The Last Broadcast

I never believed in ghost stories. Not until I heard myself speak on a radio broadcast that shouldn't exist.

It started last weekend, when my cousin Aaron came back to town. We grew up together in Sycamore Ridge, a tiny blip of a place where nothing ever happened — except for that one thing. The thing we were told never to talk about.

The fire at WZRD 106.3 FM.

It burned down on October 18, 1992 — the same night the station went dead air forever. Nobody knows what really caused it. Some say it was arson. Others say something else happened in that booth.

Aaron and I were both nine at the time. We don’t remember much... just that our parents made us stay inside, and the whole town acted like something had been set free.

Now, thirty-three years later, Aaron shows up with an old ham radio he found at a garage sale. It's a chunky, dusty black box with scratched knobs and a cracked frequency window. The guy who sold it said, “Careful. This one still picks up things that aren’t supposed to broadcast anymore.”

Of course, we laughed.

That night, we set it up in my garage with a couple of beers and no real expectations. We flipped through frequencies slowly, hearing only static and the occasional garbled voice.

Until we hit 106.3 FM.

A man’s voice crackled through: “You are listening to WZRD… broadcasting live from the ridge…”

I froze. Aaron did too.

There was silence. Then a familiar voice came on — my voice.

“I’m sorry, Aaron. I didn’t mean to leave you behind.

Static buzzed.

Then: “I should’ve pulled you out. I just ran. I was scared.”

I looked at Aaron. His face had gone pale. He didn’t say anything, but I knew — that wasn’t a recording. I had never said those words. Not that I remembered.

“I don’t understand,” I muttered.

Aaron leaned forward, turning the dial just slightly. The voice kept going. “Please… if someone hears this… don’t go back to the tower. Don’t let it out again.”

A high-pitched screech followed, so sharp it made us both cover our ears.

Then silence.

Not static.

Silence.

No station. No voice. No sound at all.

We checked the radio again. Unplugged it. Replugged it. Flipped the dials. Nothing.

WZRD 106.3 was gone.

The next day, I dug through an old box of newspaper clippings in my dad’s attic. He used to be a reporter before he retired. I found an article from October 1992 titled “Radio Tower Fire Claims One — Station Shuts Down Permanently.”

It named the victim: Aaron Blake. Age 9.

But Aaron was standing right next to me when I read it.

He stared at the paper, not saying a word.

I dropped it.

“No… that has to be a mistake.”

He looked at me with hollow eyes. “I don’t think I came back here, Josh. I think… I’ve been here the whole time.”

That night, the radio turned on by itself.

I was in bed. Alone. The garage was locked. Yet I heard it through the floorboards — that same frequency. 106.3.

I went down with a flashlight, expecting to find the box unplugged, powered down. But it was on.

And my voice — again — was talking.

“I’m sorry, Aaron. I should’ve pulled you out. I should’ve—”

I lunged and yanked the plug.

But the voice continued, now deeper, distorted.

“You let him die. Now he’s back to remind you.”

I threw the radio across the garage. It shattered, but even as it broke apart, the voice kept playing through the speaker fragments.

“You can’t run from this. You opened the signal.”

The voice became a chorus — overlapping versions of me, Aaron, even my dad’s voice, all repeating the same words:

“You let it out. You let it out.”

The tower still stands.

They never tore it down, just left it fenced and forgotten in the woods at the edge of town. The brick’s scorched black. The windows melted.

Last night I went back.

I had to.

I climbed the tower stairs, each creaking under my weight. Inside the booth, the old broadcasting mic sat untouched, like it had been waiting for me.

A red light blinked once.

Then twice.

I picked up the mic.

And before I could stop myself, I said:

"You’re listening to WZRD 106.3 FM. Broadcasting live from the ridge. I'm sorry, Aaron."

And now, I’m still here.

Broadcasting.

Note: Inspired by a local legend in my hometown where an old radio tower burned down and was never explained. I've always wondered what might still be broadcasting through the static. If you liked this story, leave a ❤️ or drop a comment — and don’t forget to tune in... carefully.