Ghost Frequency.

## **Her Voice in the Radio**

**By Adil Khan**

*Genre: Paranormal Thriller | Word Count: \~860 | Tone: Calm, suspenseful, emotional*

When we moved into the old farmhouse on the edge of town, I wasn’t expecting much—just creaky floors, peeling wallpaper, and my younger sister Mara following me around everywhere. What I didn’t expect was **the radio**.

It sat alone in the attic, covered in dust, old and square, like something from another time. There were no buttons, just a single tuning dial that looked worn. I don’t know why I turned it on that first night. Maybe I was bored. Maybe I was curious. Or maybe it just felt right.

At exactly **2:13 AM**, the static on the radio cleared, and I heard a voice.

> “Can anyone hear me? Please… please help me… he’s coming back.”

I froze.

Her voice was soft and cracked, as if she hadn’t spoken in a long time. Mara, sleeping beside me, stirred but didn’t wake. My heart was racing.

> “It’s so cold. I don’t remember how long I’ve been here. Is anyone listening?”

I quickly shut the radio off. Goosebumps ran down my arms. I told myself it was just my imagination, or maybe some kind of signal interference.

But the next night, at **2:13 AM** again, the voice returned.

> “He locked me in the basement. There’s no light. Just rats. And I can’t scream anymore.”

This voice was more than just noise. It felt like someone was reaching out from far away, trapped in pain and fear. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

I asked my mom if the house had a history. She seemed tired and told me, “All old houses have stories. Don’t let Mara hear you or she might get scared.”

But I wasn’t sleeping either.

Night after night, I listened. I took notes. I recorded the voice. I searched the local library for news archives.

One night, she said something new.

> “My name is Lila. I was twelve. He said no one would miss me…”

I looked up the name—**Lila Whittaker**—and found a newspaper clipping from 1972. It said a twelve-year-old girl went missing near our property. The case was closed years ago, marked as a runaway with no leads.

My hands shook. This wasn’t just a strange broadcast. This was a message from the past, a plea for help that never ended.

I knew I had to do something.

That night, I stayed up and asked the radio, “Lila, where is your body?”

After a long silence, I heard:

> “Under the roots… the old tree behind the barn. He buried me there.”

I felt a cold knot in my stomach. I grabbed a flashlight and jacket and ran outside.

The tree was still there—large and old. I dug beneath it with my hands until I hit something hard—wood. Then I felt something solid—bone.

The police came the next morning. They confirmed the remains belonged to Lila. The case was reopened, and her name was back in the news after more than fifty years.

For the first time in weeks, the radio stayed silent.

I thought it was over.

But then—last night, at **2:13 AM**—the voice returned.

> “Can anyone hear me? Please… please help me… he’s coming back.”

But it wasn’t Lila.

It was Mara.

## **The End?**