The Radios of Colônia Cemetery

Some voices don’t need antennas to find you.

Some voices don’t need antennas to find you.

On that rainy, gray morning, Borges woke up in a panic. He had dreamed that the dead were calling him by name. He went to the bathroom, washed his face, made his coffee, and as he drank it, he remembered that he needed to stop by Colônia Cemetery. Martha, the wife of Marcellus — a close childhood friend — had passed away, and her body was being held at Chapel 10.

Borges hurried, took the elevator down, stepped outside, and walked toward the cemetery, located just a few meters from his building.

At Colônia Cemetery

Borges found the chapel and spent about two hours beside Marcellus, trying to offer what little comfort he could. When the burial began, however, he kept his distance. He had never felt well watching coffins descend into the ground.

After the prayers, farewells, and formalities, Borges decided to have a coffee at the cemetery bar.

Upon entering, he was greeted by an old man with a long white beard and a deep voice, who said:

— The radios said you would come, Borges. And they were not lying.

— What? How do you know my name?

The old man tilted his head toward a massive shelf overflowing with radios — each one older than the last.

Borges didn’t understand anything, but he ordered a coffee. The man disappeared through a dark door behind the counter.

While waiting, Borges examined the collection.

They weren’t just devices…
They were relics.
Objects that seemed to carry something trapped inside them.

Three minutes passed.

Then the door creaked open with a harsh sound, and a figure emerged in a wheelchair.

Borges froze.

The person was pale — pale in a way that does not belong to the living — with completely white eyes, sunken, motionless… staring directly at him.

That gaze seemed to invade Borges.
It wasn’t looking at his face — it was examining his soul.

He tried to speak, but his tongue felt unbearably heavy.

The figure moved the wheelchair with surprising speed, turning its back to Borges and facing the darkness it had come from. But before disappearing completely… it slowly turned its head — as if the body were dead and only the neck still alive.

The white eyes met Borges’ one last time.

Then the wheelchair moved on its own, gliding into the darkness without anyone pushing it.

The door slammed shut.

The paralysis broke. Borges inhaled deeply, steadied himself, and without trying to understand what had happened, rushed out of the bar.

Outside

Night felt wrong.

The cemetery was breathing.
Crosses seemed to shift by mere millimeters.
Shadows stretched and shrank without any real source of light.

Borges no longer felt he was in the ordinary world.

In the distance, he saw a woman walking toward him. Her clothes looked displaced — as if they belonged to a time that never truly existed.

Before Borges could speak, she said in a harsh, urgent voice:

— They shouldn’t have done that. Not like that. Not at that moment.

And she vanished.
As if erased from reality.

What shouldn’t they have done?
What moment was she talking about?

Borges tried to reason, but his thoughts slipped away like water through his fingers.

He needed to leave.

He ran.

But his legs felt heavy — as if invisible hands were gripping his ankles.

For a moment, he wished he were dreaming.
But deep down, he knew he wasn’t.

Then he saw it: a gray door in the middle of the darkness. A door that shouldn’t have been there.

Anxiety crushed any remaining logic.

Borges grabbed the handle and pushed.

The light changed.

— Where have you been, Borges? We’ve been here with your coffee. It’s getting cold.

— We? — he asked.

— Yes — replied the old man. — Me and the radios. They know more about you than you imagine.

— What do you mean? Give me a solid example.

An old radio labeled “1971” crackled.

From inside it came a dry, impersonal voice, from somewhere that should not exist:

— It was September 2005. You wanted to go to Rio de Janeiro. A band you love deeply was going to play. Everything was planned. But your mother said she wasn’t feeling well. That she needed you. You thought she was making it up. You stayed. Angry. Thinking she was trying to stop you from going.
Know this, Borges… she wasn’t.
She suffered for it.
She never forgave herself.

Borges’ eyes filled with tears.

— How… how is this possible?

The old man smiled — not with joy, but with the weariness of someone who carries too many secrets.

— I told you, son… my radios know things. They know about the world, the living… and the dead.

— Can they tell me if, when I leave through that door again, I’ll see… that outside?

The old man tilted his head.

Another radio, labeled “1977”, emitted a sharp, unpleasant sound. A voice even stranger replied:

— You accessed Sete Além, Borges Alasther. It’s very likely you left your world and entered something darker.
Much darker.

— I don’t know where I went. I just know I felt deeply unsafe.

— You may go now — the radio continued. — When you open that door, daylight will be outside. Just like when you first entered. Some people from the funeral will still be there.
Be more aware when accessing certain doors.
And be happy.

The old man smiled, proud of the radios, as if they were living beings.

Borges opened the door slowly…

And found the sun.

He left the bar breathing deeply, reflective — without fully understanding what the radios meant by accessing doors.

But one certainty stayed with him:

The rumors about Colônia Cemetery were real.

I don’t want anyone in my family buried here.
And if a friend ever comes… forgive me.
But I’m never returning to this place.

❤️

fmostaros@icloud.com

For anyone who wants to say something that cannot be kept silent.