The Final Broadcast

The rain hammered against the windows of Station WZRD, Dark. With his deep baritone voice and eerie playlists, Vincent had become a cult favorite. But tonight’s broadcast would be unlike any other.

"Welcome to *Echoes After Dark," Vincent murmured into the mic, the red ON AIR light casting a faint glow on his pale face. "Tonight, we explore the whispers that live in static, and the truths hidden in silence."

Behind the glass, producer Dana typed swiftly, loading up sound effects. The station was unusually quiet. Only the hum of old electronics and the steady ticking of the wall clock kept Vincent company.

Thirty minutes in, the call came.

“I have a story,” the voice rasped. It was dry, gravelly, almost mechanical. “But it’s not for the faint of heart.”

Vincent’s eyes lit up. He loved a good live scare.

“Let’s hear it,” he said smoothly.

The caller laughed, low and slow.

“In 1983, there was a girl named Evelyn Marsh. She lived right here in Elmridge. She disappeared one rainy night. Police never found her. Her last known contact? A call to this very station… during Echoes After Dark.”

Vincent blinked. That wasn’t a coincidence.

“That’s quite the story,” he replied, stalling. “You got a connection to Evelyn?”

Silence.

Then: “She was my sister.”

Dana looked up, startled. Vincent gave her a shrug. It might still be a prank.

“She was sixteen,” the caller continued. “Loved the show. Called in one night with a poem she’d written. That was the last anyone heard her voice.”

Vincent vaguely recalled the urban legend — something about a haunted recording lost in the archives.

“I think you’ve got the wrong station, friend,” Vincent said, suddenly uneasy.

“No,” the voice snapped. “I don’t.”

The line went dead.

Dana walked in from the control room, frowning. “That wasn’t in our call queue. Came straight through. No caller ID.”

Vincent nodded, tapping his pen nervously. “Dig up the old logs. 1983. If there’s any record of Evelyn Marsh, I want to know.”

While Dana left to check the archives, Vincent killed time with music and ghost stories from listeners. Forty minutes passed. Then Dana came back, pale, holding a dusty tape.

“This was filed under E.M.,” she whispered. “It’s real, Vin.”

Vincent slipped on the headphones and played the tape. A girl’s soft voice crackled through:

“…and in the dark, I see his face,
A hollow grin, a tight embrace.
He waits for me, he holds my breath,
I dance with silence, I sleep with death…”

Suddenly, the girl gasped on the tape. “He’s here—no—please—”

A loud thud. Then static.

The room chilled. Dana’s lips trembled. “Vin, that tape… it’s never aired. No one outside this station should’ve heard it.”

Vincent turned to the mic. “Listeners… we may have stumbled onto something more than folklore.”

He was about to elaborate when the phone rang again.

“You found it,” the voice hissed. “She warned you.”

Vincent’s throat tightened. “Who are you?”

A long pause.

“I’m the one who silences the voices.”

The power cut. Lights, soundboards, everything — dead. Only the emergency exit sign glowed red.

Dana grabbed her phone’s flashlight. “We need to go.”

But Vincent stood frozen, staring at the tape deck.

“It’s recording,” he said.

Despite no power, the tape was spinning. And voices — dozens — whispered from the speakers.

“Help me…”
“He’s here…”
“I never left…”

Suddenly, the tape screamed — a horrible, grinding shriek. Dana covered her ears. Vincent’s nose bled. Then: silence.

The lights flickered back.

Vincent blinked. The studio looked… older. Dustier. A calendar on the wall read: October 1983.

He stumbled to the glass. Dana was gone. The computers, gone. Replaced by rotary phones and analog equipment.

The ON AIR sign lit up.

Echoes After Dark.

The mic hissed.

“Welcome back, Vincent,” a familiar, gravelly voice said through the speaker. “It’s time for your show.”

Vincent looked at his reflection. His hair was grayer. His face… older. Much older.

The door slammed shut behind him.

---

TWIST: The show was a trap — a looping broadcast that absorbed hosts over time. Vincent hadn’t just uncovered a mystery; he had become the next ghost in the machine.