The Voice in the Static

Alright, you have to promise not to freak out when I tell you this story.

Because this one? It’s not about haunted dolls or creaky basements.

It’s about something you probably have right now in your bedroom.

A radio.

Or a Bluetooth speaker. Or an old TV.

Any device that plays sound can be used by… it.

And once it finds you, you can’t un-hear it.

The Birthday Gift
It started when my friend Tariq got an old radio from his uncle.

Not one of those cool modern ones with apps and buttons. No, this one had big silver dials, a wooden body, and a fabric speaker grill like it came straight out of a horror movie.

Tariq’s uncle was kind of weird. He ran a junk shop and always gave strange gifts.

“This one still works,” he said, handing over the radio. “Just… don’t use it after midnight.”

Tariq laughed. “Why? Will it turn into a pumpkin?”

His uncle didn’t smile.

He just said, “Some things like to talk when the world goes quiet.”

The First Tune
That night, Tariq plugged in the radio.

At first, it didn’t work. Just static.

But then—he turned the dial slowly and heard a strange, slow song.

It wasn’t pop or rock or even classical.

It was something that sounded like… humming. Like a woman humming a lullaby far away in a tunnel.

He turned the volume up. The humming stopped.

Then came a voice.

Soft. Calm. Cold.

“Hello… is anyone listening?”

He turned it off right away.

Was It a Broadcast?
The next day, he told me and our friend Zoya about it.

We said maybe it was a late-night show. You know, creepy podcasts or spooky story stations.

But Tariq looked pale. “It said my name last night.”

“What?”

“I turned it off… and right before I pulled the plug… it said—‘Tariq, don’t turn away.’”

Zoya and I just stared at him.

“That’s not a broadcast,” she said. “That’s a message.”

The Second Night
We dared him to turn it on again.

So he did.

But this time, we were all in the room.

At 11:56 p.m., static.

At 11:59 p.m., humming.

Then…

“I see you.”

We all jumped.

The radio was on, but no one was touching it.

Then the voice whispered:

“One of you will stay.”

Zoya ran out of the room.

I swear the static laughed as she left.

What It Wants
Tariq started hearing the voice even when the radio was off.

It came through his phone when he wore earbuds.

Through the fan while he was sleeping.

Through the TV when it was on mute.

It was always the same voice. Soft. Female. But wrong—like it had no feeling behind it.

He tried to ignore it.

But the voice didn’t like being ignored.

The Touch
One night, he woke up to find the radio on.

Even though it was unplugged.

The room was cold.
His bedsheets were damp.
And he couldn’t move.

Sleep paralysis, maybe. But he could still hear.

“You listened… now it’s my turn.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder.

Thin. Long. Cold.
With fingers that felt like wires and bone.

The next morning, he had a bruise on his shoulder shaped like a handprint.

The Research
Zoya and I did some digging.

Turns out, there’s an urban legend called The Static Bride.

A woman who died on her wedding night—electrocuted during a storm when her radio fell into a bathtub.

They say her voice still travels through radio waves, looking for someone to talk to.

Someone to replace her.

Someone to stay and listen forever.

If she says your name three times…
She owns your voice.
Then your mind.
Then your body.

Three Times
That same night, Tariq called me at 2:00 a.m.

He sounded… strange.

“I heard it again,” he whispered. “She said my name.”

I asked, “How many times?”

“Twice.”

“Don’t turn it on again,” I begged.

“I think it’s too late.”

Then the line went dead.

I called back.
No answer.
I ran to his house.

His window was open.
His radio was gone.

So was he.

The Voice Remains
Zoya and I told the police.

They didn’t believe us. Just a missing teen, they said.

But we know the truth.

You know how?

Because last week, I found the radio.

It was in a junk shop.

Tariq’s uncle isn’t there anymore.

But the radio was just sitting on the shelf. No price tag. Covered in dust.

It still works.

Even when unplugged.

And yesterday…
I swear I heard Tariq’s voice on it.

“Don’t listen. Don’t tune in. Don’t say her name—”

Then static.

So What Should You Do?
If you ever find an old radio—
If you hear static where there should be silence—
If the voice knows your name—

Don’t listen.

Don’t let it speak more than once.

And never, ever reply.

Because if you answer… even once…

She knows you’re listening.

And then she’ll never stop.

Final Message
Last night, Zoya messaged me:

“I think she said my name.
Just once.
But it’s enough, isn’t it?”

That was her last message.

Now when I sleep, I dream in static.

And sometimes… the voice says your name too.