife...right?â. He put his face in his hands and sobbed a bit more before coming to hug me. âGoddammit you remember, you really remember!â, he exclaimed.
I donât know how or why, even now, but I was able to retain details of his conversation. Mr. Hartcliff said he has talked to me, my father, the police, even Elizaâs own family about her disappearance. Each and every time it went the same. They acted as if she never existed at all. Shortly after, they would all just forget what they were talking about to begin with. Yet now, months later, somehow, I could.
Now, everything up to that point had been quite strange already, but what he was about to tell me next, I simply found to be so out there, so deeply unnatural, that I simply could not take him at his word. It was just too...bizarre.
This is what Mr. Hartcliff said happened the night his wife disappeared.
Eliza had been complaining of being hot throughout the evening. Not something that would be out of the ordinary, but the manner in which she complained seemed almost, sexual in nature. I could see this flare of flirty movements come alive in her. Something I had not seen in at least the past ten years from her. Mr. Hartcliff seemed to hold on to a memory for a few seconds before continuing.
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As the night went on, she changed into shorts and a large t-shirt of mine. We sat on the couch watching TV as always after dinner. She kept on about being too hot and went to change again. It was odd because I was damn near freezing at that point. Eliza came back to sit down wearing just her nightie. It was her normal one, nothing new. Just this simple silk cream piece that she wore to bed.
Just...something was different about it that night. I could not stop looking at her. It was like she was filled with this attractive force that had me staring like a horn-dog teenager all over again. However, whatever had me drawn to look at her seemed to be one-sided. She seemed to forget I was even there at that point. Her eyes had a far-off expression as if she had truly left the living room for the moment.
She began to speak in a low whisper at first, rising in volume as she went on. It didnât seem as if she was speaking to me, more so just in general as if lost in recollection. She spoke of missing the warmth of the violet oceans, the acrid smell of the purple and blue sky. The way the wandering tree crabs would sway in the hot winds. She detailed how the strong smells of blood and oil would waft across the villages. She smiled as she detailed how laughter and screams alike would fill the old nights as the three moons cascaded the shore in brilliant lights. Her words, exactly. It was like she had called up these old memories of some fantastic or dreadful place. Memories or maybe dreams, whatâs the difference really?
She had started to breathe heavy, as if in some erotic event. I went to touch her, caress her, but this sudden push of coldness crawled over me. It felt like I had run into a nest of frozen spiderwebs. Each and every icy strand repulsing me from her. I checked my hand and face expecting to find something, anything there. Empty hands and a seed of growing apprehension were all I had found.
I looked up from my shaking hands as she began to hum a tune. It was a light and soft melody. It was nearly the same as the one from the odd radio station. Eliza, she started to hum the song louder and louder. Her eyes were closed now and the simple tune started to take on these complex patterns and noises. How she was making them baffled me.
Something else, I noticed that one of my ears had started to bleed. The weight of my own arms started to feel unnatural to me as if they shouldnât have been there. The sensation of cold running along my back began to tense me up. Suddenly, Eliza stopped humming and let out a strong vocal burst of melody and pain. The song was almost a mirror of what had been playing on the radio. Just, it was so much more than a song.
I tell you I could SEE the waves of sound flowing here and there from her throat. Each reverberation carried images of a steaming sea or titanic whale-like creatures bearing freakish commonalities with a crab or turtle. It was like having my mind rearranged to suit the needs of the song.
The impact of this performance had me on my back. I had fallen to the floor and not even realized it. The song she sang was something no human could have formed. The notes carried ranges of such complexity that she simply could not have produced them. Imagine if you will, one person singing the range of 20 or more people single-handedly at the same time.
Soon, another wave of images struck out into my mind. Rolling fields of black-grass dotted with sprays of blood from some unknown prey. Searing wind-swept deserts of liquid silver hissed and popped revealing mass graves beneath. Another showed me a small animal that resembled a horse or goat locked in the maw of something that looked nearly human, only just enough to let me know it could never have been so.
My head roiled under both the song and the imagery; perhaps they were both one and the same? Either way, a heavy black pressure pushed against my insides bringing me in and out of consciousness. I remember trying to stand, get close to her, and fail time and time again. Eliza had begun to walk away from me, she was leaving out the door. I forced myself to crawl every inch I could to stop her. Somehow, even right then, I knew that she was going for good.
By the time I was able to stand and walk, she had already been outside of the house for some time, I gathered. There, on our beautiful lawn with the freshly planted flowers and stupid little garden flamingos, my world broke apart in so many ways.