The Radio — a short story for English reading and speaking

Now you will read the story The Radio.
Read each part carefully — take your time and notice the small details.
You can read silently or aloud with your partner or group.

Try to imagine what Nate is thinking and feeling as the story continues.

The smell of motor oil, dust, grease and rust rose up in Nate’s garage.

His old motorbike stood propped on its stand like an old wounded soldier. The frame stripped down to the bare bones.

For years, he had promised himself that he would get it running again, the way it had once roared down empty country roads when he was young and reckless.

But work, married life and children soon put a stop to that.

Now it was less of a machine and more of a side project. Something to keep him occupied after his kids were in bed.

Most nights followed the same pattern.

He’d eat dinner with his wife, help wrestle the little ones into their pyjamas, then read them a story.

After that, retreat into the garage with a cup of tea, the steam rising into the cold night air.

Soon the sound of the wrench cranking at old bolts on his bike became comforting, warming.

On the shelf above his workbench sat an old bedside radio.

A cheap plastic thing, now scratched and yellowed with age.

Nate used to listen to it every night, tuning into late-night old rock channels, but it broke some years ago and he had never got round to fixing it.

His wife laughed when he mentioned it.

‘No one listens to the radio these days,’ she said. But she still made an offer to get him a new one.

But Nate couldn’t part with the old radio. Just like he couldn’t part with his old bike.

Two things from bygone years that seemed like another century now.

The first time he heard a noise, he didn’t think anything of it.

Just a faint buzzing sound while he worked on his bike.

He assumed it was the old lights in the garage — another thing that needed fixing — or maybe the TV coming from his neighbour’s house.

But the sound came again the following night.

A low, steady hum.

He glanced up at the shelf and frowned at the old radio. It sat there, dark and still, the switch clearly in the OFF position.

Dust covered the dial.

‘Must be something in the wiring,’ he thought to himself, shaking his head.

He dismissed it from his mind and continued working.

Over the next few days, the buzzing grew stronger. Sometimes, as he leaned over the motorbike, he’d hear it crackle like faint static.

He tried banging the shelf once, thinking maybe it was a loose nail or something that was causing the sound.

The radio didn’t budge an inch.

Then, late one evening, just as he was wiping oil from his hands, he froze.

The radio wasn’t just making the sound of static anymore.

Now, there was a voice.

A tiny, barely audible sound, like someone whispering in another room.

He leaned closer to the radio and held his breath.

Nate…

He staggered back. Knocking over his tea, it spilled across the workbench, but he didn’t care about that.

His heart hammered inside his chest.

Did he just hear that correctly?

Did it just say his name?

He stood dead still for a few seconds, his eyes locked on the broken old radio.

Eventually, he forced himself to laugh.

I’m just hearing things, he thought to himself. It’s late, just my mind playing tricks.

But his throat still remained tight.

That night, he could hardly sleep.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, his ears listening for the faintest hint of a sound from downstairs.

Beside him, his wife shifted her body, murmuring in her sleep.

The rest of the house was quiet. Not one sound.

Just after three am, the sound came again.

Nate shot up out of bed.

The noise was unmistakable now. That defined sharp crackle of static.

It was no longer coming from the garage.

It was closer.

Nate crept downstairs, his bare feet silent on the wooden steps, and followed the sound.

The garage door stood slightly ajar.

He hadn’t left it like that. He had closed it on his way to bed.

He pushed it open and then froze.

In front of him, on the shelf, the radio was on.

Its small speaker hissed, spitting static into the dead still air of the garage.

The tuning dial turned by itself, tuning into the sound, getting closer and closer.

Nate’s breath came from his mouth in shallow spurts.

He hadn’t touched that dial in years.

Thoughts scrambled through his mind as he tried to make sense of what he could clearly see before him.

The dial continued turning, and the static sharpened, then finally, words emerged.

Much clearer this time.

Wake up, Nate. They’re here…

His stomach clenched and his fingers jammed together into tight fists.

And then came the sound.

Three sharp knocks from the front door of his house.

From the radio, the voice.

They’re here…

Nate froze. His eyes wide open as he tried to make out some weird presence at the front door of his house.

Up above, his wife sleeping soundly.

His two kids curled up tight in their beds.

Again, three knocks at the door.

From the radio: Open the door, Nate. Let them in…

Nate clenched his teeth, his mind racing to try to find his next move.