The Last Broadcast

The Last Broadcast
by israr khan

On the outskirts of a forgotten town, there stood a rusted radio tower, black against the blood-red sky. It hadn’t transmitted anything in decades — or so people thought. The locals called it “The Devil’s Antenna.” Kids dared each other to touch it, but none stayed near it after dark. Not since the incident in 1982.

Max, a freelance radio technician, didn’t believe in ghost stories. He was hired by a small historical society to catalog abandoned transmission sites. When he arrived at the tower, dragging his recording equipment behind him, he noted how the birds refused to fly near it. That was the first sign.

“This place is a dump,” he muttered, brushing away cobwebs from the shed beneath the tower. The air inside was stale, but the old broadcasting console still sat there, waiting.

Out of curiosity, Max turned the knobs. Static filled his headphones. Then, faintly, a voice.

“…Hello? Can anyone hear me?”

Max froze. He lifted the headphones and listened again.

“…I’ve been here for so long… someone answer me…”

It wasn’t a recording. The voice was desperate, breathless, alive. He checked the signal. The tower was offline. No power. No satellite.

“Must be interference,” he whispered. But then the voice repeated, louder.

“Don’t let it find you. It can hear when you listen.”

The air around him grew heavy. The shadows inside the shed seemed to deepen, stretch, curl around the equipment like smoke. He backed away, heart pounding.

Suddenly, the door slammed shut.

He lunged at it, but it wouldn’t budge. Outside, night fell like a curtain. His flashlight flickered, then went dark. He was alone — almost.

The voice returned, this time just behind his ear, no headphones needed.

“It watches through the static.”

Max spun, but no one was there. Only the console, now glowing dimly.

Then something else came through.

Not a voice. A sound. Clicking. Like long fingernails on glass.

It grew louder. Closer.

Max dropped to the floor, breath shallow, heart rattling in his chest. He remembered the old urban legend: the broadcaster who disappeared during a midnight shift in 1982 — last heard screaming into dead air. They never found his body. Just his bloody headphones.

“I need to get out,” Max whispered.

“It’s too late,” said the voice again, now distorted, almost laughing. “You heard it. That’s all it needs.”

The shed began to hum with low frequency. His skin vibrated. Blood trickled from his nose. The shadows peeled themselves from the walls. Tall, crooked shapes with no eyes. Only mouths, wide and open, static pouring out.

Max screamed and threw his recorder at them. It shattered, but they didn’t flinch.

One stepped forward.

It leaned down and whispered in the same voice he’d heard on the radio.

“Say goodbye.”

Max felt a sharp pain in his ears. He reached up — they were gone. Just smooth skin. Silence roared in his head.

Two days later, a search team found the shed. The equipment was melted. No sign of Max — except his broken headphones, soaked in blood. The tower was still off. Unpowered.

But late at night, sometimes, if you tune your radio just right — to a dead frequency between stations — you can hear Max’s voice.

“…Hello? Can anyone hear me?”

They say once you do, the static starts to follow you. In your phone calls. Your music. Even your dreams.

And when you finally hear it whisper your name — it’s already inside.