The Last Broadcast

The Last Broadcast

It was a stormy October night when the power went out across the sleepy town of Merrow’s Hollow. As wind shrieked and rain pounded the rooftops, 17-year-old Charlie Beckett lit a single candle in the living room and turned on his battery-powered radio.

Static.

He adjusted the dial, searching for any sign of life, but the frequencies were dead—until a voice crackled through the white noise.

“…all who remain, listen closely.”

Charlie froze. The voice was low, grainy, and unfamiliar. It didn’t sound like a broadcast from any nearby station. He leaned closer.

“Do not go outside. Do not answer the knock. They wear our faces.”

The radio screeched, then fell silent.

Charlie’s heart thudded in his chest. He glanced out the window—the street was pitch black, save for occasional flickers of lightning illuminating the drenched trees and silent houses.

His parents were out of town visiting his aunt, leaving him alone for the weekend. The plan had been to binge horror movies and junk food, not get creeped out by cryptic radio messages.

He tried to dismiss it as a prank, maybe some pirate radio signal messing around. But then came the knock.

Three slow raps on the front door.

Charlie went still. The air thickened around him. No one should be out in this storm. No one should be here.

He rose quietly and approached the door, barefoot on creaking floorboards. The knock came again—three soft thuds, deliberate, calm.

“Hello?” he called.

A pause. Then a voice—his mother’s.

“Charlie? Honey, it’s Mom. The roads flooded. Let me in.”

Charlie’s breath caught in his throat. That was impossible. She’d called hours ago to say they were staying the night at his aunt’s. And even if they had driven back, why wouldn’t she use her key?

He didn’t answer.

“Charlie?” she called again. “Why won’t you open the door?”

He backed away, heart pounding. Her voice—it sounded like his mom’s, but there was something off. It was too steady. Too calm.

He turned the radio’s volume up, hoping to hear the voice again, some kind of explanation. Nothing but static.

Another knock—faster now. More urgent.

“Let me in, Charlie. It’s cold. I’m wet. Why are you doing this?”

He ran to the window and peeked through the edge of the curtain.

There she was.

His mother.

Hair plastered to her head by the rain. Eyes locked on the door. Smiling.

But that smile didn’t belong to her.

It was too wide. Too sharp.

Charlie stumbled back and grabbed the fire poker from the fireplace. He didn’t believe in monsters, not really—but something was wrong, and every cell in his body screamed not to open that door.

Then the voice on the radio returned.

“…They come when the storm hits. They knock. They speak in familiar tongues. If you open the door, you die. If you speak to them too long, you forget.”

Charlie dropped the poker. Forget?

“Charlie,” the voice outside said again, quieter now. “Don’t you remember our trip to the lake? You were six. You lost your red shovel.”

He did remember that.

“You cried until I gave you my scarf.”

Yes… yes, that had happened.

“Let me in, sweetheart.”

His hand reached toward the doorknob.

Then—lightning flashed.

And for a split second, the figure outside wasn’t his mother.

It was tall. Pale. Black eyes. A grin that split too far across its face.

Charlie fell backward, gasping.

When he looked again, she was gone.

The power flickered back to life. The radio died. Everything was quiet.

Too quiet.

Charlie stayed awake until dawn, clutching the poker in both hands.

His parents came home the next day.

His real parents.

They found him huddled in the corner, eyes wide, whispering over and over:

“Don’t open the door. Don’t open the door. They wear our faces.”