out. The unit seemed undamaged. In fact, Joe noticed, it was in such good condition that he thought it could have been passed off as being brand new.
With the rear panel removed, Joe connected the box back onto the mains supply. He toggled the “ON/OFF” switch and saw the rear of the front panel's lights glow inside the unit. He lifted the headshell and moved the stylus above the start of the record and let it drop gently as before. As the platter span, Joe peered inside the unit to see if there were any sparks or other tell-tale signs that there was a problem with the player. The stylus reached the recorded portion of the record and the sound of a woman humming started to emanate. The sound he heard coming from the speaker seemed flat, as if the sealing of the box enabled the bass to become deeper and more resonant. He listened intently as the humming continued. It was quiet, but distinct. The sound of someone busying themselves at some task. Joe continued peering into the innards of the box. He saw a slight mist appear above the baseboard which housed the various receiver parts and diodes, regulators, resistors and other electronics but below the turning platter. It seemed to hang in the air, slowly rotating.
Then, as if being caught by an intruder or observer, the mist reacted to what Joe felt was his presence. At the same time, the sound of humming stopped abruptly and a voice came from the speaker.
"Seen. Unseen." It said menacingly.
"Hello?" Joe enquired. He saw the mist reduce in size. It appeared to fold over into itself, growing smaller on each movement much like paper being folded over and over until it can be folded no more. Only, the mist continued until it was no longer present, at least to Joe's eyes.
"Cursed." The voice from before said.
"Cursed?" Joe asked. He felt foolish talking to a record player.
"Judge me. Cursed be thee." The voice said.
Joe sat up and looked at the record rotating on the platter. He realised the headshell and stylus were moving across from the outside to the inside of the record at a speed not consistent with that of the progression of the same on a normal LP. He reached in to lift the headshell from the surface of the disc.
"Don't." The voice said loudly, causing Joe to be distracted from lifting the headshell and arm to instead just nudging it, forcing the stylus further across the record.
Just before it reached the dead wax area, the voice screamed out.
"Cursed be thee!" It exclaimed.
Joe let the arm return the headshell to its resting place and immediately lifted it back onto the disc. This time, when the stylus reached the programmed part, the sound of the Christmas carol Joe and his wife had heard previously echoed around the room.
"Deck the halls with boughs of holly..." It started. Joe lifted the stylus and dropped it almost immediately back onto the disc. This time, there was no singing. Something was there though, something indiscernible, indistinct. Joe realised it was the sound recording of an empty room. An atmospheric sound, as if it was in place waiting for something to occur, something to enter the dead air space.
"Hello?" Joe said aloud. He waited, listening to the empty sound and the noise of the stylus travelling across the record. No further sound or voices were heard, except for the noise of the stylus lifting from the record when it reached the dead wax area.
Joe lifted the headshell again and allowed it to fall once more onto the record. Again, there was no sound emitted when it reached the area which showed there to be something programmed onto the disc. He lifted it and dropped it and watched as the stylus, guided by the groove edge, was funnelled into the main body of the record.
"Deck the halls with boughs of holly..." Came ringing out again. Joe lifted the stylus and let it drop again. The sound he’d heard before, of an empty room, replaced that of the voice. Though, this time, Joe felt something was there. He could hear the noise of something shuffling, as if moving, across the room.
He leant in and listened more intently. He could hear breathing too.
"Listen." The voice from before returned, at a volume barely above a whisper.
"Sorry, I don't understand?" Joe said towards the box.
"Listen!" The voice shrieked loudly, causing Joe to reel back, to such an extent that his chair almost fell backwards onto the floor. Joe recovered his balance as the voice continued.
"Judged be me. Curse-d be thee!" It screamed.
Then there was nothing. No sound, no noise, the familiar sound of emptiness that Joe had begun to recognise on the previous plays of the record was gone. It was as if the voice, recording, whatever it was, had been silenced. Now there was only the sound of the stylus grinding against the record groove until it reached the dead wax and was lifted and returned to its original position to one side of the platter.
Joe tried to play the record again, but no sound other than the Christmas carol came forth. He grabbed a torch and magnifying glass from one of the kitchen drawers and examined the platter.
"Double-groove!" He said out loud with excitement. He peered closed. "Multiple grooves. Wow!"
Carole appeared at the kitchen door.
"You found something?" She asked.
"Yeah. You remember that Monty Python record I had, which had two grooves in it?" Carole's reaction told Joe that she had no idea what he was going on about. "Basically, when you played it you got a different playback depending on where the needle hit." He explained. "It was really neat. Almost like two records in one. Very clever.” He pointed at the box. “The record on there has the same. Only, instead of two tracks, there's three, maybe more."
Joe proceeded to try and demonstrate but each time there was only silence or the song that bellowed out. After a few attempts, Carole showed her weariness for the explanation that Joe was trying to make.
"I think there's something more though." Joe said, his excitement being replaced by a serious tone and look towards his wife. "I think something's trying to communicate to us through this."
"Oh Joe." Carole said, sighing.
"No, seriously. I heard sounds, breathing, moving, and it said something about being cursed. Said I should listen." Joe continued. "I think we need to find that woman who sold us it and get its history. Might give us some clues about it."
"Well, they have another car boot there on Wednesday. You'll have to wait 'til then and hope that old witch is there." Carole informed him. "Until then, if something weird is happening with it, can you leave it the hell alone?" Carole asked. "You know how I hate stuff like that."
"Aye, no problem." Joe said. "Have to say, it spooked me pretty good too." He started screwing the plate and back panel back into position on the box. Joe decided not to worry his wife any further and kept what he'd seen within the box, the vision of the mist, to himself.
On the Wednesday morning, Joe was up and out of bed with excitement before his alarm even went off. It was the day of the winter solstice and, whilst still dark outside, Joe knew it would be getting lighter each morning over the coming months.
He was dressed and ready to go even before Carole had left the bed. They drank tea, Carole refusing to rush hers, before they left and made their way to the car boot sale.
Joe scoured the stalls hurriedly, looking for the woman that had sold him the player. After travelling past every stall present there, he stopped at the end of the final row of tables and cars and vans, exasperated at not finding her.
"Maybe she only comes here on Sundays?" Carole suggested.
"She said she's always here." Joe countered. He immediately regretted taking out his frustration on his beleaguered wife. "Sorry, babe." He said, touching her arm briefly.
"Well, shall we have a proper look now we're here?" Carole asked.
"May as well." Joe said.
They walked back along each aisle of tables and floor-covered stalls towards their starting point. Halfway-along the second-to-last aisle, Joe spotted something familiar. Another box, identical to that which he'd purchased a few days before, sitting on a table that was at the rear of a scruffy, aged transit
van.
"Where did you get this?" He asked the stallholder as he lifted the lid of the box. The woman sat behind the stall looked up from her knitting. Johnny saw that she looked like the woman that had sold him the player, only much older.
"What?" The woman said, her voice high-pitched and gravelly.
"I bought one just like it on Sunday. From someone that looks not unlike you." Joe said. He looked at the record that was on the platter.
"What are you on about?" The woman said gruffly.
"I want to know where it came from. What's its history?" Joe said, becoming frustrated. "I bet this doesn't lift off." He said, reaching in and lifting the record that was on the turntable with ease.
"Oh." The woman said, smiling. Joe looked at the record in his hands. Joe felt slightly embarrassed. He turned it over to look at the label on the reverse. There, in red print on a black background was the name of the artist and the title of the song.
GYPSY - "Cursed be thee."
Joe reeled slightly from the revelation.
"What the..." He started.
"I don't know nothing about it." The woman said, unprompted and interrupting Joe's train of thought.
"What's on the other side?" Joe asked. He turned the disc over and pointed at the centre of the black label, with tiny writing around the circumference, the same as that which was on the disc stuck to the platter on the box he'd purchased. “What’s that say?” He asked.
"Here." The woman said, offering