This Can’t Be Real

This Can’t Be Real

Tim’s workday started the same as every other one. He’d report to the office, pick up his assignment, and drive with his crew to the house, apartment, or storage locker that needed clearing out. Disposing of people’s things was what the company he worked for did. It could be a single item: bed, chair, table, or a whole house full of stuff. It didn’t matter what it was. If the customer wanted it gone, they removed it.

Today’s job involved clearing out a house and garage being rented by an elderly gentleman who had recently died. He left this world the same way he had entered it, alone. With no children or relatives to claim his possessions, it was left up to the landlord to dispose of everything so he could re-rent the property. Overall, just another day at work for Tim and his crew.

Fortunately, the old man wasn’t a hoarder, so the job moved along at a good pace. One of Tim’s co-workers remarked that walking into this house, he felt as though he had gone back in time and landed in the fifties or sixties. Tim thought about it for a moment and decided the observation was on the money. There wasn’t one piece of furniture that looked new. The television still had a picture tube, and there was an 8-track tape player on an end table. The man’s telephone had a rotary dial and was plugged into a landline. Every clock in the house was analog. The toaster was a flip-open style, and there was no microwave anywhere to be seen.

Tim entered the man’s bedroom and stopped dead in his tracks. There on the nightstand was an archaic portable transistor radio. The only reason he recognized it was that it looked a lot like the one his grandfather had shown him years earlier. The six-transistor, battery-powered A.M. radio was the last thing Tim had expected to find. Was there even an A.M. station still in operation?

Staring at the relic brought back all the conversations Tim and his grandfather had about all the great shows the old man listened to before television invaded every household. He described various taglines each production used, like: Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows.

Fibber McGee and Molly, the show that brings you the funniest couple in town.

Dragnet. The stories you are about to hear are true; the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

These were just a few of the shows Tim could remember, but there were so many more. He put the radio in his coat pocket. Seeing if it still worked would be a project for tonight.

Tim and his crew finished clearing out the place, notified the owner they were through, and made their way to the drop-off point where they unloaded the truck. They went back to the office just as the sun was setting, another successful job completed. Tim couldn’t wait to get home and try out his new toy even though he knew the chance of it working was slim to none.

After a rushed supper, Tim settled into his favorite chair, placed the radio on his lap, and turned the volume control dial to on. What he heard made no sense. It started with a brief crackling of static followed by a Vincent Price-style laugh and the words, “The Shadow knows.” Slightly unnerved, Tim slowly turned the frequency dial on the right, attempting to change channels. Every time he stopped, the same creepy voice came crackling through the speaker. Once he reached the upper range of frequencies, the eerie voice was replaced by something even more terrifying. “Their time is growing short. Soon the planet will be purged of all its parasitic life forms, and we will take control.”

“Yes, my brother. These creatures have controlled this orb for far too long. I told the council they were not the obvious species to rule the world after we culled all the dinosaurs. It’s taken several millennia, but they have finally come around to our point of view.”

“I think what has convinced them is how little effort on our part it will take to make it happen. All we need to do is guide them into a global war, and their natural tendency for self-destruction will do the rest. Our leaders have given us a start date of….”, crackle, hiss.

Static interrupted the transmission, and the conversation was lost for good. Tim moved the dial from top to bottom; all reception was lost. Panic immediately set in. He had to report the conversation to someone in the government, but without proof, who would believe him? It was a long shot, but Tim had to try. He was persistent, moving from agency to agency desperately looking for someone to take him seriously. What he got was not what he expected.

Every day was similar to the day before. Meals served at the dining hall, group meetings, individual counseling, and long periods left alone in his room. The counselors did let him keep the transistor radio, calling it a comfort item. Maybe they were right; he might be delusional, but Tim couldn’t convince himself of it.

Today, just like every other day, Tim clicked on his radio expecting to hear static. Instead, much to his surprise and terror, the voices were back, sounding perfectly clear.

“This is the day we’ve all been waiting for. Target #1 is the device that has been monitoring our transmissions. Strikes will begin in three, two…”

Tim could do nothing but throw his radio against the wall and scream.