The Bell Tower’s Reel

In the autumn of 1997, I was working the evening shift at a tiny vintage electronics shop called ‘Static & Co.’ tucked in the industrial district of a decaying Midwestern mill town. My coworker, Marcus, a wiry punk rocker with a penchant for horror novels, was my only company during the slow Tuesday nights. We were closing up, the neon sign buzzing off, the fluorescent lights hissing to black, leaving only the amber glow of the streetlamp outside the grimy window to illuminate the counter where we counted the day’s meager earnings.

The shop was a treasure trove of obsolete tech: reel-to-reel tape players, cracked CRT televisions, and a wall of dusty vinyl records. In the back, there was a vintage jukebox, the kind with a glowing chrome face, that the owner kept loaded with 45s. But tonight, it sat silent, its power cord unplugged and coiled on its base. We’d never touched it. The only sounds were the ticking of a clock and the occasional groan of the building’s old bones.

I was about to write the final tally in the ledger when, without warning, the jukebox erupted into life. The lights flickered on, the mechanism clunked, and a single song began to play: ‘Time of the Season’ by The Zombies. But it wasn’t the clean, nostalgic version we knew. The vocals were slowed down, a guttural drawl, and the organ chords stretched into dissonant, mournful tones. Marcus froze, his face pale. ‘Did you touch that?’ I shook my head. ‘No, it’s unplugged,’ I said, pointing at the cord. But the music continued, louder, the bass thumping like a heartbeat.

We stared at the machine, and then we noticed something else: the glass dome of the jukebox was fogging up from the inside, and behind the fog, we could see shadows moving, not records, but indistinct shapes writhing. The music grew distorted, the singer’s voice now a low, guttural chant. Then the song suddenly cut off, replaced by a woman’s sobbing, clear and close, as if someone was weeping right next to us. The sobbing echoed through the empty shop, bouncing off the dusty shelves. My blood turned to ice.

Marcus, always the braver one, stepped toward the jukebox. ‘Who’s there?’ he shouted, his voice trembling. The sobbing stopped. A moment of dead silence. Then a new sound: a reel-to-reel tape machine, which had been sitting on a shelf, started to roll its reels, the tape hissing. Out of the speakers (because everything was wired into the same old speaker system) came a voice, deep and distorted, but clearly a man’s: ‘You shouldn’t have stayed.’ The tape machine clicked off. The jukebox went dark. We stood frozen in the middle of the shop.

I was about to suggest we get the hell out of there when the front door, which we had locked and bolted, creaked open. A draft of cold air swept in, bringing the smell of damp earth and rotting leaves. The streetlamp flickered, and in the window display, we saw a reflection of a figure standing behind us, a tall, thin silhouette with long hair. We spun around, but there was nothing. The door was ajar, and the street outside was empty.

We grabbed our coats and rushed out, not bothering to lock up. As we ran, we could hear the jukebox starting up again, this time playing ‘Voodoo People’ by Prodigy, at full volume, the chaotic electronic beat echoing down the street. But we didn’t look back. Our hearts pounded as we sprinted to Marcus’s car, and we drove to a 24-hour diner, shaking, trying to rationalize what we had seen. We decided it was some sort of practical joke, maybe the owner had rigged something, but we both knew it was impossible. That shop was ancient, and the only thing powering it was a half-broken fuse box.

The next day, we went back to open up. The jukebox was exactly as we’d left it, unplugged, dust-covered. But when we walked in, a warm smell of popcorn hit us, like a movie theater. And on the counter, where we had been counting cash, there was an old film reel, the kind used in projectors. On the first frame, someone had written in marker: ‘For Marcus and Lee.’ We never opened it. We quit that job within a week, and the shop closed down shortly after. But I still have nightmares of that sobbing, and the image of that shadowy figure in the window. To this day, I cannot listen to ‘Time of the Season’ without feeling a chill, and whenever I pass an old jukebox, I look for the unplugged cord. It’s always plugged in. But I always have to check, just to make sure.