The Antique Radio

The summer of 2003 was meant to be a quiet one in my grandparents’ old house in the countryside. Every weekend, my family and I would drive out to their place, a sprawling Victorian with creaky floors and rooms that smelled of mothballs and old paper. That particular Saturday, after a heavy lunch of adobo and rice, my cousins and I trudged up the wide oak staircase to the second floor, where a clunky CRT television played VHS tapes of horror movies. But the heat and the lethargy of the meal got to me, and I told my cousin Liza that I needed to lie down. She nodded, distracted by a jump scare on the screen. ‘I’ll be in Auntie Cora’s room,’ I said, referring to the room that had been locked for years since my aunt moved abroad. The key was always in the same spot, under the ceramic frog on the hallway shelf.

I unlocked the door and slipped inside. The room was frozen in time: a four-poster bed with a floral canopy, a vanity with a round mirror, and a large wardrobe that seemed to lean forward slightly. The air was thick with dust, and the only light came from a gap in the heavy velvet curtains. I kicked off my sandals and lay on top of the quilt, expecting to just doze for a few minutes. But the silence was heavy, and soon I was sinking into a dreamless sleep.

When I woke, the room was dark. I sat up, disoriented. My head throbbed, and my mouth was dry. The digital clock on the bedside table read 4:37 PM. I had been asleep for over two hours. I swung my legs off the bed, but as my feet hit the worn carpet, I noticed something odd: a faint, mechanical hum, like a distant radio stuck between stations. It seemed to come from the wardrobe. I stood and walked toward it, pulling open the creaking door. Inside, among old coats and musty sweaters, sat an antique radio, polished wood with a round dial and a single speaker grille. It must have been my grandmother’s, but I didn’t recall seeing it before. The hum grew louder, forming almost into words, but I couldn’t make them out. Then, without warning, the radio crackled to life, a man’s voice clear and calm: ‘The house remembers. Don’t forget.’ A chill ran down my spine. I slammed the wardrobe shut and dashed out of the room.

I ran down the hallway, calling for my cousins, but the house was eerily still. The living room downstairs was empty, the TV off. The dining table was set for dinner, but no one was there. Panic rose in my throat. I searched every room—the kitchen, the pantry, even the garden—but the house was abandoned. It was as if everyone had vanished while I slept. Just as I was about to run outside, I heard laughter. It came from the second floor, my aunt’s room. I crept back up and pressed my ear to the door. Through the wood, I heard my grandmother’s voice, my cousins’ giggles, the clinking of plates. I tried the knob, but it wouldn’t turn. It was locked from the inside.

I pounded on the door, shouting, but the sounds continued, oblivious. I ran to the phone in the hallway, dialing my mother’s number, but the line was dead. I was trapped with a house that seemed to be playing tricks on me. I went back to the door, and this time, it swung open on its own. The room was empty—no furniture, no radio, just bare walls. But on the floor, in the center, lay a single photograph. It was old, sepia-toned, showing a family in front of the house, but their faces were scratched out. On the back, written in fading ink, were the words: ‘The radio ate them all.’

I stumbled backward, and the door slammed shut. I heard the radio hum again, now from everywhere, the walls vibrating with it. The voice returned, softer but menacing: ‘You are not one of them. Yet.’ I turned to run, but the hallway stretched impossibly long, and the windows outside showed not the garden but an endless black void. I fell to my knees, my hands over my ears, but the hum seeped through. And then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped. The house returned to normal. Sounds of my family downstairs, the smell of dinner. I opened my eyes, and I was on the bed in Auntie Cora’s room, the afternoon light slanting through the curtains. The clock read 4:35 PM.

I rushed downstairs to find my family gathered around the dining table, looking at me with strange expressions. My grandmother asked, ‘Where were you? We’ve been calling for you.’ I told them about the radio, the locked door, the photograph. They exchanged uneasy glances. Then my mother, her voice low, said, ‘We never had a radio in that room. And Auntie Cora… she died in a car accident two years ago. The room was sealed because she used to sleepwalk.’ I felt a cold knot in my stomach. The radio hum began again, faintly, from upstairs. And I knew, in that moment, that the house had been waiting for someone to open that door. And now that I had, it would never let me leave.