The Playback Machine

Marlene and I had been married for eleven years, and in all that time, she had never once mentioned a brother. So when she casually dropped the name ‘Eliot’ while we were rummaging through boxes in the attic, I nearly dropped the crate of old records I was holding. She was perched on a dusty trunk, peeling back a layer of cardboard to reveal a tangle of cables, her voice light and conversational, as if she were talking about a neighbor we’d run into at the grocery store.

‘Eliot used to hide his Walkman up here,’ she said, pulling out a cassette. ‘He was convinced Mom would confiscate it if she found it. He had this whole secret code for when he was listening. He’d tap his left ear twice if he heard something he wanted to share.’

I blinked, shifting my weight. ‘You never told me you had a brother.’

She looked up, a crease forming between her brows. ‘Didn’t I? I thought I did. He was older, but he drowned when I was nine. It’s not something I bring up a lot.’

She said it so matter-of-factly that I didn’t know how to respond. I just nodded and turned back to the pile. The attic was stifling, and the only light came from a single bare bulb that swung slightly, casting dancing shadows across the rafters. The box we were digging through was labeled ‘MISC.’ and contained a jumble of things: an old VCR, a stack of VHS tapes, and what appeared to be a broken record player.

‘Did you hear that?’ Marlene asked, her head cocked.

I listened. The house creaked, as old houses do, but there was nothing else. ‘No,’ I said. ‘What was it?’

‘Probably just the heating,’ she muttered, but she didn’t look convinced. She went back to the box, pulling out the record player. It was an old model, with a wooden cabinet and a turntable that looked like it had seen better days. ‘I remember this,’ she said, running a finger over the dust. ‘Dad used to play old jazz records on this. He said the sound was warmer.’

I walked over to her, crouching down to examine it. The speaker grille was fabric, and there was a knob for volume and one for tone. ‘Does it still work?’ I asked.

Marlene shrugged and reached behind the cabinet, fumbling for a plug. There was an outlet right there, and she shoved the cord in. A hum filled the attic, low and resonant, like a distant choir warming up. The light bulb flickered, then steadied.

‘No records in here, though,’ I said, scanning the box. ‘Unless they’re downstairs.’

She held up the cassette she’d found. ‘There’s a tape in the carriage. Maybe this was when he recorded himself pretending to be a DJ.’ She pressed the play button. The deck clicked, and a faint hiss filled the air. Then a voice, childlike and reedy, came through the speaker.

‘Testing, testing, one, two. If anyone is listening, this is Eliot, broadcasting from the attic. It’s Tuesday, June 4th, 1985. I’m hiding from Mom because she found my Fritos.’

Marlene laughed, a soft, surprised sound. ‘I remember this. He used to do these little shows. He’d interview me and stuff.’

The tape continued. ‘Today’s show features my sister, Marlene. She’s eight, and she says she saw a ghost in her closet. But she’s a big scaredy-cat, so I don’t believe her. Anyway, here she is. Marlene, do you want to say hi?’

There was a scuffle, then a younger Marlene’s voice, high and clear: ‘Hi, everyone! It’s me, Marlene! And I DID see a ghost! It was a lady in a white dress, and she kept saying my name.’

‘That’s enough, Marlene,’ her older brother cut in. ‘The ghost is not real. It’s just the wind. Now, for our first record, we have…’

The tape went silent, and I realized the entire attic had gone quiet. The hum from the record player was gone, and the light bulb had stopped flickering. I looked at Marlene, but she was staring at the speaker, her face pale.

‘Do you think…’ I started.

‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘I used to hear that voice a lot after he died. But I was a kid. I thought it was my imagination.’

Suddenly, the record player let out a crackle, and a new voice came through, not the boy’s, but a low, raspy voice, almost like a recording of a man breathing heavily. It formed words, but they were too distorted to understand. It sounded like it was calling from underwater, the syllables gurgling and thick.

Marlene grabbed my arm. ‘Is that him?’

‘It can’t be,’ I said, but my voice sounded thin. The voice grew clearer, and I made out a single word: ‘Marlene.’

She flinched. ‘What does he want?’

The voice repeated her name, then added, ‘Get out of the attic.’

‘What?’ I said aloud. The record player suddenly shut off, and the room was silent again. But then, from the far corner, somewhere behind an old armoire, I heard a distinct tap, tap, tap. Like a fingernail on wood. Twice.

Marlene looked at me, her eyes wide. ‘He used to tap two times when he was hiding and wanted me to find him.’

We both stared at the armoire. The tapping came again, but this time it was faster, more insistent, like a frantic drumbeat. And then, from the speaker, still off, I could have sworn I heard a faint, garbled laugh.

Marlene started to cry. ‘I have to go to him,’ she said, letting go of my arm and stepping toward the armoire.

‘Wait!’ I grabbed her hand. ‘It’s not him. There’s something else going on.’

But she pulled away. ‘I have to know.’ She walked to the armoire and slowly opened the door. Inside, it was empty, but on the back panel, there was a message scratched into the wood, in crooked lettering: ‘I couldn’t breathe.’

A cold draft washed over me. Marlene touched the letters, tracing them. Then she let out a choked sob. ‘This is his handwriting. He must have been trapped in here. That’s why he died. He got locked in and couldn’t get out.’

The realization hit me. But then, the record player clicked on again, and this time, the voice was clear and angry. It was the same raspy voice, but now it was shouting. ‘WHY DID YOU LET HIM DIE?’

We both wheeled around. The record player was vibrating, and the needle was scratching across the vinyl, making a horrible screech. The light bulb flickered wildly, and the attic seemed to darken. From all around us, I heard a sound like bubbles popping, and I felt a spray of water on my face.

‘Is it raining?’ I asked, touching my cheek.

Marlene didn’t answer. She was staring at the record player, and I followed her gaze. On the turntable, instead of a record, there was a puddle of water, and the needle was grinding into it, sending droplets flying. The voice that came out was now a chorus of whispers, layering over each other, all saying the same thing: ‘Leave this place. You are not welcome.’

I grabbed Marlene by the arm. ‘We need to get out of here.’

She resisted for a moment, looking back at the armoire. Then she nodded, and we bolted for the attic door. As we reached it, the record player let out a final, piercing wail, and then everything went silent. We practically fell down the stairs, slamming the door shut behind us.

We stood in the hallway, breathing hard. The house was quiet, but I could feel a lingering presence, like a pressure in the air. Marlene looked at me, her face streaked with tears and rain, and she whispered, ‘The tapes are still up there.’

‘Leave it,’ I said. ‘That’s not your brother. That’s something else.’

But even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t the end. That night, we went to bed, and I dreamed of a young boy tapping two times on a wooden door, his face pressed against the glass, drowning in the air. When I woke, Marlene was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the closet.

‘He’s here,’ she said. ‘He wants to come out.’

I didn’t have to ask who she meant. From the attic above, I heard a faint, rhythmic tapping, as if someone was knocking on the floorboards, demanding entry. And I knew, with a sick certainty, that the playback machine had just started its second reel.