“Static”

Static

By[Ali Rehman]

Harold had never cared much for the past. The old radio in his attic was a relic, a dusty thing with cracked dials and a faded wood frame, the kind of thing his grandmother might have treasured before she passed. It sat silent on a crooked shelf for years — a forgotten artifact in his otherwise orderly life.

That was, until the night the static began.

He was rummaging through the attic one rainy evening, searching for a box of old photographs, when the radio suddenly crackled to life. The noise wasn’t the usual hiss and pop of a broken speaker — it was something else, something almost like a voice tangled in the static.

Curious, Harold adjusted the dial, and amid the white noise, a whisper broke through.

“Harold… don’t forget the meeting…”

He froze.

There was no meeting scheduled for the next day. No reason for anyone to know his name, let alone mention a meeting he hadn’t planned.

He reached for the radio again. The static hissed louder, then settled into a soft murmur.

“…call Sarah… at noon…”

Sarah. His sister. They hadn’t spoken in months.

His heart pounded as the words flickered in and out, elusive and fleeting.

Harold turned the radio off, shaken. Maybe he was imagining things, or the rain had created strange interference. He climbed down from the attic and tried to dismiss the eerie experience.

The next morning, the first thing he did was call Sarah. It was noon. They talked — really talked — for the first time in months, repairing frayed threads.

He brushed it off as coincidence.

But that night, the radio was on again.

“…watch the road… black sedan…”

Harold’s mind raced. Was this a warning? An echo from the future?

The next day, as he left the office, he paused. A black sedan rolled past, its windows tinted, its engine humming too loud.

A shiver ran down his spine.

Days passed. Each night, the radio whispered another piece of his future — sometimes small things, sometimes unsettling.

“…project approved… unexpected call…”

“…rain at five… umbrella…”

Slowly, Harold began to rely on it. The radio became his oracle, his strange guide through uncertainty.

He would sit for hours, tuning the dial just right, listening for the whispers that bled through the static like fragile secrets.

At first, he told no one. Who would believe him? But the predictions were accurate. Unfailingly so.

Harold’s life changed. He made decisions based on the whispers, avoiding mistakes and seizing opportunities.

Yet with each glimpse into the future, a gnawing question grew in his mind:

Who was sending these messages? And why?

One night, the whisper came again, but this time, it was different.

“…trust no one… they’re watching…”

The static flared, hissing angrily.

Harold sat frozen, heart hammering.

He felt eyes on him. Paranoia crept in.

Over the following weeks, Harold’s world twisted into a maze of suspicion. He watched friends carefully, doubted even his own reflection.

The radio’s whispers grew darker.

“…betrayal… hidden in shadows…”

One evening, determined to understand, Harold scoured the attic for the radio’s origins.

Behind it, he found a yellowed newspaper clipping taped to the wall:

“Local Inventor Disappears: Radio Said to Transmit ‘Voices from Tomorrow’.”

His breath caught.

The article told of a man named Elias Finch, who built a radio capable of picking up signals from the future before vanishing mysteriously decades ago.

Harold’s fingers trembled as he looked back at the radio.

Was this the same device? Had it chosen him?

That night, the whispers stopped.

Silence.

Harold felt a strange emptiness — the radio was gone.

In its place, a small note lay on the floor:

“Use what you’ve learned wisely.”

Harold folded the note, a chill settling over him.

The radio was never found again.

Months later, Harold moved on. He kept the lessons — the warnings, the glimpses of possibility — close to his heart.

Sometimes, when the wind howled just right, he swore he could hear a faint static in the distance, whispering promises and cautions.

And he listened.