The Unplugged Radio

In December 2002, I was on stand-down from the military, so I took a security assignment to keep busy. As a captain with a private firm, I was sent to a post that others avoided, citing vague fears and unexplained absences. The facility was an old machine shop in the rural outskirts of central Texas, surrounded by scrubland and a chain-link fence that sagged in places.

The officer on duty, a wiry man named Dale, gave me the tour. The main building was a cavernous structure of corrugated steel, its interior dim and smelling of oil and rust. Rows of lathes and presses sat idle under a coating of grime. The tour moved to a newer modular building that housed the break room and locker area. It was clean, almost sterile, except for an old AM/FM radio on a shelf by the microwave, playing faint, crackling country music. Dale walked over, switched it off, and unplugged it. I noticed his hand trembled slightly. I didn’t ask why.

He then told me about the night shifts. ‘They say the radio turns on by itself,’ he said, his voice low. ‘But it’s not the radio that bothers me. It’s the quiet after it stops.’ He laughed nervously, but his eyes darted to the corners of the room. I dismissed it as superstition. After the tour, Dale left, and I was alone, armed with a flashlight and a set of keys.

The first night passed uneventfully. I made rounds, checked doors, and listened to the wind whistle through the gaps in the old building. But on the second night, around 2 a.m., I heard music. It was faint, a twangy guitar and a woman’s voice singing about heartbreak. It came from the break room. I walked over, the sound growing clearer. The radio was on, though I knew I had unplugged it. I reached out to switch it off, but before I touched the dial, the song cut off abruptly. Silence filled the room, heavy and expectant. Then, from the main shop floor, I heard the sound of metal on metal—a rhythmic clanking, like someone striking a steel beam with a hammer.

I followed the sound into the main building. The lights flickered, casting long shadows. The clanking grew louder, more insistent. It seemed to come from the far end, near a massive press that had been roped off with caution tape. As I approached, I saw a figure—a man in coveralls, his back turned, working at the press with a wrench. He was humming the same tune that had come from the radio. I called out, but he didn’t respond. I stepped closer, and the man stopped. He turned slowly. His face was weathered, but his eyes were white, like cataracts covering every inch. He smiled, revealing blackened teeth. ‘You shouldn’t have turned it off,’ he said, his voice gravelly, as if from a deep well.

I stumbled backward, reaching for my radio to call for backup, but it was dead. The man began to walk toward me, his steps shuffling, the wrench dragging on the concrete floor. I ran. The main doors were locked—I had checked earlier—but I headed for the emergency exit at the rear. I slammed through it into the night air, but the latch didn’t stop him. I kept running, not stopping until I reached my car. I drove to the nearest police station and told them everything, but they found nothing. The facility was quiet, the radio was unplugged, and there was no sign of the man.

The next day, I requested a transfer. I couldn’t go back. But the part that haunts me isn’t the ghostly figure or the strange music. It’s what I found when I looked up the history of the place. A worker had been killed there in 1987, crushed by a press that malfunctioned. His name was Harold. He was known for humming country songs while he worked. And he always kept a small radio on his bench, which he said kept him company. The radio in the break room was the same model, but the serial number matched one that had been buried with him.

Now, no matter where I go, I sometimes hear that faint country song playing in the silence. And I wonder if I ever truly left that post, or if part of me is still there, walking those dim aisles, waiting for the music to stop again.