Ghost Radio by Leopoldo Gout Page A

and I was really hurting, so I told him a few times to knock it off, but he’d have none of it. He thought it was the funniest thing in the world, me falling like that. He kept making fun of me as we climbed out, but then he slipped, hit his head, and landed in the same place where I’d fallen. I limped down there to take a look. He wasn’t moving. His eyes were open but it looked like he wasn’t breathing.
    â€œHow ’bout that, motherfucker, who’s got the last laugh now!” I shouted at the old bastard.
    I was so angry I threw the wheelbarrow down after him. But it wasn’t long before I sobered up and realized that this was serious business and I could end up in jail. I brought more cement and poured it over my uncle. By the second full wheelbarrow, though, he started moving. Terrified, I ran for another full wheelbarrow and threw it on him. Then I carefully smoothed it over. By the next morning, the cement was dry and the floor looked pretty good, maybe a little higher than it was supposed to be. Luckily, it was hardly noticeable. When the architect arrived that day he asked me why we’d poured that floor already. I got nervous. I said my uncle had told me that it had to be done so they could put in the stairway. He looked at me curiously, and asked how my uncle was doing.
    â€œI don’t know, last night he went home by himself,” I answered.
    â€œWhen you see him, tell him to please come and see me.”
    â€œWhat, the floor isn’t good enough?” I asked him.
    â€œIt’s fine, but I need him to hurry up with the stairs.”
    No one ever saw my uncle again. Some thought he’d run off with a woman. His wife couldn’t understand it, because he’d never been a Don Juan and he always checked in. After some months, she accepted that he’d either gone up north or been killed during a mugging.
    I continued working at the site. One night, I woke up tasting blood and tequila. I washed out my mouth several times, but it wouldn’t go away; on the contrary, every time I passed the place where my uncle was buried, the taste grew stronger. Sometimes, I thought it was going to choke me; sometimes it even made me throw up. I went to see several doctors, even a healer. No one found anything. I chewed mints all day long. I ate raw onions and garlic, but the tang of blood covered everything. I becamedesperate; I had all my teeth extracted, thinking that would cure me. Nothing. It pursued me long after we finished that building. The people living there now would never imagine that they walk over my uncle every time they climb the stairs. Yesterday, in fact, I almost went over there to yell to the whole world that my dead uncle is buried in the cement down below. My nerve failed me. But when I heard that story just now, I knew it was a sign. Finally, I must confess.
    â€œWell, thanks for sharing your story on the air, although I don’t really know how to handle a case like this. Are you going to turn yourself in to the police?”
    â€œNo. Why should I?”
    â€œYou murdered your uncle.”
    â€œI didn’t murder anybody. He fell by accident.”
    â€œWell, you covered him with cement.”
    â€œHe wasn’t dead at the time.”
    â€œI know, but the cement killed him. How do I know you’re not pulling my leg?”
    â€œThat’s your problem,” said the man. I imagined the taste of tequila and blood in his mouth as he hung up.
    This definitely wasn’t the kind of response I’d expected from the public when I decided to read Poe on the air. I never thought it would turn my audience into “radio witnesses” to a crime.
    â€œBut while we’re researching that, keep those calls coming,” I said.
    The calls didn’t stop. At first, we only got a few each night, but it quickly became a deluge. Thousands of people wanted to talk about their experiences or put in their two cents about the