“What in the hell, Stef?”

Ricki leaned into the trunk. Dirt-encrusted dials and Bakelite buttons grinned back at her. A chunky cherrywood box was wedged between the oranges and a carton of water. She peeked around the car to glare at her husband’s back. Stephen pretended he was preoccupied with carrying in the groceries to hear. Shaking her head, Ricki hoisted up two bags of food and regretted letting Stephen shop solo. He’d found another one of his treasures.

Loading the freezer, Ricki ignored Stephen as he carried his latest dusty find upstairs. Last week, it was a rattling bread maker that churned out claggy minuscule loaves. Last month, it was a behemoth carpet cleaner that leaked all over the broom closet. Stephen was a collector of junk, a trash picker, frequenter of yard sales and church jumbles, and a fanboy of Facebook Marketplace.

That night in bed, Ricki played Wordle while Stephen researched vacuum tubes on Quora. The carved wood box proved to be some kind of old school radio thing. Resting on one of the good towels, the antique sulked on top of the tall boy. Ricki had no need for old things and this wasn’t even cute. The dark radio dial reminded her of a jack o’lantern smile in December. Muttering, Ricki wondered where her framed photo of her aunt went that used to sit on the dresser’s top.

“Isn’t she a beauty? And a real steal, too. The things people think are useless I’ll never understand. That is a genuine Starline radio and phonograph player,” Stephen said, taking Ricki’s stare for admiration.

He launched into his research on antique electronics and Ricki made listening noises. All the while she examined the device. Something about the sinewy Art Deco carvings on the player’s face made her think the radio was listening, too.

Static buzzed at midnight. Ricki turned into the sound. Louder and louder, the buzzing gnawed. Her eyes wandered before landing on the amber light of the radio dial. Silently, Ricki cursed and padded towards the old radio. There was a low grinding noise coming from the player now. Ricki lifted the lid with a protesting creak. The phonograph turnstile was spinning. Cursing, she fumbled with the thing’s knobs. Snap, she turned it off. Ricki was asleep before her head hit her pillow.

Next night, Ricki awoke to niggling buzz scratching at her dreams. The radio glowed deep red. Ricki flung off the comforter as the Starline launched into some crazy rebroadcast on the attack on Pearl Harbor. She slapped it off and stomped back to bed. Stephen snored peacefully. The record player whirred. Ricki shoved the player hard and it shuddered to a stop.

“Dude what’s up with that damned radio?”

“It’s the cat’s pajamas. Finally found a guy over in Haverford who can overhaul it.”

“I just need it to shut up. Every night another old broadcast plays as if the world isn’t Dumpster fire enough without assassinated dukes and Allied invasions,” Ricki said.

Stephen stopped loading the dishwasher.

“What you talking about babe? I’d never plug in an eighty-year-old radio. Tubes could smoke and burn out. Wiring fired anyway. I took out the guts weeks ago. You’re pulling my leg. This is one of those creepy pasta stories, right.”

Stephen laughed and returned to the silverware. A cold chill skeetered down her back. At three in the morning, the radio had awoken her with a Tokyo Rose broadcast.

That night Ricki listened to her husband snore never taking her eyes from the Starline. Round midnight, the radio gave a staticky growl. Glowing a sickly amber, the old radio grew louder. Ricki faced it and reached for the cord. It wasn’t plugged in. A shock rang up her arm. She couldn’t let go. Staring at the rusty plug, Ricki suddenly saw Stephen going alone to a stranger’s house to pickup a typewriter for her as a surprise. But there was no manual typewriter just a man with a gun who wanted her husband’s car and wallet. Dropping the plug, Ricki leapt back. Her fingers tingled from the shock. She rubbed her fingertips smelling blood and pennnies.

Ricki looked at Stephen sleeping peacefully. Solid and trusting, Stephen was her rock. He took care of in so many ways. What if’s beat hard inside her chest. She lifted the radio lid and saw herself opening the door to police officers with drawn faces. “Sentimental Journey” suddenly squawked from the speakers. Ricki slammed down the lid. Stephen started awake.

“What you doing over there? Bad dream babe.”

“Yeah, kinda. I dreamt something bad happened to you. Promise me you’ll be extra careful. Meet in public spaces, promise me.”

“Your trembling. Okay, okay I promise, pinky swear.”

In the dark, the Starline radio and phonograph player glowed red on and off, on and off, on and off.

Holding open his arms, Stephen pulled her close onto his chest. In t