The Last Broadcast

The Last Broadcast

The static hissed through the old radio, a constant white noise that filled the small, dimly lit cabin. Jacob adjusted the dials carefully, his fingers trembling slightly. He had been a radio enthusiast for years, but tonight was different. He was chasing a ghost tonight. He had found a broadcast that shouldn't have been there a week ago while looking through late-night frequencies. A voice, ragged and desperate, whispering: "They’re in the walls… they’re in the walls…" before dissolving into screams. The signal had cut off abruptly, leaving only silence. Jacob had written it off as a prank—until it happened again the next night. And the following night as well. He was now hunched over his equipment, the dials' glow casting dark shadows on his face. The clock on the wall ticked past midnight.

The static then changed. A faint but distinctive voice rose. "Can... anybody... hear me?" Jacob’s breath caught. He adjusted the volume as he leaned in. "Hello? Jacob Winters is here. Who's this? lengthy pause. Then, a broken whisper: "Help me… please…"

"Where are you? What’s happening?" Jacob demanded, his pulse quickening.

"I don’t… know. It’s dark. So dark. They took me… dragged me through the walls…"

Jacob frowned. "Who took you? Who’s speaking?"

"My name… was Daniel Carter. I was… like you. Listening. Until… they heard me too."

A chill ran down Jacob’s spine. Carter, Daniel He knew that name. A local man who had vanished without a trace two years ago. The police had never found him.

The radio crackled, and Daniel’s voice grew frantic. "They’re coming! They hear you now! Put an end to it, put an end to it. A chorus of inhuman chittering, sounding like insects skittering over a microphone, was followed by a wet, tearing sound that cut through the transmission. Then, silence.

Jacob sat motionless, shaking his hands. He reached over to turn off the radio— Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound came from inside the wall behind him.

Jacob spun around, heart hammering. The cabin was old, the wooden panels warped with age. He fixed his gaze on the point where the noise had originated. Nothing.

Then—scratch, scratch, scratch—like claws dragging along the inside of the boards.

He stumbled back, knocking over his chair. The radio erupted with static, a deafening screech that made his ears ring. Through the noise, a new voice emerged—not Daniel’s, but something guttural, distorted.

"We understand..." The scratching grew louder, more frantic. As if something was pressing against it from the opposite side, the wooden panel sagged inward. Jacob turned and bolted for the door. He tried to open it, but it froze. The trees surrounding his cabin were wrong. Their branches twisted unnaturally, their bark blackened and peeling. And between them, shadows moved—too fast, too fluid, skittering on too many limbs.

The radio behind him screamed with laughter.

The last thing Jacob saw before the lights went out was the wall splitting open, and the things inside pouring out.

Epilogue

A week later, a concerned neighbor reported Jacob’s absence. Police found the cabin empty, the door wide open. An old radio that was still buzzing with static was the only clue. And on certain nights, between the frequencies, if you pay close attention, you might hear a new whisper: "Turn it off… before they hear you too…"

The End.