The Haunted Turntable

by Jeff Baker

The man walked into the bookstore holding a receipt.

“I’d like to return a record player I bought here,” the man said.

“Um, this is a bookstore,” the clerk said.

“I know, but I bought a used record player with a stand from this store two weeks ago.”

“Oh, you’re the one who bought that,” the clerk said. “You’re returning it?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Doesn’t it work?” the clerk asked.

“No. It’s haunted.” the man said.

The clerk stared for a moment. “Um, wasn’t that kind of how it was advertised?” he said gesturing with his hands in a sort of square shape. “Sign on it saying ‘Haunted Record Player, $75.’ You must’ve gotten what you paid for.”

“I thought it was just a gag,” the man said. “Nobody believes in, well, haunted record players. Haunted houses yes, but not record players.”

“I didn’t sell it to you, that was on my day off.” the clerk said. “And my boss’s son bought it for his dorm room, he collects old stuff like records. We even sell some you know. But he brought it in here, told us to sell it and he made the sign.” Clerk shrugged. “What can you do?”

“Bosses,” the man said. “And College kids.”

“What does it do?” the clerk asked. “Move around by itself? Play weird, spooky music in the middle of the night?”

“No.” the man said. “Voices. And it’s always in the middle of the afternoon.”

“Isn’t a record player supposed to play voices and stuff?” the clerk asked. “Especially with a radio attached? What did they call those? Stereos.”

“I know what they called them,” the man snapped. “And this isn’t the radio. It’s two voices. Arguing. And planning.”

“Planning what?” the clerk asked.

“I think, a burglary.” the man said. “I tried recording it with my cellphone but nothing recorded. So I wrote stuff down. Here.”

The man pulled out a piece of notebook paper.

“Old school,” the clerk thought.

“See, those are the guy’s first names,” the man said pointing at the paper. “And that’s the address of the place they were going to hit. I drove by it and there was nothing there, just a vacant lot.”

The clerk stared at the paper and felt weak in the knees. He clutched at the counter. He had gone pale.

“Are you all right?” the man asked.

“No. Hey, is this a sick joke?” the clerk asked.

“What?” the man asked.

“The address…My Grandparents were surprised by somebody who broke in one afternoon when they were supposed to be at work. Killed. Police suspected burglars but nobody found out anything.” The young man stood behind the counter and closed his eyes. “This was late Seventies. Mom was at school. I wasn’t born until a couple decades later.”

“The names…” the man said.

“I’m calling my Dad.” the clerk said pulling out his phone. “Not Mom. I’m going to buy that record player from you and Dad and I are going to sit by it in the afternoon and then get the police there if we have to…Hello, Dad. You know how you always said we didn’t even have a name to go on about Grandma and Grandpa? Well listen to me…and you better be sitting down…”

—end—