Rick had been a radio DJ for nearly two decades, and in all that time, he thought he’d heard it all. The midnight shift at WHPR was usually uneventful—dedications, old requests, the occasional conspiracy theorist calling in to share their latest wild theory. But it was comfortable, familiar, and Rick liked it that way. The studio was his sanctuary, the hum of the equipment and the glow of the control board a soothing presence during the lonely hours of the night.
It was a little past 2 a.m. when the static first hit. Rick was halfway through introducing a classic rock track when his headphones buzzed with a sharp, grating noise. He frowned, adjusting the dials, but the static only grew louder, drowning out the music. He muttered a curse under his breath and quickly cut the feed, replacing the live broadcast with a pre-recorded segment to buy himself some time.
The static persisted, a low, crackling hum that filled the room. Rick leaned in, squinting at the signal meters. They were going haywire, the needles swinging wildly back and forth. He tried to trace the source, running through the list of local stations that might be bleeding into his frequency, but none matched the signal. It was as if it was coming from somewhere else, somewhere far away.
And then, through the static, he heard it—a voice, faint but distinct.
“…help… please, someone help me…”
Rick’s blood ran cold. He leaned closer to the console, his fingers hovering over the controls. The voice was shaky, desperate, like someone on the verge of panic. He quickly patched the signal through to the main broadcast, the eerie transmission replacing the usual playlist.
“This is WHPR,” Rick said, his voice steady but laced with concern. “If you can hear me, identify yourself. Where are you calling from?”
There was no response, just the continued crackle of static. Rick waited, his heart pounding in his chest, but the voice didn’t return. After a few moments, he sighed, ready to switch back to the regular programming, when the static cleared, and the voice came through again, louder this time.
“…please… I don’t want to die…”
Rick’s hand froze over the controls. The voice was different now, filled with a raw terror that made his skin crawl. It wasn’t just a voice—it was a recording, he realized, the kind you’d hear in a police interrogation room or a 911 call. The sound was too clear, too precise, to be live.
“What the hell…” Rick muttered, his fingers tightening around the edge of the console. He listened, unable to tear himself away from the haunting broadcast.
“…I’m trapped… oh God, please, someone help…”
The voice trailed off, replaced by a muffled noise, like shuffling or the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor. Rick’s breath caught in his throat as he waited for more, but the signal cut out abruptly, leaving nothing but dead air.
Rick scrambled to regain control of the broadcast, his hands shaking as he flipped the switches back to the regular playlist. The familiar strains of a rock ballad filled the studio, but Rick barely heard it. His mind was racing, trying to make sense of what he had just heard.
It had to be a prank, he told himself, some sick joke by a local who’d managed to hack into the signal. But the fear in that voice—the pure, unfiltered panic—didn’t feel like a prank. It felt real.
He sat back in his chair, rubbing his temples. Maybe he was just tired, letting the late hour and the isolation of the studio get to him. He was about to dismiss it entirely when the static returned, louder and more aggressive than before.
Rick’s eyes snapped open, his heart hammering in his chest as the signal overtook the broadcast once again. The voice returned, clearer this time, and Rick felt a cold dread seep into his bones.
“…it’s coming for me… I can hear it… please, if anyone is listening…”
The voice was male, older, and trembling with fear. Rick’s hands trembled as he reached for the controls, but he couldn’t bring himself to cut the feed. There was something compelling, something almost hypnotic, about the broadcast. He couldn’t turn away.
“…it’s right outside the door… oh God, no, please don’t…”
A loud crash reverberated through the speakers, followed by a guttural scream that echoed in Rick’s ears. The sound cut off abruptly, replaced by the same suffocating silence as before.
Rick sat frozen in his chair, his breath coming in shallow gasps. This was no prank. He could feel it in his gut, the way the voice had broken, the raw desperation that had filled the room. Whoever had sent that signal was dead now—he was sure of it.
But how? How had he picked up that signal? And from where?
As he stared at the equipment in front of him, the static returned, softer this time, almost like a whisper. Rick’s hand hovered over the switch, torn between cutting the feed and listening to what came next.
A new voice came through, this one a woman’s, sobbing quietly.
“…please… I don’t want to be alone…”
Rick’s heart skipped a beat. He recognized that voice. It was familiar, hauntingly so. He racked his brain, trying to place it, when it hit him—it was the voice of a caller from earlier that night, a woman who had requested a song for her late husband.
But how was that possible? She had been fine, chatting with him about old records and memories. This voice was different, broken, as if she were speaking from the edge of the abyss.
“…please… don’t let it take me…”
The voice cracked, the sound of sobbing growing louder, more frantic. Rick felt a chill run down his spine. He had spoken to this woman, listened to her story, comforted her. But now, she was here, begging for her life, her final moments playing out over the airwaves.
The sobbing stopped, replaced by a soft, eerie hum. Rick stared at the console, dread gnawing at his insides. The signal crackled, then faded, leaving him alone in the silence of the studio.
Rick’s hands were shaking as he reached for the phone, dialing the number of the woman who had called in earlier. It rang once, twice, then went straight to voicemail. His heart sank as he hung up, the realization settling in. She was gone, taken by whatever force had broadcast her final moments.
He looked at the clock—4 a.m. The night was nearly over, but Rick knew he wouldn’t find peace in the daylight. The station had become something else, something dark, a conduit for the dead.
The static returned one last time, filling the room with its haunting crackle. Rick listened, his breath hitching, as a voice whispered through the noise, the words chilling him to the core.
“…you’re next…”
The signal cut out, the silence absolute, leaving Rick alone in the darkened studio, the finality of those words echoing in his mind.
The last broadcast had come and gone, but Rick knew it wouldn’t be the last. Not for him.
The dead were calling, and soon, he would answer.
