Whispers in the Static

The Midnight Habit

Eleanor had always been a night owl. When the world outside was quiet, she found peace in the hum of her old radio. She liked to spin through the static, stumbling across faint voices, forgotten songs, or strange foreign stations that only seemed to appear after midnight.

It was harmless. A hobby. Something to pass the hours when sleep refused to come.

At least, that’s what she believed at first.

The First Voice

One Thursday, as the clock blinked 2:13 a.m., she paused on a station she didn’t recognize. The voice was faint, crackling through the static.

“…alone… not yet…”

She leaned in, frowning. The words repeated, louder this time.

“…you are not alone… not yet.”

Chills pricked her arms. Eleanor snapped the dial to another station. But deep in the static, she thought she still heard it.

Patterns in the Noise

Over the next week, the strange broadcasts returned. Always between 2:00 and 3:00 a.m. Always faint at first, then growing clearer.

Sometimes, the voice whispered names. Not hers. Not people she knew. But the list grew longer each night.

And one evening, when she leaned close to the radio, she heard her street name spoken softly. Then her building number.

“…Maple Avenue… 317…”

That was her address.

The Warning

Eleanor told a coworker about it the next day, laughing it off nervously. “Probably just some creepy pirate station,” she joked. But her coworker’s face went pale.

“317 Maple Avenue?” he asked quietly. “That’s… where that woman disappeared last year.”

Eleanor froze. She remembered the news vaguely — a tenant who vanished without a trace. Her apartment had been vacant for months before she moved in.

The Broadcast

That night, Eleanor couldn’t resist turning the radio on again. At exactly 2:17 a.m., the voice cut through the static. Louder than ever.

“…Eleanor…”

Her name.

“…behind you.”

Her heart hammered. She spun around. The apartment was empty. Silent. But the voice continued.

“…don’t turn the lights off…”

She yanked the cord from the wall. The radio went dead.

The Final Night

For two nights, she resisted. No radio. No static. But on the third night, she woke to find the radio on by itself.

The dial glowed faintly. The static hissed. And then the voice returned.

“…it’s time.”

The next morning, her apartment was found empty. The radio sat silent on the table, the dial fixed at 2:17.

Eleanor was never seen again.

Why This Story Stays With Us

The unease of this story comes from a simple truth: technology is never truly silent. Radios hum, TVs flicker, phones buzz at odd hours. But what if, hidden in all that noise, something else is waiting to be heard?

Eleanor’s story is fiction -- but the fear it touches on is very real. The fear that maybe the static isn’t empty after all.