Dead Air

Night One -

The graveyard shift at WZUR 89.9 FM was supposed to be dead... three hours of indie rock, stoner metal, and half-baked conspiracy rants for whoever couldn’t sleep in central Illinois. Danny Rourke liked it that way.

No bosses breathing down his neck. No drunk frat kids puking in the hallway. Just him, a bottomless thermos of gas station coffee, and a microphone older than his student debt.

Danny wasn’t popular on campus. He wasn’t unpopular either. Just invisible. A background extra in everyone else’s story. That was fine by him. He liked his weird little niche, buried beneath textbooks and late-night static.

The station was a glass-paneled box, nestled inside the student union. Abandoned at night except for the janitor, who listened to gospel on earbuds and never said a word. The DJ booth smelled like burnt dust and old vinyl. There were posters from the '90s curling off the walls, and a single window with a view of a parking lot light that buzzed like a dying mosquito.

Danny had been working this shift for six months. Nothing weird ever happened... until 1:16 a.m. that Thursday.

"WZUR," Danny mumbled, sliding into his usual patter. "That was Sleep Destroyer with their hit single, 'Buzzsaw Romance.' Up next, we got a block of gloom-wave to make you feel something... or nothing, depending on your meds."

He reached for the next track when the red light on the phone lit up. Danny blinked. The phone didn’t work. It hadn’t since he started. The ancient beige rotary was just for show, a relic from analog days. He once joked on-air that it only summoned ghosts. It rang... A single, shrill brrriiiing.

Danny stared. Then picked up. "Uh. WZUR. You’re on the air. Maybe." A pause. Static. Then a voice. Raspy. Genderless. Way too close. "Don't go home tonight, Danny." Click... Danny slowly put the receiver back.

He laughed, nervously. Probably a prank. One of the AV techs messing around. Or one of the theater majors with too much free time. Still, something in the voice stayed with him. It wasn’t the words. It was the tone. Not a threat. A warning. He played three songs in a row and tried not to think about it.

Night Two - 1:16 a.m.

The phone rang again. He waited this time. Four rings. Five. Then he picked up. "You’ve reached the lair of the insomnia goblin. Speak." Static... then...the voice responded, "Check the cabinet, Danny. Bottom drawer." ..."What? Who is this?" asked Danny. Click.

This time, Danny stood. The filing cabinet in the corner was full of promo CDs, outdated playlists, and discarded demo tapes from aspiring SoundCloud goths. The bottom drawer stuck. He yanked it open. Inside was a yellowed folder, labeled in sharpie: "1979-81 INCIDENTS: DJ HENDERSON". He flipped through it. Typed reports. Scribbled notes and incident logs mentioning:

1. "Caller warned DJ Henderson of accident before it occurred."
2. "Tape playback revealed no voice, only static."
3. "DJ found mumbling in stairwell. Said 'the booth talks back.''

Danny shoved it shut and locked it. He then played five songs in a row, to allow some time for consideration. But that night, he dreamt of a radio tower. Buried deep underground, humming. Pulsing.

Night Three.

Danny left his mic on the entire show. No breaks and no calls... At 1:16 a.m., the phone didn’t ring. Instead, the speakers popped. The hum of dead air twisted into a garbled voice: "You unplugged the phone. That was rude." Danny nearly knocked over his coffee... "What the, who are you? What do you want?" "You're not listening. You talk. You talk so much. But you never listen." the voice responded.

The next track played in reverse. Vocals turned to shrieks. Drums thudded like a heartbeat. Danny yanked the cord from the wall. The music kept playing. He stared at the board and the blinking lights in disbelief. Then at his reflection in the glass. Only, it wasn’t quite his reflection...

It moved a second too slow.

Night Four -

He brought a cassette recorder. Hit RECORD at midnight and just let it run. The phone rang at 1:16. The light glowed blood-red. Danny didn’t answer this time, he let it ring. The lights flickered. The phone exploded with a deafening tone... like a fax machine screaming into his skull. Then silence.

Then: "You shouldn’t be here. But you are. So now... so are we."

Danny backed out of the booth. The hallway stretched too long. Lights buzzed overhead like a hive. At the far end of the hall, a door opened. No one there. Just a faint sound. His own voice, echoing back: "This is Danny Rourke. And you're listening to WZUR. Forever. And ever. And ever." He ran out into the cold. His breath visible, even though it was August.

Night Five -

He didn’t come in. He drove home. Turned on every light. Burned sage, even though he was allergic. Deleted every MP3 of his past shows and unplugged every speaker in the house.

At 1:16 a.m., the radio turned itself on... "...You're listening to Dead Air..." He heard his voice, but that wasn't him. Then the power went out. His dog began to howl.

Final Entry -

Campus police found the station empty. Danny’s car sat outside, keys in the ignition. The mic was still warm. The playlist showed three more hours of content... songs never aired, bands that didn’t exist. The last track was simply labeled: "Transmission 1:16."

The station remains closed for months... But sometimes, on stormy nights, WZUR bleeds through the dial. A ghost frequency. Static. Then a voice. Danny’s voice..."And you're listening... to Dead Air."

Epilogue -

The university reopened the station a year later. New call sign. New paint. New rules. A freshman named Carly took the same shift. She really enjoyed the quiet. The first week went fine. The second was also uneventful. But on the third week, at exactly 1:16 a.m., the red light on the phone blinked. She picked up.

A voice whispered: "Don’t go home tonight, Carly." The mic turned on by itself. And the speakers whispered: "WZUR... WZUR... WZUR..." Like the station never left. Like it had just been... waiting.

Welcome back to Dead Air...