“The Last Voice on Channel 11”

M Mehran

Raina stared at the flickering screen in the corner of the attic, its soft blue glow casting ghostly shadows across the cobweb-laced rafters. She hadn’t touched the thing in years. Maybe longer. It was her grandfather’s—left exactly where he’d put it after his last broadcast.

Channel 11, Local News. Dead for over a decade.

Yet tonight, it whispered.

She didn’t mean to be up there. She only wanted to find the box of childhood photos. But as soon as she opened the attic door, a faint hum had pulled her in—like a lullaby sung backward.

The screen showed static. Almost.

If she squinted, there was a face in the fuzz.

“...If anyone can hear me...”

The voice was warbled but unmistakable.

“Grandpa?” she whispered, heart seizing in her chest.

The last time she'd heard his voice was at his funeral, playing from an old clip the station dug up. He had been the evening anchor for thirty years. Reliable. Sharp. The kind of voice that made you believe the world wasn't falling apart, even when it was.

After retirement, he never quite settled. He’d still get dressed at 6 PM sharp, straighten his tie in the hallway mirror, and deliver the news to no one but the attic’s dust and shadows.

Everyone thought it was eccentricity. Maybe grief, after Grandma passed. Maybe guilt, though no one could say what for.

Raina moved closer to the TV. Her fingers tingled as she touched the side. It was warm.

“—Tonight’s top story,” the voice on the screen continued, still crackling. “A fire. Unnatural in origin. Beginning in the west, spreading fast. Unseen. Unheard.”

She pulled her hand back. This wasn’t a recording.

The image sharpened—just a flicker. Enough to see his silhouette. Grandfather, sitting straight behind the old desk, papers in hand. But his eyes…

They weren’t looking at the camera.

They were looking at her.

“You must warn them, Raina.”

She gasped. He had said her name. Not in general. To her. Like he knew she was watching.

“This fire… it does not burn wood or flesh. It consumes memory. Identity. Entire towns vanish, not in smoke, but in silence. No one recalls they ever existed.”

Her hands shook.

“You think I’ve gone mad,” the voice softened. “That I died an old man with one foot stuck in the past. But I saw it coming. The erosion. It started with whispers. Forgotten street names. Blank signs. Then, your grandmother...”

He closed his eyes.

“She vanished one Tuesday. No obituary. No records. Even your mother doesn’t remember she lived.”

Raina clutched her chest. That couldn’t be true. Could it?

She tried to picture her grandmother’s face. Tried… and failed.

Only fog.

“This will be my final broadcast,” her grandfather continued. “The fire’s at my door. You are the last voice now, Raina. Speak. Record. Write. Do anything to keep the truth anchored. Because once it’s forgotten…”

The screen blipped.

Then went black.

Raina stood in silence.

Outside, the town looked the same. But something itched at her brain. The name of the bakery on 3rd Street—what was it? The barber shop? Her old friend Nina—did she ever exist?

She ran downstairs, grabbed her phone, and began to record her own voice.

“Today is August 7th. My name is Raina Delmar. This town is called Elmsworth. My grandfather’s name was Martin Delmar. He was a news anchor. My grandmother—her name was—was…”

Her breath hitched.

She didn’t know. The memory was slipping.

But her voice stayed steady.

“She mattered. She was real. They were both real. I am real. And I remember.”

Somewhere deep inside the TV, a faint buzz returned. The screen glowed, just for a second, and in that moment, she thought she saw her grandfather smile.