The Last Broadcast

It started with static.

Not the white-noise hum of a detuned frequency, but something deeper—denser. Like the sound of something struggling to claw its way through the silence.

I first heard it while driving the midnight shift through Millers Pass, that long stretch of two-lane highway most truckers avoid unless they're behind schedule. The area had been dead radio-wise for years—nothing but dead air. No towers, no interference, no signal.

And yet, as I passed mile marker 64, my old cab radio crackled to life on its own.

“—please. Can anybody hear me?”

I nearly swerved.

The voice was thin, tremulous. A woman. Not a DJ, not an emergency broadcast. Just raw panic. Followed by a short burst of static, then another voice. Male this time, calm—too calm.

“They don’t know it’s still on. Keep quiet. Don’t say your name.”

Then silence.

I pulled over at a rest stop and rewound the recording device I keep clipped to the dash. I always record my drives—part paranoia, part habit. But when I hit play, all I got was silence.

The signal hadn’t been captured.

Only I had heard it.

Back in 1983, WZUR 101.7 was a small-town radio station run out of a decommissioned post office in Burnell County. No budget, no reach, but a loyal local following. Until the fire.

The official story was faulty wiring. What didn’t make sense was the timing—3:03 AM, mid-broadcast, while the host was on air. The fire department claimed the building was empty when they arrived.

But the town’s records say otherwise. They claim four employees were working that night. None of them were found.

The building was condemned. Still stands at the edge of town, hollowed out, rotting.

The signal shouldn’t exist.

And yet, three nights later, it returned.

This time, I was prepared.

Same route. Same time. As I approached mile 64, I set the tuner to 101.7 and waited.

Nothing.

Then: “They found the hatch. It’s open. Don’t say your name. They listen through it.”

I slammed the brakes. My skin went cold.

Then another voice, closer, whispered directly through the speaker: “Jacob. Don’t turn around.”

My name. My real name. Not the alias on my license or the one I give at stops.

I didn’t move. Just sat there, fists clenched around the wheel.

I don’t know how long I stayed frozen, but eventually the signal cut.

I told myself it was a trick. Some kind of pirate signal, an elaborate stunt. Maybe a forgotten broadcast caught in atmospheric reflection. But I couldn’t explain the name. Or the third incident.

That one happened while I slept.

I left the radio on, tuned to 101.7, out of morbid curiosity. That night, I dreamt of smoke, of wires coiled like veins, of static that burned when touched.

I woke to the sound of laughter—crackling through the speakers like dry leaves.

And then a voice said: “He’s dreaming of the station. That’s how it pulls you in.”

It was my own voice.

I returned to Burnell County.

I shouldn’t have.

The town is a ghost—empty storefronts, peeling paint, signs that say “Back in 15” with no one behind them. The only structure still mostly intact is the WZUR station, standing like a broken tooth at the far edge of the woods.

I found it unlocked.

Inside, time had paused. Cobwebs strung like veins across the sound booth. The mic was still there, scorched at the base. There was no smell of ash—just ozone, electric and sharp.

I approached the console.

The "ON AIR" sign above the glass blinked red.

Impossible.

The power had been cut for decades.

I sat down, headset trembling in my hands. My breath fogged the cracked glass. Then the headphones clicked to life.

One voice spoke:

“You’re the last. Say your name. Close the circuit.”

Another one cut in—urgent, raspy:

“Don’t. That’s how they bind you. That’s how they bring the voices back.”

A third whispered, weeping:

“Please. We want to rest.”

And then they all spoke at once—dozens, maybe hundreds of voices. Some angry. Some pleading. All echoing from the speaker and from inside my skull.

I ripped the headset off and stumbled out into the daylight. The door slammed shut behind me.

When I turned around, the building looked different.

No glass. No door. Just boards nailed tight over black windows.

And silence.

Since then, it hasn’t stopped.

I hear them when I drive. In the spaces between songs. Behind the weather reports. Sometimes in the sound of my own voice when I speak out loud.

They don’t just want to be heard.

They want to broadcast.

Through us.

Two days ago, I blacked out while fueling up. When I came to, I found my truck idling in the middle of the road. The radio was on.

Not 101.7.

Every station.

All of them.

The same signal—whispers of static, voices chanting names I didn’t recognize. Until one did.

Yours.

If you're reading this, it’s already reached you.

Turn off the radio.

Don’t dream of the station.

Don’t say your name.

And whatever you do—

Don’t tune in at 3:03 AM.