fic: Ham Radio -1/?-
Title: Ham Radio
Author: dria1029
Pairings:Jongyu/Ontae
Genre: Thriller, AU, Angst, Romance
Warnings: Paranormal occurrences, sexual content/references, language.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: An out-of-date professor purchases an amateur radio that links him with the disturbed spirit of a teenage boy
Disclaimer: Me no own shining Shinee
a/n: This is NOT a quote on quote "chaptered fic" I'm just posting it part by part because LJ has a limit on post content.Um, some creepy shit. A tad humorous because Minho is the comic relief. But I can’t lie, some of these parts were hard to write and I had to literally stop sometimes to remind myself this isn’t real. I blame most of my fear, though, on supernatural things that happen to me at night. T_T You guys don’t even want to know…anyway, read at your own risk, and enjoy ^^
"All the lonely people...where do they all come from?"
"All the lonely people...where do they all belong?"
"Ah, look at all the lonely people"
"Ah, look at all the lonely people"
He wasn’t your average man, that’s for certain.
For one, he wore rounded tortoise shell spectacles with outdated trimming. Instead of the casual blazers and whitewash jeans men his age adorned, Jinki stuck with knitted sweaters and passé vests, and thigh-hugging, polyester pants-plaid all day, every day. Special care went into his hair; to maintain the coiffed perfection by visiting his hairdresser three times out the week for the standard dye and vintage quiff. On his feet were worn, leather boat shoes; penny loafers on the days felt like being spiffy. .Tucked into high-water trousers was the helm of some gaudy Oxford shirt; but that was only on the weekends, no exceptions. He was a thrift store’s best friend, and a fashion consultant’s worst enemy. A blast from the past. Even the ahjussis who thrived as young men in the seventies stared at him oddly, not able to remember that era ever being so…tacky. They had to be more hip than that. Surely they didn’t dress as their grandfathers like this guy did.
Stranger still were the habits, beliefs and mannerisms of the one known as Lee Jinki.
If one could get past the ugly attire, the 26-year-old was handsome in his own right. Yet once you got past that, you might regret you’d ever taken interest-good or bad-in the philosophy graduate at all. He often muttered to himself in public. He hated and avoided human contact if it wasn’t absolutely necessary, and a good four out of twenty four hours-total- would be spent washing his hands. Had terrible allergies to just about everything that chirped, meowed or barked. All of his music was on vinyl. He didn’t like butter on his toast, he always had to have the last word, and he took pride in his exotic bug collection, much to the horror of guests unfortunate enough to be invited to his home.
But he had an even deeper passion, which labeled him as an extreme antique enthusiast. (No surprise there.) Many of the mothball eaten, the dusty and the decrepit he hoarded, even finding a way to make space for the old junk valuables when the apartment he lived in at the time was smaller than a fucking decimal.
About the only normal thing about Jinki was that he was probably one of the most practical people you’d ever meet. No-nonsense, rational, logical, literal; the traits that allowed for him to be a college professor in epistemology so early; and thus, keep bread on the table.
Perhaps this “normality” was the reason Jinki bought the house on 131st for cheap. He’d been looking for a place to stay for months, and he’d be damned if some rumors about dead murderers and omens and hauntings would make him pass up such a deal. It was a perfectly suitable house. Newly refurbished and everything.
And perhaps, his aforementioned passion led to the reason he was here now. At his neighbor’s yard sale. Admiring an odd little radio he dug from one of the plastic bins.
His neighbor, a Kim Kibum, shielded his watering eyes from the noon sun. The tattooed, ex-felon-turned pharmacist was due to make his rounds to the rest of the would-be customers, but the freaky fucker in front of him was asking so many questions. Every time he went to step away with legit excuses, Jinki beckoned him back with another query in that annoyingly deep voice of his. Like he’d swallowed a pompous pill and the thing had made itself at home in his vocal chords.
“Look, man, are you going to buy it or not?”
Jinki scratched his chin, clearly ignoring him. “You say it’s an amateur radio. What year?”
An impatient edge. “I don’t know, its my father’s.” Kibum watched a kid snatch a football from one of the toy bins. The little snot was about to run off with it until he caught Kibum’s death glare. The football was replaced. Kibum was given a tongue, but the kid was given the finger in return. “Its also known as a ham radio.”
“Sounds delicious.” Jinki chuckled at his own joke, fingering the spiral chord of the CB microphone.
Kibum stared at him dryly. Here was the man he’d have to live across from for who knew how long. And he hoped it wasn’t long at all.
“It’s in mint condition,” the pharmacist sighed. “The old man didn’t have much time for pastime broadcasting, since he was too busy working and nailing his secretary. I’m willing to offer a bargain though,” he added quickly. “If my original price is too inconvenient for you..?” Shit, he’d do anything. Even if it meant losing out on money. This weird motherfucker just needed to get off his lawn. He had things to do.
Jinki pursed his lips as he studied the old radio. “Hm. You don’t say.” Well, his love for the thing was augmenting by the second. He wouldn’t be able to resist, as always…
His neighbor rolled his eyes with a huff. “Jesus Chr-really, I have to
“I’ll take it.”
Kibum balked, but not for long. “Full price?”
“Yes.” Jinki smiled, tucking the device under his arm. He dug into the back pocket of dark green corduroy pants. A snakeskin wallet appeared, something Kibum wouldn’t be seen with on his worst day. But whatever. The man had a substantial looking wad, and if Kibum wasn’t totally fed up with him, he’d try to persuade him to purchase more. He seemed gullible enough around these heaps of old crap.
“Enjoy. And have a nice day,” Kibum rehearsed flakily as he swiped the money from Jinki without even looking at him, licking his finger and counting off the bills immediately. Jinki however, made a silent getaway anyway. He winced at the slight touch of Kibum’s pinky before walking off with the same cat-caught-the-canary smile.
When Kibum was done and had tucked the money in own his pocket, he noticed the other man…wriggling his hips up the porch steps. Peering down and talking to the radio.
He blinked into another dry stare.
Then he just shrugged one shoulder and moved on. Tight ass pants.
****
“Mint condition my ass.”
Taemin, although heavily engrossed in (and entirely covered) in the wiring of his bot, glanced up with a nod. “He’s got a point there.” He went right back to work.
“See? Even the weirdo agrees.”
Jinki stopped dusting to cut his eyes at his best friend. Minho, the best friend as well as the family attorney, shrunk into himself despite the promise he’d made himself to stop wetting himself whenever the elder looked at him like that. The man had his hair wrapped and was wearing an apron for Pete’s sake. He’d seen scarier characters on a public playground.
“I forgot, sorry.”
“I am a weirdo,” Taemin piped from the kitchen floor, reaching for a wrench. “And I embrace it.”
“You think everything I get isn’t worth the price.” The professor went back to the picture frames on the mantle, disappointed that the teenager counteracted his eye-scold at Minho.
“That’s not true…okay maybe it is. But look at this thing.” Minho flicked the tarnished antennae of the ham radio. The little box sat next to the plate with his half eaten Reuben, and both were stationed on the hideous checkered table cloth. “Its an eye sore, and it looks like its falling apart. I tell you hyung, I don’t know much about radios, but I do know a rip off when I see one.”
“Its NOT coming apart. Taemin just checked it for me yesterday. It works like a charm.”
“She’s still kicking,” the teenager interjected, remote in his mouth.
“$50,000 won though? Come off it Jinki, you know it wasn’t worth that much.”
Jinki sighed tiredly, making his way back into the kitchen. He trashed the dirty dust grabber, replaced it with a new one on the handle, and approached the suited man. “You done with that?”
“No.”
“Then hurry up and eat, so you can get out my house. Taemin, I’m mopping in 10”
“K.”
“I know you have money to blow, Mr. Independent but c’mon. You have to stop letting that disease of yours get the best of you.”
No, the professor wasn’t about to get into it with Minho about the “calling” again. There were plenty of rounds of that age-old debate, and there was no room for any more.
“Minho-ah,” he groaned, sliding a hand down his face.
“Sit. You’ve been cleaning ever since I got here.”
It went against his better nature as a person who feared leaving anything incomplete, yet he pulled out a chair and plopped down anyway, grumbling about inconceivable lawyer bastards.
“Thanks,” Minho smirked, causing the older to curse. Urgh. Why had he forgotten the pabo had supersonic hearing? “Though you know I always prefer ‘bloodsucking cuntlick’. Anyway.” His flawlessly creased, pant covered legs crossed in sync with his arms. “Have you heard the stories yet?”
“Stories about what?” Jinki rolled his eyes, already fearing what was to come.
“The stories about this house of course.”
“Of course.” He shook his head. “How typical. Not you too.”
“So you have.”
“Yeah, and I think it’s a load of hogwash.”
“Who told you? Are they already extending warm invites for tea and cookies? Wow, I guess there are people out there besides me and Taemin who like you.”
Jinki scowled. “The realtor told me. As well as every busybody on this block.”
“Have the stories been consistent?” Minho stared harder.
“No, which gives me even more incentive not to believe them. Besides me not giving a shit. Because this is my house, and no pissed off spirits are going to run me out. Oh, and did I mention that I don’t even believe in ghosts?”
“You may have mentioned it in passing.”
“There hasn’t been any paranormal activity since I’ve moved in. And even if there was, even if Genghis Khan himself resided here, I wouldn’t care. As long as the guy doesn’t raid my fridge and put his feet on my coffee table, he’s welcome to room with me forever.” Jinki rolled his eyes again. “You were saying?”
“I’ve got the full scoop.”
“Aish-
“Seriously. I’ve got the real account. I have a buddy in uptown Seoul, legal secretary. He was able to search old case files for me in that district. Fished out the file for the original owners of this house.”
The older’s brow twitched upward reluctantly. Maybe a smudge of interest was kindled.
“My, are we all ears now?”
“Just get it over with before I don’t care anymore.”
The lawyer grinned, tempted to stall like he usually did to heighten the suspense, but was too excited to be up to his usual antics this time. “So a Kim Hae Jin and his wife had this house built in the late sixties. They had a son, Jonghyun. Everyone assumed they were a cookie-cutter type family at first; then, as the Kims’ adjusted, it was clear they were dysfunctional. Neighbors recalled Jonghyun and father often went head to head, and it was even worse when the mother took ill and died. The husband went crazy and started to blame Jonghyun for his wife’s death. Eventually, he took it upon himself to slit the boy’s throat in his sleep. Then he called the police, showed them what he had done, and surrendered without struggle. Hae Jin died a few years ago on deathrow.
“Now, the story isn’t over. My buddy also found record of other instances that happened in this house after the Kims’ were gone. The family that moved in afterward was said to have been haunted. They saw a figure of a short young man. Weird moans, things being thrown-all that jazz. Her husband became possessed and killed their daughter. After them, a widow found dead by strangulation. Then a brother and sister: beaten to death by their step-mother with a hammer. The list goes on. People around here say that after the murders, the families who moved into this house left after the first sign of supernatural occurrences. Though why they would move in in the first place is questionable. Pretty sure the stories of the house had been shoved down their throats by the media.” Minho shook his head at the stupidity.
Jinki snorted, pulling his chin up from his palm. “So why doesn’t the government seal this place off, since it’s such a threat to society? Why not have the house demolished?”
“I think someone sounds scared.”
As Taemin giggled, the professor cleared his throat with unnecessary vigor, gracing Minho with the same “snake” look from earlier. But the younger was too tickled to be affected this time.
“I don’t know. Maybe it would be costly to tear it down, and your realtor’s panties wet up just thinking about losing out on mortgage payments, as well as the price of hiring a demolition team. Or maybe this dump of a neighborhood is proud to have a real haunted house, I’m not the one to say.” He leaned back in the wooden chair, crossing his arms behind his head.
“Whatever. Its been a week and nothing has happened yet, so I assume Jr. doesn’t have a problem with me.” Jinki got up from his seat, about to check on his scalloped potatoes, when the florescent light began to flicker on and off.
The older two froze and stared up at the light. Then each other. Then Taemin.
The freshmen smiled sheepishly, flipping a hidden switch. The light became stable again. “Sorry. Just testing the motherboard for bugs.”
Jinki exhaled. “You and that robot are on thin ice, Tae.”
“Don’t listen to him, kid. He thought Jonghyun was about to prove him wrong.”
“Shut up moron.” A wet cloth slopped onto Minho’s face, which caused a muck of sputtering and spitting. “You know you were scared too.”
“HA, so you admit it.” The attorney threw the rag, scoring it into the sink. In between sneering, he grimaced down at his now spotted suit. Damn Jinki.
“Whatever. Eat that sandwich so I can finish these dishes. Tae, feed my insects after you’re done?”
“No problem hyung.”
Jinki’s eyes narrowed at the youngest’s grease stained polo shirt. He waved a damp hand toward the direction of his bedroom. “Better yet, why don’t you change shirts first. Pick anything on the left side of my closet.”
“Uhhhh.” Minho’s eyes turned into foreboding moons. “You sure you want to do that, kid? You don’t want to be Korean Steve Urkel number two, do you?”
“They are my cousin’s old fraternity shirts, Taemin.” Jinki glared at his childhood friend, hopefully for the last time that evening. Or maybe not, because the tall bastard was bound to say something else trying.
Taemin chuckled, using the disgusting floral, wall-papered wall to help him to stiff, stick legs. “Taking a leak.”
Once he was out of eye/earsight, Minho turned to the older man and took a calculating bite of Reuben. “Almost sickening how close you are with him. What is he, 12?”
“He’s one of my students. He’s 21. We have a lot in common. We’ve been over this.” Jinki slid on his oven mits and prepared to take out the pan of cheesy, potatoey American goodness.
“21 is still 12 backwards. And I can’t decide whether it would seem more fitting if you met him through a dating agency or at a daycare.”
“It’s not like that. And fuck you, for insinuating I’m a pedophile.”
“He’s up your ass like Preparation H.”
“Because I allow it, and I genuinely like him…ugh, why did I fall into that?” As Minho vacuumed the last piece of his sandwich with a snicker, the other fought back a betraying blush in front of the stove. Why he was blushing, it wasn’t defined. Either it was the pedophile thing, the fact that it was rare for him to curse so freely, or the image of Taemin sinking his…
“You’d let him top you, wouldn’t you?” The question was a harsh wind of breath at the back of Jinki’s neck. He didn’t even hear him get up.
“I don’t like him like that, and we’re not discussing this in my kitchen.”
Minho put his plate in the sudsy water, making sure to bump the shorter man with his arm. “Easy for you to say. You weren’t the one who just got an eyeful of butt-clench, watching your best friend bend over in front of an oven. You should see your ass in those painted-on pants you wear.. No wonder the poindexter sticks around.”
Jinki was about to protest, but Minho had already headed back to his seat. And Taemin was reentering the kitchen, so he quickly about-faced to hide his lobster face.
“You know, I just thought about it hyung.” The boy dropped back to the tile, readjusting his glasses on his nose. “While we’re talking about ghosts and stuff. My friend had a radio like yours, and he told me rumor has it that you can speak to the dead with empty radio static. You know, where the dial lands between stations.”
An involuntary chill went up his spine. “You mean like, with white noise?”
“Yeah! Yeah, that’s what it is. My friend tried it on his ham radio. Never got back with him about it because he moved to Japan a few weeks later. I had finals.”
“Okay, now THAT sounds like hogwash.” Minho yawned, not bothering to sit up from the posterior of the chair to run a finger up and down the radio’s grille. “Kids will make up anything out of boredom these days. Go take a shower or something”
Taemin shrugged. He immersed himself back into his work, back to only focusing on his bot competition. The professor pursed his lips, flush washed away. Nevertheless, he still felt a twinge uneasy now as he glanced back at the Zenith Transoceanic H500 Receiver sitting on his kitchen table.
It’s gotta be bullshit. Its bullshit…
*****
Apparently not bullshit enough for him to shake.
The shrewd side of Jinki deterred him from mulling over Taemin’s words. The relatively new resident went about his days normally, keeping to himself and slowly getting adjusted to his new environment. If only his next door neighbor’s dog stop shitting on his lawn though…
But with every glance at the odd radio sitting on his living room end table, he got that unsettling feeling in his gullet again. The same one from the night Minho and Taemin were over.
And finally, while in the middle of a lecture, his over-active brain got the best of him. He was going over a Plato’s notion,“justified true belief.” In that the relationship between belief and knowledge is that a belief is knowledge if the belief is true, and if the believer has a justification for believing it is true.
He’d paused for a second, his pointer stuck to “true” on the whiteboard. The memory of the steadfast, peculiar look in Taemin’s eyes, when he spoke about contacting spirits through ham radio, pushed through Jinki’s brain as if the mushy mass had taken a sudden blow from a launching rocket that had gone haywire.
Then he realized there was no way he could have known Taemin was looking that way. He had his back to him the whole time during that part of the conversation.
The whole class nearly had aneurisms when the arbitrary Professor Lee ended class early for the day, with the intent on postponing their lecture to the following Monday. They filed out with mixed feelings of concern, excitement, and perplexity, staring at the older man pack his briefcase in a flurry and mutter to himself profusely. When the Good Samaritan of the class went to pick up a pack of papers Jinki had knocked off his desk on accident, a voice between a growl and a hiss told him to leave it and go. Of course, he and the remaining students were creeped out even more when Jinki forced a smile afterward, joking that hey, weren’t they in a hurry to get to their beach parties and whatever else college kids did besides actual college work?
After signing himself out at the main office, he pleadingly told the dean’s secretary, “Mum’s the word” when she took in his heroin-addict-like behavior.
Nothing like this had ever happened before.
He didn’t drive home in the same rush, but his mind was all over the place, so much that he nearly fenderbender-ed two cars. Taemin’s friend was the cornucopia of Jinki’s thoughts. How it seemed quite odd that the boy would move to Japan within a few weeks…when it took months to plan a move like that. The way Taemin spoke, it was if the he didn’t know until the last minute that his friend was moving-stranger still. If that was the case, that the boy HAD to move, wouldn’t he have told Taemin the results of his “experiment” before he left?
Why would he just up and move to Japan out of nowhere?
He was still muttering to himself as he pulled up in his driveway, climbed out and made for his home. He was in such disarray, he’d forgotten his briefcase in the car, and his cellphone was in the confines of it. The cell phone he needed to call that student of his. So he ran for the corded phone in his kitchen.
Lee Jinki was also dangerously curious by nature.
And for this, he didn’t want to make any rash assumptions.
“Taemin. Where are you?”
“Hyung?”
“Are you free? I need to ask you something.”
“Whoa, you don’t sound right, are you-
Jinki exhaled impatiently. “Nevermind how I sound. Are you free?”
“Well, yeah, but-
“Taemin, that friend of yours. The one who moved to Japan. Did he ever say why?”
Taemin’s laugh was uneasy. “Hyung, what’s this abo-
“Just answer the question!”
“Yikes. No, he never told me. I’ve tried to get in contact with him, and it’s like he disappeared off the face of the Earth.”
“When was the last time you saw him or spoke to him before he moved?”
“Just when I was over his place and we were talking about his ham radio. Listen, hyung, if you its expertise you want-you know, for your radio, I know this-
“One more question….” Jinki twirled the yellowed cord around his finger gravely, Adam’s apple bobbing in accumulating dread. “If you ever tried to get in contact with him between the time you last talked and when he moved, did he ever respond?”
There was a hesitant silence on the other line. Nothing but a little fuzz and background voices. The professor disliked it, down to his very bone marrow he disliked it.
“I did try…once or twice. Through IM and text I think-I told you I had finals to study for. And he…now that I think about it, it is odd. Usually he’d answer for me, because we’d always keep each other up to date about new bot gadgetry. I even found out he’d moved to Japan from a cousin of his. Hmm, well don’t that beat all…hyung? You there?”
Jinki’s eyes had watered. He’d begun to stare raptly at the antique radio in the middle of Taemin’s silence, and hadn’t blinked once. Suddenly, a fraction of the Sahara desert was in his mouth.
“I’m here,” he croaked. “Thank you Tae.”
“Hyung, do you want me to come over? I can bring some of my mom’s old Beatles records, the ones you like. We can have a dude’s night again. Besides, I do have a couple of questions about the paper you assigned last Wednesday. What do you say?” The boy’s voice had grown more optimistic with every word. It’s why Jinki would have a hard time saying what he had to say next.
“Maybe next Friday, Tae. I have a large workload this weekend and I…I have to get started right away…if I’m going to finish…”
“Sure, hyung? Sounds like you need to chill. Are you getting sick?”
Jinki tried to smile. “I’ll be fine. Probably need a cat nap and a cup of tea, then I’ll be as good as new.” He was still zero-ed in on the radio.
“Oh…okay. Well take it easy hyung! Hope to hear from you soon, gotta head back to campus.”
“You will. Take care.”
The phone was hung back on the wall.
The young man’s arms slowly dropped to his side. He stood perfectly erect, sunlight glaring off his tortoise shell glasses. A shallowly breathing statue.
And he stared at the radio.
*****
Dangerously curious by nature.
Someday, that curiosity would put him in danger.
He was sure of it.
The radio had reduced him to a disturbed mess that paced back and forth in his small parlor by Saturday afternoon, his complex for the device now unbridled and calculating. For the sake of his nerves, he’d tried stashing the thing in his storage closet…yet ended up pulling it back out because he couldn’t bear to have the lovely antique sealed off. How ridiculous. It was fine where it was. He’d paid good money for it. It deserved to be displayed.
The again…that formidable feeling he got when he couldn’t help but stare at it on his end table. Maybe the closet was best…
He went through that about three times.
The he’d actually turned it on. Switching stations, he finally landed on one that played classic rock. All the oldies-but-goodies, like Alice in Chains, Sting, and The Monkeys. Distracted by the music, he’d sat for a spell with his tea and saucer in hand, leaning back. Closed his heavy eyes . What a ninny he was being, letting some ghost myth get to the best of him. He was Lee Jinki, professor of logic and understanding. Surely he’d be the last person to believe such folly, some silly, outlandish, childish claim. This so-called belief was one to be a part of a teenage sleepover. One of the stupid games they took part in when they had nothing else better to do besides indulge in hormone-induced acts and washed down all of the host’s beer; six packs in the basement fridge that belonged to the host’s father, that is. Minho had a point…
Jinki wasn’t a stupid teenager, so he wasn’t going to act like one.
He went to bed with a clear conscious.
Yet woke up from a stifling nightmare. In a cold sweat and in excruciating low spirits. He’d never seen the boy, but that Jonghyun kid…he could have sworn it was him in the nightmare. After all, there had been another man, and a woman Jonghyun resembled. They were in Jinki’s house. A family dinner turned massacre in matter of seconds, as Jonghyun’s father suddenly stabbed his laughing wife in the chest, then turned on the short teen with his bright, red eyes. Jonghyun ran away…he ran and hid and ran and hid in the house…but his father was always so close. Jinki…he was running with the boy for some reason, and the father couldn’t see him. At the last second, when Jinki tried to pull Jonghyun away from the man’s sailing knife, he wasn’t quick enough and the knife ended up in the side of Jonghyun’s neck.
That’s when he woke up, throat too clogged to yell. That’s why he woke up with lukewarm tears welled in his eyes. That’s how he found himself wiping frantically, trying to get Jonghyun’s non-existent blood off his person.
Now, he was back to square one.
Fresh mutters and a constant tremble of his hand-that splashed hot tea from his mug every so often. Temptations to pull at his hair, then remembering that he’d get a handful of drippy hair products besides ruining the perfect, expensive quiff. In nothing but his flannel pajama bottoms, glasses, and socks, he stalked back and forth trying to get himself together. Ocassionally glancing at the radio, scolding himself for doing so, and repeating the insane ritual. It was noteworthy that he wasn’t one for opened curtains and blinds, a man of complete and utter privacy-because had he’d exposed himself in such a state, the neighborhood would think their new resident was more of a freak than they thought. Kibum would stanchly complain of him having to start being one so early in the morning too: Even he drank his first Jack Daniels a quarter after noon, shit.
The dials of the radio seemed as if eyes following his every move. Perhaps the antennae was beckoning him over.
Not that Jinki had touched the thing since he’d woken up. Not that he would.
He knew what it wanted. He knew what he wanted.
He wasn’t going to give in.
“I’m not doing it kid,” he said in a quivery voice, this time not talking to himself. He dropped to an armchair weakly and leaned forward, shaking his head at the radio. “I know what happened to you, and I’m so so sorry…please..” It was slip of the tongue, the thought never occurring to him that he did NOT, indeed, believe in ghosts. It didn’t even register later on, what had come out his mouth.
But someday, that curiosity would put him in danger.
Next
Author: dria1029
Pairings:Jongyu/Ontae
Genre: Thriller, AU, Angst, Romance
Warnings: Paranormal occurrences, sexual content/references, language.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: An out-of-date professor purchases an amateur radio that links him with the disturbed spirit of a teenage boy
Disclaimer: Me no own shining Shinee
a/n: This is NOT a quote on quote "chaptered fic" I'm just posting it part by part because LJ has a limit on post content.Um, some creepy shit. A tad humorous because Minho is the comic relief. But I can’t lie, some of these parts were hard to write and I had to literally stop sometimes to remind myself this isn’t real. I blame most of my fear, though, on supernatural things that happen to me at night. T_T You guys don’t even want to know…anyway, read at your own risk, and enjoy ^^
"All the lonely people...where do they all come from?"
"All the lonely people...where do they all belong?"
"Ah, look at all the lonely people"
"Ah, look at all the lonely people"
He wasn’t your average man, that’s for certain.
For one, he wore rounded tortoise shell spectacles with outdated trimming. Instead of the casual blazers and whitewash jeans men his age adorned, Jinki stuck with knitted sweaters and passé vests, and thigh-hugging, polyester pants-plaid all day, every day. Special care went into his hair; to maintain the coiffed perfection by visiting his hairdresser three times out the week for the standard dye and vintage quiff. On his feet were worn, leather boat shoes; penny loafers on the days felt like being spiffy. .Tucked into high-water trousers was the helm of some gaudy Oxford shirt; but that was only on the weekends, no exceptions. He was a thrift store’s best friend, and a fashion consultant’s worst enemy. A blast from the past. Even the ahjussis who thrived as young men in the seventies stared at him oddly, not able to remember that era ever being so…tacky. They had to be more hip than that. Surely they didn’t dress as their grandfathers like this guy did.
Stranger still were the habits, beliefs and mannerisms of the one known as Lee Jinki.
If one could get past the ugly attire, the 26-year-old was handsome in his own right. Yet once you got past that, you might regret you’d ever taken interest-good or bad-in the philosophy graduate at all. He often muttered to himself in public. He hated and avoided human contact if it wasn’t absolutely necessary, and a good four out of twenty four hours-total- would be spent washing his hands. Had terrible allergies to just about everything that chirped, meowed or barked. All of his music was on vinyl. He didn’t like butter on his toast, he always had to have the last word, and he took pride in his exotic bug collection, much to the horror of guests unfortunate enough to be invited to his home.
But he had an even deeper passion, which labeled him as an extreme antique enthusiast. (No surprise there.) Many of the mothball eaten, the dusty and the decrepit he hoarded, even finding a way to make space for the old junk valuables when the apartment he lived in at the time was smaller than a fucking decimal.
About the only normal thing about Jinki was that he was probably one of the most practical people you’d ever meet. No-nonsense, rational, logical, literal; the traits that allowed for him to be a college professor in epistemology so early; and thus, keep bread on the table.
Perhaps this “normality” was the reason Jinki bought the house on 131st for cheap. He’d been looking for a place to stay for months, and he’d be damned if some rumors about dead murderers and omens and hauntings would make him pass up such a deal. It was a perfectly suitable house. Newly refurbished and everything.
And perhaps, his aforementioned passion led to the reason he was here now. At his neighbor’s yard sale. Admiring an odd little radio he dug from one of the plastic bins.
His neighbor, a Kim Kibum, shielded his watering eyes from the noon sun. The tattooed, ex-felon-turned pharmacist was due to make his rounds to the rest of the would-be customers, but the freaky fucker in front of him was asking so many questions. Every time he went to step away with legit excuses, Jinki beckoned him back with another query in that annoyingly deep voice of his. Like he’d swallowed a pompous pill and the thing had made itself at home in his vocal chords.
“Look, man, are you going to buy it or not?”
Jinki scratched his chin, clearly ignoring him. “You say it’s an amateur radio. What year?”
An impatient edge. “I don’t know, its my father’s.” Kibum watched a kid snatch a football from one of the toy bins. The little snot was about to run off with it until he caught Kibum’s death glare. The football was replaced. Kibum was given a tongue, but the kid was given the finger in return. “Its also known as a ham radio.”
“Sounds delicious.” Jinki chuckled at his own joke, fingering the spiral chord of the CB microphone.
Kibum stared at him dryly. Here was the man he’d have to live across from for who knew how long. And he hoped it wasn’t long at all.
“It’s in mint condition,” the pharmacist sighed. “The old man didn’t have much time for pastime broadcasting, since he was too busy working and nailing his secretary. I’m willing to offer a bargain though,” he added quickly. “If my original price is too inconvenient for you..?” Shit, he’d do anything. Even if it meant losing out on money. This weird motherfucker just needed to get off his lawn. He had things to do.
Jinki pursed his lips as he studied the old radio. “Hm. You don’t say.” Well, his love for the thing was augmenting by the second. He wouldn’t be able to resist, as always…
His neighbor rolled his eyes with a huff. “Jesus Chr-really, I have to
“I’ll take it.”
Kibum balked, but not for long. “Full price?”
“Yes.” Jinki smiled, tucking the device under his arm. He dug into the back pocket of dark green corduroy pants. A snakeskin wallet appeared, something Kibum wouldn’t be seen with on his worst day. But whatever. The man had a substantial looking wad, and if Kibum wasn’t totally fed up with him, he’d try to persuade him to purchase more. He seemed gullible enough around these heaps of old crap.
“Enjoy. And have a nice day,” Kibum rehearsed flakily as he swiped the money from Jinki without even looking at him, licking his finger and counting off the bills immediately. Jinki however, made a silent getaway anyway. He winced at the slight touch of Kibum’s pinky before walking off with the same cat-caught-the-canary smile.
When Kibum was done and had tucked the money in own his pocket, he noticed the other man…wriggling his hips up the porch steps. Peering down and talking to the radio.
He blinked into another dry stare.
Then he just shrugged one shoulder and moved on. Tight ass pants.
****
“Mint condition my ass.”
Taemin, although heavily engrossed in (and entirely covered) in the wiring of his bot, glanced up with a nod. “He’s got a point there.” He went right back to work.
“See? Even the weirdo agrees.”
Jinki stopped dusting to cut his eyes at his best friend. Minho, the best friend as well as the family attorney, shrunk into himself despite the promise he’d made himself to stop wetting himself whenever the elder looked at him like that. The man had his hair wrapped and was wearing an apron for Pete’s sake. He’d seen scarier characters on a public playground.
“I forgot, sorry.”
“I am a weirdo,” Taemin piped from the kitchen floor, reaching for a wrench. “And I embrace it.”
“You think everything I get isn’t worth the price.” The professor went back to the picture frames on the mantle, disappointed that the teenager counteracted his eye-scold at Minho.
“That’s not true…okay maybe it is. But look at this thing.” Minho flicked the tarnished antennae of the ham radio. The little box sat next to the plate with his half eaten Reuben, and both were stationed on the hideous checkered table cloth. “Its an eye sore, and it looks like its falling apart. I tell you hyung, I don’t know much about radios, but I do know a rip off when I see one.”
“Its NOT coming apart. Taemin just checked it for me yesterday. It works like a charm.”
“She’s still kicking,” the teenager interjected, remote in his mouth.
“$50,000 won though? Come off it Jinki, you know it wasn’t worth that much.”
Jinki sighed tiredly, making his way back into the kitchen. He trashed the dirty dust grabber, replaced it with a new one on the handle, and approached the suited man. “You done with that?”
“No.”
“Then hurry up and eat, so you can get out my house. Taemin, I’m mopping in 10”
“K.”
“I know you have money to blow, Mr. Independent but c’mon. You have to stop letting that disease of yours get the best of you.”
No, the professor wasn’t about to get into it with Minho about the “calling” again. There were plenty of rounds of that age-old debate, and there was no room for any more.
“Minho-ah,” he groaned, sliding a hand down his face.
“Sit. You’ve been cleaning ever since I got here.”
It went against his better nature as a person who feared leaving anything incomplete, yet he pulled out a chair and plopped down anyway, grumbling about inconceivable lawyer bastards.
“Thanks,” Minho smirked, causing the older to curse. Urgh. Why had he forgotten the pabo had supersonic hearing? “Though you know I always prefer ‘bloodsucking cuntlick’. Anyway.” His flawlessly creased, pant covered legs crossed in sync with his arms. “Have you heard the stories yet?”
“Stories about what?” Jinki rolled his eyes, already fearing what was to come.
“The stories about this house of course.”
“Of course.” He shook his head. “How typical. Not you too.”
“So you have.”
“Yeah, and I think it’s a load of hogwash.”
“Who told you? Are they already extending warm invites for tea and cookies? Wow, I guess there are people out there besides me and Taemin who like you.”
Jinki scowled. “The realtor told me. As well as every busybody on this block.”
“Have the stories been consistent?” Minho stared harder.
“No, which gives me even more incentive not to believe them. Besides me not giving a shit. Because this is my house, and no pissed off spirits are going to run me out. Oh, and did I mention that I don’t even believe in ghosts?”
“You may have mentioned it in passing.”
“There hasn’t been any paranormal activity since I’ve moved in. And even if there was, even if Genghis Khan himself resided here, I wouldn’t care. As long as the guy doesn’t raid my fridge and put his feet on my coffee table, he’s welcome to room with me forever.” Jinki rolled his eyes again. “You were saying?”
“I’ve got the full scoop.”
“Aish-
“Seriously. I’ve got the real account. I have a buddy in uptown Seoul, legal secretary. He was able to search old case files for me in that district. Fished out the file for the original owners of this house.”
The older’s brow twitched upward reluctantly. Maybe a smudge of interest was kindled.
“My, are we all ears now?”
“Just get it over with before I don’t care anymore.”
The lawyer grinned, tempted to stall like he usually did to heighten the suspense, but was too excited to be up to his usual antics this time. “So a Kim Hae Jin and his wife had this house built in the late sixties. They had a son, Jonghyun. Everyone assumed they were a cookie-cutter type family at first; then, as the Kims’ adjusted, it was clear they were dysfunctional. Neighbors recalled Jonghyun and father often went head to head, and it was even worse when the mother took ill and died. The husband went crazy and started to blame Jonghyun for his wife’s death. Eventually, he took it upon himself to slit the boy’s throat in his sleep. Then he called the police, showed them what he had done, and surrendered without struggle. Hae Jin died a few years ago on deathrow.
“Now, the story isn’t over. My buddy also found record of other instances that happened in this house after the Kims’ were gone. The family that moved in afterward was said to have been haunted. They saw a figure of a short young man. Weird moans, things being thrown-all that jazz. Her husband became possessed and killed their daughter. After them, a widow found dead by strangulation. Then a brother and sister: beaten to death by their step-mother with a hammer. The list goes on. People around here say that after the murders, the families who moved into this house left after the first sign of supernatural occurrences. Though why they would move in in the first place is questionable. Pretty sure the stories of the house had been shoved down their throats by the media.” Minho shook his head at the stupidity.
Jinki snorted, pulling his chin up from his palm. “So why doesn’t the government seal this place off, since it’s such a threat to society? Why not have the house demolished?”
“I think someone sounds scared.”
As Taemin giggled, the professor cleared his throat with unnecessary vigor, gracing Minho with the same “snake” look from earlier. But the younger was too tickled to be affected this time.
“I don’t know. Maybe it would be costly to tear it down, and your realtor’s panties wet up just thinking about losing out on mortgage payments, as well as the price of hiring a demolition team. Or maybe this dump of a neighborhood is proud to have a real haunted house, I’m not the one to say.” He leaned back in the wooden chair, crossing his arms behind his head.
“Whatever. Its been a week and nothing has happened yet, so I assume Jr. doesn’t have a problem with me.” Jinki got up from his seat, about to check on his scalloped potatoes, when the florescent light began to flicker on and off.
The older two froze and stared up at the light. Then each other. Then Taemin.
The freshmen smiled sheepishly, flipping a hidden switch. The light became stable again. “Sorry. Just testing the motherboard for bugs.”
Jinki exhaled. “You and that robot are on thin ice, Tae.”
“Don’t listen to him, kid. He thought Jonghyun was about to prove him wrong.”
“Shut up moron.” A wet cloth slopped onto Minho’s face, which caused a muck of sputtering and spitting. “You know you were scared too.”
“HA, so you admit it.” The attorney threw the rag, scoring it into the sink. In between sneering, he grimaced down at his now spotted suit. Damn Jinki.
“Whatever. Eat that sandwich so I can finish these dishes. Tae, feed my insects after you’re done?”
“No problem hyung.”
Jinki’s eyes narrowed at the youngest’s grease stained polo shirt. He waved a damp hand toward the direction of his bedroom. “Better yet, why don’t you change shirts first. Pick anything on the left side of my closet.”
“Uhhhh.” Minho’s eyes turned into foreboding moons. “You sure you want to do that, kid? You don’t want to be Korean Steve Urkel number two, do you?”
“They are my cousin’s old fraternity shirts, Taemin.” Jinki glared at his childhood friend, hopefully for the last time that evening. Or maybe not, because the tall bastard was bound to say something else trying.
Taemin chuckled, using the disgusting floral, wall-papered wall to help him to stiff, stick legs. “Taking a leak.”
Once he was out of eye/earsight, Minho turned to the older man and took a calculating bite of Reuben. “Almost sickening how close you are with him. What is he, 12?”
“He’s one of my students. He’s 21. We have a lot in common. We’ve been over this.” Jinki slid on his oven mits and prepared to take out the pan of cheesy, potatoey American goodness.
“21 is still 12 backwards. And I can’t decide whether it would seem more fitting if you met him through a dating agency or at a daycare.”
“It’s not like that. And fuck you, for insinuating I’m a pedophile.”
“He’s up your ass like Preparation H.”
“Because I allow it, and I genuinely like him…ugh, why did I fall into that?” As Minho vacuumed the last piece of his sandwich with a snicker, the other fought back a betraying blush in front of the stove. Why he was blushing, it wasn’t defined. Either it was the pedophile thing, the fact that it was rare for him to curse so freely, or the image of Taemin sinking his…
“You’d let him top you, wouldn’t you?” The question was a harsh wind of breath at the back of Jinki’s neck. He didn’t even hear him get up.
“I don’t like him like that, and we’re not discussing this in my kitchen.”
Minho put his plate in the sudsy water, making sure to bump the shorter man with his arm. “Easy for you to say. You weren’t the one who just got an eyeful of butt-clench, watching your best friend bend over in front of an oven. You should see your ass in those painted-on pants you wear.. No wonder the poindexter sticks around.”
Jinki was about to protest, but Minho had already headed back to his seat. And Taemin was reentering the kitchen, so he quickly about-faced to hide his lobster face.
“You know, I just thought about it hyung.” The boy dropped back to the tile, readjusting his glasses on his nose. “While we’re talking about ghosts and stuff. My friend had a radio like yours, and he told me rumor has it that you can speak to the dead with empty radio static. You know, where the dial lands between stations.”
An involuntary chill went up his spine. “You mean like, with white noise?”
“Yeah! Yeah, that’s what it is. My friend tried it on his ham radio. Never got back with him about it because he moved to Japan a few weeks later. I had finals.”
“Okay, now THAT sounds like hogwash.” Minho yawned, not bothering to sit up from the posterior of the chair to run a finger up and down the radio’s grille. “Kids will make up anything out of boredom these days. Go take a shower or something”
Taemin shrugged. He immersed himself back into his work, back to only focusing on his bot competition. The professor pursed his lips, flush washed away. Nevertheless, he still felt a twinge uneasy now as he glanced back at the Zenith Transoceanic H500 Receiver sitting on his kitchen table.
It’s gotta be bullshit. Its bullshit…
*****
Apparently not bullshit enough for him to shake.
The shrewd side of Jinki deterred him from mulling over Taemin’s words. The relatively new resident went about his days normally, keeping to himself and slowly getting adjusted to his new environment. If only his next door neighbor’s dog stop shitting on his lawn though…
But with every glance at the odd radio sitting on his living room end table, he got that unsettling feeling in his gullet again. The same one from the night Minho and Taemin were over.
And finally, while in the middle of a lecture, his over-active brain got the best of him. He was going over a Plato’s notion,“justified true belief.” In that the relationship between belief and knowledge is that a belief is knowledge if the belief is true, and if the believer has a justification for believing it is true.
He’d paused for a second, his pointer stuck to “true” on the whiteboard. The memory of the steadfast, peculiar look in Taemin’s eyes, when he spoke about contacting spirits through ham radio, pushed through Jinki’s brain as if the mushy mass had taken a sudden blow from a launching rocket that had gone haywire.
Then he realized there was no way he could have known Taemin was looking that way. He had his back to him the whole time during that part of the conversation.
The whole class nearly had aneurisms when the arbitrary Professor Lee ended class early for the day, with the intent on postponing their lecture to the following Monday. They filed out with mixed feelings of concern, excitement, and perplexity, staring at the older man pack his briefcase in a flurry and mutter to himself profusely. When the Good Samaritan of the class went to pick up a pack of papers Jinki had knocked off his desk on accident, a voice between a growl and a hiss told him to leave it and go. Of course, he and the remaining students were creeped out even more when Jinki forced a smile afterward, joking that hey, weren’t they in a hurry to get to their beach parties and whatever else college kids did besides actual college work?
After signing himself out at the main office, he pleadingly told the dean’s secretary, “Mum’s the word” when she took in his heroin-addict-like behavior.
Nothing like this had ever happened before.
He didn’t drive home in the same rush, but his mind was all over the place, so much that he nearly fenderbender-ed two cars. Taemin’s friend was the cornucopia of Jinki’s thoughts. How it seemed quite odd that the boy would move to Japan within a few weeks…when it took months to plan a move like that. The way Taemin spoke, it was if the he didn’t know until the last minute that his friend was moving-stranger still. If that was the case, that the boy HAD to move, wouldn’t he have told Taemin the results of his “experiment” before he left?
Why would he just up and move to Japan out of nowhere?
He was still muttering to himself as he pulled up in his driveway, climbed out and made for his home. He was in such disarray, he’d forgotten his briefcase in the car, and his cellphone was in the confines of it. The cell phone he needed to call that student of his. So he ran for the corded phone in his kitchen.
Lee Jinki was also dangerously curious by nature.
And for this, he didn’t want to make any rash assumptions.
“Taemin. Where are you?”
“Hyung?”
“Are you free? I need to ask you something.”
“Whoa, you don’t sound right, are you-
Jinki exhaled impatiently. “Nevermind how I sound. Are you free?”
“Well, yeah, but-
“Taemin, that friend of yours. The one who moved to Japan. Did he ever say why?”
Taemin’s laugh was uneasy. “Hyung, what’s this abo-
“Just answer the question!”
“Yikes. No, he never told me. I’ve tried to get in contact with him, and it’s like he disappeared off the face of the Earth.”
“When was the last time you saw him or spoke to him before he moved?”
“Just when I was over his place and we were talking about his ham radio. Listen, hyung, if you its expertise you want-you know, for your radio, I know this-
“One more question….” Jinki twirled the yellowed cord around his finger gravely, Adam’s apple bobbing in accumulating dread. “If you ever tried to get in contact with him between the time you last talked and when he moved, did he ever respond?”
There was a hesitant silence on the other line. Nothing but a little fuzz and background voices. The professor disliked it, down to his very bone marrow he disliked it.
“I did try…once or twice. Through IM and text I think-I told you I had finals to study for. And he…now that I think about it, it is odd. Usually he’d answer for me, because we’d always keep each other up to date about new bot gadgetry. I even found out he’d moved to Japan from a cousin of his. Hmm, well don’t that beat all…hyung? You there?”
Jinki’s eyes had watered. He’d begun to stare raptly at the antique radio in the middle of Taemin’s silence, and hadn’t blinked once. Suddenly, a fraction of the Sahara desert was in his mouth.
“I’m here,” he croaked. “Thank you Tae.”
“Hyung, do you want me to come over? I can bring some of my mom’s old Beatles records, the ones you like. We can have a dude’s night again. Besides, I do have a couple of questions about the paper you assigned last Wednesday. What do you say?” The boy’s voice had grown more optimistic with every word. It’s why Jinki would have a hard time saying what he had to say next.
“Maybe next Friday, Tae. I have a large workload this weekend and I…I have to get started right away…if I’m going to finish…”
“Sure, hyung? Sounds like you need to chill. Are you getting sick?”
Jinki tried to smile. “I’ll be fine. Probably need a cat nap and a cup of tea, then I’ll be as good as new.” He was still zero-ed in on the radio.
“Oh…okay. Well take it easy hyung! Hope to hear from you soon, gotta head back to campus.”
“You will. Take care.”
The phone was hung back on the wall.
The young man’s arms slowly dropped to his side. He stood perfectly erect, sunlight glaring off his tortoise shell glasses. A shallowly breathing statue.
And he stared at the radio.
*****
Dangerously curious by nature.
Someday, that curiosity would put him in danger.
He was sure of it.
The radio had reduced him to a disturbed mess that paced back and forth in his small parlor by Saturday afternoon, his complex for the device now unbridled and calculating. For the sake of his nerves, he’d tried stashing the thing in his storage closet…yet ended up pulling it back out because he couldn’t bear to have the lovely antique sealed off. How ridiculous. It was fine where it was. He’d paid good money for it. It deserved to be displayed.
The again…that formidable feeling he got when he couldn’t help but stare at it on his end table. Maybe the closet was best…
He went through that about three times.
The he’d actually turned it on. Switching stations, he finally landed on one that played classic rock. All the oldies-but-goodies, like Alice in Chains, Sting, and The Monkeys. Distracted by the music, he’d sat for a spell with his tea and saucer in hand, leaning back. Closed his heavy eyes . What a ninny he was being, letting some ghost myth get to the best of him. He was Lee Jinki, professor of logic and understanding. Surely he’d be the last person to believe such folly, some silly, outlandish, childish claim. This so-called belief was one to be a part of a teenage sleepover. One of the stupid games they took part in when they had nothing else better to do besides indulge in hormone-induced acts and washed down all of the host’s beer; six packs in the basement fridge that belonged to the host’s father, that is. Minho had a point…
Jinki wasn’t a stupid teenager, so he wasn’t going to act like one.
He went to bed with a clear conscious.
Yet woke up from a stifling nightmare. In a cold sweat and in excruciating low spirits. He’d never seen the boy, but that Jonghyun kid…he could have sworn it was him in the nightmare. After all, there had been another man, and a woman Jonghyun resembled. They were in Jinki’s house. A family dinner turned massacre in matter of seconds, as Jonghyun’s father suddenly stabbed his laughing wife in the chest, then turned on the short teen with his bright, red eyes. Jonghyun ran away…he ran and hid and ran and hid in the house…but his father was always so close. Jinki…he was running with the boy for some reason, and the father couldn’t see him. At the last second, when Jinki tried to pull Jonghyun away from the man’s sailing knife, he wasn’t quick enough and the knife ended up in the side of Jonghyun’s neck.
That’s when he woke up, throat too clogged to yell. That’s why he woke up with lukewarm tears welled in his eyes. That’s how he found himself wiping frantically, trying to get Jonghyun’s non-existent blood off his person.
Now, he was back to square one.
Fresh mutters and a constant tremble of his hand-that splashed hot tea from his mug every so often. Temptations to pull at his hair, then remembering that he’d get a handful of drippy hair products besides ruining the perfect, expensive quiff. In nothing but his flannel pajama bottoms, glasses, and socks, he stalked back and forth trying to get himself together. Ocassionally glancing at the radio, scolding himself for doing so, and repeating the insane ritual. It was noteworthy that he wasn’t one for opened curtains and blinds, a man of complete and utter privacy-because had he’d exposed himself in such a state, the neighborhood would think their new resident was more of a freak than they thought. Kibum would stanchly complain of him having to start being one so early in the morning too: Even he drank his first Jack Daniels a quarter after noon, shit.
The dials of the radio seemed as if eyes following his every move. Perhaps the antennae was beckoning him over.
Not that Jinki had touched the thing since he’d woken up. Not that he would.
He knew what it wanted. He knew what he wanted.
He wasn’t going to give in.
“I’m not doing it kid,” he said in a quivery voice, this time not talking to himself. He dropped to an armchair weakly and leaned forward, shaking his head at the radio. “I know what happened to you, and I’m so so sorry…please..” It was slip of the tongue, the thought never occurring to him that he did NOT, indeed, believe in ghosts. It didn’t even register later on, what had come out his mouth.
But someday, that curiosity would put him in danger.
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