The Ghost Radio

Chapter 1: The Static Between Stations

The first time it happened, I thought it was just bad reception.

3:17 AM at KZYX Radio, playing the overnight jazz shift for seven insomniacs and God. The needle slipped between stations for a heartbeat—just long enough to hear a voice whisper:

"Jonah... you're next."

Then Billie Holiday's voice smoothed back over the gap like nothing happened.

I laughed it off. Until the call came in.

"Did you hear that?" The old man's voice shook. "That was my wife. She died last Tuesday."

The studio lights flickered. My playlist skipped to a song I didn't queue—a 1930s waltz crackling with phonograph hiss.

Underneath the music, dozens of voices whispered names.

All of them local.

All of them dead.

Chapter 2: The Midnight Request Line

The notebook appeared in the request box—black leather, reeking of embalming fluid.

Inside, names and times written in shaky script:

*"Maggie Teal - 3:33 AM"*

"Henry Voss - Play our song"

"The Night Nurse - She hears you"

I Googled them at the break.

Obituaries. Every single one.

The studio door creaked open behind me. The security monitor showed the hallway empty... except for the wet footprints leading to my chair.

Chapter 3: The Dead Air Incident

It happened during a PSA about storm drains.

My voice cut out mid-sentence. For seventeen seconds of dead air, the mic picked up something else:

Wet, dragging footsteps.

Labored breathing.

And a child singing "Ring Around the Rosie" in perfect 1940s diction.

The FCC complaint came from Mrs. Lyle at the nursing home. "That was the song we sang in the polio ward," she wrote. "Before the iron lungs came."

The email timestamp? 2:47 AM.

Mrs. Lyle died in 1998.

Chapter 4: The Previous DJ's Tape

The station manager found me digging through archives.

"Don't play requests after midnight," he warned, handing me a cassette labeled "Carl's Last Show."

The recording started normally—weather reports, big band music. Then at 2:15 AM, Carl's voice changed:

"They're in the walls! Oh Christ, the wires are—"

A wet crunch. Three minutes of chewing sounds. Then my own voice came through the tape:

"Thanks for tuning in to KZYX. You're listening to... The Night Show."

I'd never worked here before today.

Chapter 5: The Broadcast Booth

Tonight's playlist writes itself.

The studio fills with the scent of funeral lilies. My headphones pick up whispers:

"Read the names..."

I grip the mic. The power goes out.

In the blackness, the emergency transmitter lights up—a frequency not on our dial. 666 AM.

The dead air breathes.

Something presses against the glass from inside the soundboard.

Fingertips.

Blackened.

Burning.

Chapter 6: Signing Off

Morning light finds me still at the console.

The manager bursts in, pale. "We got a call from... from..."

I already know.

The notebook lies open to a fresh page. Today's date. My name.

The jazz record skips.

Outside, car radios up and down the street click on by themselves.

Tuning in.

Waiting.

The dead always get their requests.