plaster she'd retrieved from a first-aid box they kept in a cupboard above the stove and applied the temporary bandage to the cut.
"Be careful Joe. You don't want to have to have a tetanus again. You nearly fainted at the site of the needle last time." Carole joked.
Joe laughed. "It's just a flesh wound." He said, kissing his wife in thanks for her nursing.
Carole returned to the lounge and Joe pondered his next move with the record player.
He looked at the controls and dials on the front of the box. The warm glow of the light behind them felt familiar and reassuring. Not too dazzling but bright enough to allow the detail of the controls to be seen in a darkened or poorly lit room. He turned the controls one by one, letting the dial that said "Balance" gently click back into its half-way slot silently. He adjusted the bass and treble and turned the volume almost all the way to the left. He recalled how earlier the volume control hadn't had any effect when the scream from the record had echoed around the kitchen.
He lifted the headshell and guided the stylus onto the record that was glued to the platter. The sound of the stylus grating against the surface came through the speakers and Joe noted it was quieter than when they'd earlier played the record.
He waited, in readiness, for the scream to come. This time no sound came forth. All he could hear was the rhythmic sound of the stylus as it traversed along the groove. He adjusted the volume control slightly. The stylus' sound grew as expected but the previous sound of the scream was not present. Joe scratched his head.
"How odd?" He said aloud.
"Odd." A voice whispered. Joe turned around sharply expecting his wife to be behind him once more. No-one was there. He turned his attention back to the player.
"Very odd." He said loudly, firmly, directly at the box.
"Very." The voice repeated, though this time less distinct.
"What the..." Joe started to say, but was stopped short of uttering an expletive when the blood-curdling scream returned and echoed around the kitchen at the same volume as that which it had when first heard.
Joe immediately reached in and grabbed the arm to lift it from the record's surface. A jolt of electricity ran up his arm as he did so. He half-pulled his arm back in reaction and was half-flung back by the force of the shock. The record player's stylus bounced noisily across the disc's surface. When it stopped, and the stylus re-entered the record's groove, it played the sound of what sounded like a shuffling through autumn leaves. Then, a single word came out of the speakers. Clear, deep and booming almost.
"Priest." It said.
Joe stared at the player in disbelief as the arm lifted and returned to its starting position.
"Are you alright in there?" Carole's voice called out to him from the lounge.
"I'm fine." Joe said. He looked at his hands. They were shaking. He took a deep breath.
Joe rifled through the kitchen drawers. He pulled a meter from the third one, trying not to damage the red and black connectors which were tangled amongst other contents. Once free, he returned to the record player and placed the meter on the table, turning the dial on it so he could measure any current. He took hold of the black and red plastic rods that were connected via wires to the meter itself and placed the silver tip of the black rod on the metal portion of the arm of the player. He placed the accompanying silver tip of the red rod against it a moment later. The meter showed "0.0" and made no sound. He kept the black rod's silver tip on the arm and moved the red rod's silver tip to the various metal components that were visible of the counterbalance, weight and platter, but still the meter showed and sounded nothing.
After putting the rods down on the table, Joe gingerly touched the arm. Nothing happened. He tapped it twice more before touching it for a slightly prolonged time, but there was no repeat of the shock he'd experienced before. Then he realised the arm wasn't "live". It wasn't playing a record. He moved it across the surface of the record and watched as the platter span up to speed. Again, he gingerly touched the metal of the arm. Nothing happened. He released the arm and let it fall into the centre of the disc. No sound came from the record and, again, he gently let the tip of his fingers meet the metal of the arm. Again, there was no shock, nothing that forced him to retract violently. There was no effect whatsoever.
Joe was baffled. He stood, watching the headshell as it moved slowly across the disc. The sound of the stylus rubbing and reacting to the minute bumps within the groove came through the box's speakers. He watched as it reached the dead wax area at the end of the record. Just as it did so, there was the same voice he'd heard earlier.
"Still there." Is all it said. Joe's eyes widened. He stood in disbelief and watched the headshell as it lifted from the record and the arm returned it to its home.
Joe lifted the lid from its storage place and shut the box. He reached around the rear of the player and toggled the power switch.
There was a sudden realisation. Following breakfast, he'd not actually powered the box on via the switch at the back. He'd forgotten. Yet the thing had still had power. Joe figured the switch was broken. "Might explain the short." He thought.
He toggled the power switch back from "ON" to "OFF" and then, just for good measure, unplugged the cable to the box from the extension lead that led to the mains. He double-checked the lights on the front were extinguished and went into the lounge.
Carole was still catching up on the celebrity gossip from the supplements. Joe slumped into the space next to her on the sofa.
"Shall we go out?" Joe asked her.
"I'm all cosy now." Carole said, nestling deeper into the cushions on the sofa as if to exaggerate the point.
"No problem. Probably going to rain anyway." Joe said.
They sat in silence for a while, enjoying each other's company without needing to converse constantly. The only sound other than that coming from the pages of the magazine Carole was reading as she turned them, was of occasional birdsong outside the window of their home. Joe liked days like this. Relaxed. Untroubled. He sat, remaining slumped, and enjoyed the quiet.
Suddenly, there was noise from the kitchen. The sound of something crashing and breaking loudly.
Joe leapt up and ran towards the source of the noise.
He pulled open the door and stepped through into the kitchen. Carole joined him as he surveyed the room and tried to work out what had caused the cacophony.
Nothing was disturbed. Everything seemed to be in its place. The only thing that seemed to be slightly amiss was the extension cable that Joe had unplugged the record player from. It was lying half-on and half-off the seat of one of the dining table chairs. Joe lifted it to the edge of the table and allowed it to fall back across the chair. The sound, a low thud, was nothing like the sound of crashing that he and Carole had heard.
Suddenly there was a sound of music. The sound of a song, that seemed familiar but wasn’t instantly recognisable to either Joe or Carole, running at a slower than normal tempo, emanated from the record player box.
“It sound eerie.” Carole said.
Joe moved to where the box was on the dining room table and lifted the lid. Inside, the platter was turning and the stylus was moving across the disc, playing the record. Joe picked up the power cable to the box, as if to confirm to his wife that it had no power.
He reached around the back of the box and flicked the switch. Immediately, the front panel lit up and the sound of Christmas music, at the correct tempo, rung loudly around the kitchen. A female voice started singing.
"Deck the halls with boughs of holly..." It sang enthusiastically and with great gusto. Joe flicked the switch back to "OFF".
As the lights dimmed on the front panel, the sound of the voice slowed and deepened as it sang "Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la."
"Damn thing must have its own battery." Joe said.
"But how the hell did it turn itself on?" Carole asked.
"I think the switch is shorting out. I'll need to take it apart t
o check and fix it. Gave me a belt from the arm earlier." Joe replied.
"Just be careful. You know how I hate you messing around with electrics." Carole said.
"I will. I'll take it apart later and remove the battery. Chances are it's old and needs replacing. Probably something reacting within the cells which is causing the odd behaviour." Joe reassured her.
The next day, Joe took apart the record player. He unscrewed the rear panel which revealed a metal plate which he also removed, being careful that his hands did not to encounter the switching unit. His arm still ached from the sudden shock and the subsequent and violent recall of it when he was electrocuted the day before.
Joe's theory of the unit having its own battery was found to be correct. The battery didn't look like a regular car or motorcycle battery. It looked to have been custom-made with no kite-marks or manufacturer imprints on the plastic surround. The positive and negative contacts looked clean, with no signs of any wear and tear. There were no acid burns or deposits around the connecting metal plates which one might have expected from something as old as this box appeared to be. The wires that ran from the connectors on the battery into the base-board of the turntable were uncharred and solidly connected. Joe looked at the switching unit itself. Again, the wires leaving the switch were clean and showed no signs of damage and there were no signs of any scorch marks which might have been present had the unit shorted