Radio Poltergeist

“Why are you here?”

The disembodied voice jolted Sergeant Plundell from his sleep. He sat up in his bunk, looking around. The voice sounded like it had come from a radio.

But how? The radio had been turned off for the night, so the Germans didn’t find it. Was someone listening to it? It’s past lights-out. No one should be up. Adjusting his jacket, Plundell got out of bed, searching the dark and silent barracks for the radio. It was kept under Private Kesby’s footlocker. Plundell hated touching the belongings of his men without their permission, but that radio had to be turned off before it attracted the attention of guards outside.

“Speak, Sergeant,” the voice said.

A chill shot down Plundell’s spine. “Who are you?”

“I am no one in particular.”

“No one, but you speak.” As quietly as he could, Plundell pushed the footlocker aside.

“Yes. Now, why are you here?”

Plundell cursed to himself when he didn’t find the radio under the floorboards. Frantically, he looked around, and saw a faint light on the radio’s aimlessly spinning dial. The radio itself was sitting on a barrel near one of the other bunks.

“Do not think you can hide in here, Sergeant. There’s only so much you can do before Commandant Westheimer hears about this and punishes you and your crew severely.”

“If you know who I am, then why are you asking why I am here?” Plundell glared at the radio.

Nothing but static came from the radio. The dial continued to spin. Then the voice continued. “. . . For my amusement. I know you and you alone were captured in Italy. I know the rest of your men died. I know you carry the burden for that.”

Plundell closed his eyes, sighing. “And why is that any of your bloody business? What are you? A ghost? A demon?”

 The radio began to float. “Perhaps.”

Plundell glared at it. “I won’t give in to you, then. You want something. Whatever it is, you won’t get it.”

“You will become afraid soon enough, the longer I inhabit this radio.” The radio began floating around the barracks, almost dancing as it went.

Plundell struggled to stay focused, even as the device came toward him. Hissing and static and a very cold, evil energy emitted from it. Don’t think about anything else. That’s how it’ll get to you. Don’t be afraid. Don’t act afraid.

The radio left, and floated toward the sleeping Private Kesby. Kesby shuddered, and turned away from the radio, still fast asleep. Suddenly, he began shivering more violently, and covered his face.

“I can give you nightmares. Nightmares that will haunt you for the rest of your life,” the radio said.

“Fuck you. Leave him alone!” Plundell shouted. He lunged for the radio, yanking it from the air and holding it to the floor. It was trying to get away from him.

The barracks came alive with creaking as the rest of the prisoners-of-war woke up. “Sergeant? What’s going on? Why are you tackling the radio?” someone asked.

“Something’s possessed it!” Plundell hollered. “I don’t know how to stop it! Don’t let it get to you!”

Something cold and slimy emerged from one of the edges of the radio. A deformed, skeletal hand. Appalled, Plundell let go, and watched the radio crawl away. The hand disappeared, and the radio began to float again.

“Shoo!” Private Wraight grabbed a broom from the wall, swatting the radio. It clattered to the floor. The dial spun rapidly, and static burst from it.

Still, the voice continued. “It will take more than that. That was quite pitiful.”

Wraight struck it with the broom again. Taking advantage of this, Plundell dashed over to Kesby, shaking him until he woke up.

“Come on, it’s just a dream. It’s just a dream,” Plundell whispered. He breathed a sigh of relief when Kesby sat up, grabbing him in a hug. “What happened? Are you alright?”

Kesby didn’t respond right away. Instead, he was sobbing. Filled with rage, Plundell grabbed a piece of wood from a pile by the tiny stove in the back of the barracks. He raised it above his head, bringing it down on the radio with a scream.

“Was ist da drin los?” A guard began pounding on the door. “What is going on in there? You are supposed to be asleep!”

Somewhat garbled, the voice added, “I will not let them sleep until I am satisfied.”

Plundell bashed the wood against the radio again. It was a very durable device, only sustaining a couple of cracks so far. The dial screen, too, was cracked. The voice inside kept taunting Plundell and the other soldiers, until it escalated into maniacal laughter.

“The fact that I will drive you mad is enough! Yes, keep hitting me! Keep hitting me!”      

Tears were streaming down Plundell’s face, and his hands were bloody with splinters. This whole thing felt like a bad dream. It couldn’t be real. It didn’t make sense. He had never been sure whether ghosts were real or not. How could one be this cruel? They’re dead.

He couldn’t deny that he could feel the voice in his head, laughing and taunting him. It brought up his defeat in Italy, his panic upon first being brought to the camp, his fear of the scarred and limping captain in charge of them, his homesickness, his fear that his girlfriend back in Britain would leave him, his withdrawal and depression before finally accepting that he was going to be here for the foreseeable future.

The door to the barracks was shoved open. The camp’s commandant, Captain Westheimer, stormed inside. He was a gaunt, older man with pale scars on both cheeks. They looked like they had come from an animal, and a few of the prisoners had speculated on what animal specifically had given them. In Westheimer’s left hand was a cane, which he raised and waved as he bellowed, “What the hell is going on in here?!”

Plundell and the others retreated, leaving the radio throwing itself all over the camp floor. Static and that voice continued from its speaker. “. . . Sleep . . . Never. I will never . . . Why are you here, Sergeant? You won’t get over it . . . Men died because of you.”

“Son-of-a-bitch.” Westheimer pointed the tip of his cane at the radio. A great flash illuminated the barracks. A bolt of lightning from the cane struck the radio, splintering it into a hundred pieces. A hissing, writhing human-like figure unfurled from where the radio once lay. It was nothing more than a skeletal shadow, crawling toward Westheimer and spitting obscenities at him. It recoiled when he aimed his cane at it, but still made a feeble attempt to attack him, swiping at him with a gnarled, clawed hand. Westheimer stabbed the shadow with his cane. A loud bang was heard, and the shadow fizzled into thin air, leaving a black mark on the floor. Flakes of ash floated around the barracks, and silence finally dominated.

Plundell didn’t realize he had been holding his breath until his head started feeling light. Drawing in a deep breath, he said, “Captain—”

“Go back to bed. All of you,” Westheimer interrupted. Without another word, he turned, leaving the barracks. He barked something in German to the guards outside, who closed the doors and returned to their posts.

Plundell looked at the mark on the floor, then at his hands, which were still bloody from the wood splinters. This hadn’t been a bad dream, but what was it?

------------

Plundell and the rest of the POWs didn’t sleep for the rest of the night, though they tried. Kesby was the first to attempt. He awoke shortly after, whimpering something about hearing that voice in his dreams, and that he couldn’t tell if it was real or just a dream.

After morning roll call, Plundell worked up the courage to go to Westheimer’s quarters. The guard standing outside didn’t say anything when Plundell approached. Instead, he opened the door, and said in his best English, “You want answers for last night, ja?”

“Yes,” Plundell replied. “So . . . Th-That wasn’t a dream?”

“No. Not a dream. Something possessed your little radio.”

Having been in shock for the last several hours, Plundell hadn’t considered the fact that he and the rest of the prisoners could be punished for having the radio in the first place, but Westheimer hadn’t said anything about it. “Is the captain available?”

“He is having his breakfast and coffee, Sergeant. But, please, have a seat in his office.”

Nodding and bidding thanks, Plundell entered the building. Westheimer’s quarters were only in slightly better condition than the barracks. There were some decorations and touches of home, but it wasn’t overly extravagant. In the captain’s office, pictures and maps adorned the wall. One was of a smiling young woman, with two small children, both girls, in her lap. The picture next to that showed the two girls all grown up. They were standing with two men who Plundell assumed to be their husbands. One was in the dress uniform of the Kriegsmarine, the other in the uniform of the Luftwaffe.

There were photographs of a younger Westheimer. Most featured him and his wife and their daughters. Plundell never took Westheimer to be a family man, but it appeared he was.

“What do you want?”

Plundell jumped and turned, seeing Westheimer standing in the doorway to his office. He was holding a cup of coffee, and had a pipe clenched in his teeth. “Captain, sir, I . . . I would like to discuss . . . l-last night—”

“You want to discuss the ghost.”

“Y-Yes, sir.”

“Then sit down.”

Stunned, Plundell nervously sat in the chair across from Westheimer’s desk. “So, it . . . it was a ghost?”

“It was a ghost. A very dangerous ghost. More specifically, a poltergeist.”

Plundell’s jaw dropped. “I . . . was never certain ghosts were real.”

“They are. Then again, I imagine you did not think magic was real, did you?”

“No, sir. I had always believed it was a circus trick, or creative beggars looking to con people out of their money.”

Westheimer grinned at him. “Well, there are a lot of ‘magicians’ out there, so you are not entirely wrong.” He picked up his cane. “If I was not a damn warlock, you and the rest of Barracks One would not have survived the night.”

Plundell gave a nervous laugh. “Wait, wait, you . . . you’re a warlock? No, no, that can’t be . . . that’s . . . No, there’s no bloody way.”

“I never had any intention of revealing my identity as one to you or the rest of the prisoners, but last night called for it.”

“This is . . . more than just pulling rabbits out of hats?”

“A lot more.”

How could this be? Plundell looked down at his lap, struggling to process what he had just learned. Magic was real. Ghosts were real. He witnessed one possess a radio of all things. His German captor was a wizard. What was next? What baffled him even more was that Westheimer didn’t seem to care that he was revealing this to what was technically his enemy.

“Any other questions? This seems to be . . . quite the shock to you.”

“It is, sir, it is.” Plundell suddenly felt like someone had whacked the back of his head with a hammer. “This feels like it shouldn’t be real. Especially after last night. I . . .” His throat closed. He didn’t want to think about last night. “It gave . . . Private Kesby nightmares, a-and we already have enough nightmares about being on the front. We don’t need more.”

“You have enough demons to face without literal ones.”

“Yes. Exactly. Still . . . why did this ghost choose to . . . to torment us?”

Westheimer shrugged. “For reasons only it knew. All I can tell you is that it chose the radio because it could communicate with you easier. I have seen possessed record players, too.”

Plundell couldn’t help but grin at that thought, but the tide of new revelations was still crashing through his mind. He glanced at his lap again before making eye contact with Westheimer. “And you know how to defeat ghosts?”

“I had been taught since I was young. Granted, most witches and warlocks do not deal with ghosts or werewolves or vampires or any other magical beings. I chose to after a ghost similar to this one led a friend of mine to take his own life shortly after the end of the First World War.”

“I’m sorry.”

Westheimer didn’t respond right away. He took a breath, and continued, “No, I should apologize for the shock to you. I was born into magic. You were not, so you do not understand it.” He gave Plundell a confused look. “What does impress me is that you are not scared.”

“You did save our lives last night. If I may speak honestly—”

“Go ahead.”

“You are already a scary man to the rest of the camp. I wasn’t expecting our enemy to do such a thing.”

“I have no place in this war other than here, because I cannot walk. That, and the Nazi goons do not know what I am. I would like to keep it that way.”

“But you showed your magic in front of the guards. Aren’t you worried they’ll say something?”

Westheimer shook his head. “No. I have had this set of guards since the war began. I trust all of them. They all trust me because I am good to them. Most of them are not fit for frontline service for one reason or another, but they are still able-bodied enough to be forced to do something.”

“That still seems very risky.”

“It is a risk I am willing to take, and it has paid off for the last three years.”

“Why tell me?”

“I already mentioned before that I had no plans of telling you, but when I left the barracks last night, I had a feeling you or someone else would come looking for answers. I spent this morning preparing myself to tell the truth. Plus, what would you gain by telling the Gestapo? Nothing. The last they would take seriously is an accusation from an enemy soldier.”

Plundell was still struggling to get his head above the torrent of information crashing over him. “None of this . . . makes sense. Are you the only warlock, or are there others?”

“There are many others, and we are not all alike. I highly suggest you do not go searching for any, because not every witch or warlock is keen on making friends with those who do not possess any form of magic.”

“I see.” Plundell wasn’t sure what to do next. Did he tell the rest of his men? Had they already dismissed last night as a bad dream? Did they just not want to talk about it? Feeling drained, Plundell decided to change the topic. “Are you going to punish us for having the radio in the first place?”

To Plundell’s surprise, Westheimer shook his head. “No. I think what you went through last night was punishment enough. Frankly, I do not care what contraband you have in here, but I would like you to remember that there are camps and commandants far less willing to look the other way. I am an exception. However, be mindful of your smuggling. Cursed and haunted items can be easily hidden, and once you discover what they are, it may be too late to undo the damage.”