Tick Tock

cast his nets into the sea and came up with a magical sword rather like King Arthur's shining Excalibur. He recalled “The Raven's Magic Gem,” as well, and “The Search for the Land of Bliss,” and “The Supernatural Crossbow,” in which poor Princess My Chau betrayed her worthy father out of love for her sweet husband and paid a terrible price, and the “Da-Trang Crabs,” and “The Child of Death,” and dozens more.
    Usually, when something reminded him of one of the legends that he had learned from his mother, he could not help but smile, and a happy peace settled over him, as though she herself had just then appeared and embraced him. This time, however, those tales had no consoling effect. He remained deeply uneasy, and he was still chilled in spite of the flood of warm air from the car heater.
    Odd.
     
    He switched on the radio, hoping that some vintage rock-'n'-roll would brighten his mood. He must have nudged the selector off the station to which he had been listening earlier, because now there was nothing to be heard but a soft susurration, not ordinary static, but like distant water tumbling in considerable volume over a sloping palisade of rocks.
    Briefly glancing away from the road, Tommy pressed a selector button. At once, the numbers changed on the digital read-out, but no music came forth, just the sound of water, gushing and tumbling, growling yet whispery.
    He pressed another button. The numbers on the display changed, but the sound did not.
    He tried a third button, without success.
    “Oh, wonderful. Terrific.”
    He had owned the car only a few hours, and already the radio was broken.
    Cursing under his breath, he fiddled with the controls as he drove, hoping to find the Beach Boys, Roy Orbison, Sam Cooke, the Isley Brothers, or even someone contemporary like Julianna Hatfield or maybe Hootie and the Blowfish. Hell, he'd settle for a rousing polka.
    From one end of the radio band to the other, on both AM and FM, the watery noise had washed away all music, as if some cataclysmic tide had inundated broadcast studios the length of the West Coast.
    When he attempted to turn off the radio, the sound continued undiminished. He was certain that he had hit the correct button. He pressed it again, to no effect.
    Gradually, the character of the sound had changed. The splash-patter-gurgle-hiss-roar now seemed less like falling water than like a distant crowd, like the voices of multitudes raised in cheers or chants; or perhaps it was the faraway raging babble of an angry, destructive mob.
    For reasons that he could not entirely define, Tommy Phan was disturbed by the new quality of this eerie and tuneless serenade. He jabbed at more buttons.
    Voices. Definitely voices. Hundreds or even thousands of them. Men, women, the fragile voices of children. He thought he could hear despairing wails, pleas for help, panicked cries, anguished groans—a monumental yet hushed sound, as though it was echoing across a vast gulf or rising out of a black abyss.
    The voices were creepy—but also curiously compelling, almost mesmerizing. He found himself staring at the radio too long, his attention dangerously diverted from the highway, yet each time that he looked up, he was able to focus on the traffic for only a few seconds before lowering his gaze once more to the softly glowing radio.
    And now behind the whispery muffled roar of the multitude rose the garbled bass voice of… someone else someone who sounded infinitely strange, imperial and demanding. It was a low wet voice that was less than human, spitting out not-quite-decipherable words as if they were wads of phlegm.
    No. Good God in Heaven, his imagination was running away with him. What issued from the stereo speakers was static, nothing but ordinary static, white noise, electronic slush.
    In spite of the chill that continued to plague him, Tommy felt a sudden prickle of perspiration on his scalp and forehead. His palms were damp too.
    Surely he had pressed every button on the control panel. Nevertheless, the ghostly chorus droned on.
    “Damn.”
    He made a tight fist of his right hand. He thumped the flat of it against the face of the radio, not hard enough to hurt himself, but punching three or four buttons simultaneously.
    Second by second, the guttural and distorted words spoken by the weird voice became clearer, but Tommy couldn't quite understand them.
    He thumped his fist against the radio once more, and he was surprised to hear himself issue a half-stifled cry