Late Night Cries

Chapter 3: The Sound Beneath

The night had not been kind to Jamila.

Even as dawn struggled to climb over the roofs of Rogo town, her thoughts remained trapped in the echoes of the previous night — the flickering light, the faint voice through the static, and Jamila’s trembling hands clutching the radio dial. What she had heard wasn’t a dream. The name that came through the static — her father’s — was too real, too deliberate.

By morning, the fear had settled into a different kind of weight — not panic, but purpose. Aisha felt it too. Something had been calling out from beneath the noise, and they couldn’t turn away anymore.

The radio station sat at the far end of town, crouched behind a sagging fence and a weathered sign that read Rogo Community Broadcasting Service. The paint had long peeled off, and the door groaned like it hadn’t been opened in years.

Aisha pushed first. The hinges shrieked in protest, a sound that made both girls flinch. The corridor beyond was narrow, lined with old posters of smiling presenters and rusted equipment that hadn’t seen light since before they were born.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Aisha asked quietly, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag.

Jamila glanced over her shoulder, half a smile forming. “Good idea? No. Necessary? Yes.”

They stepped inside. Dust motes floated lazily through the stale air, glowing gold in the slant of sunlight from a cracked window. Somewhere deeper in the building, a door banged softly — wind, maybe. Or not.

The station smelled of old cables, wet wood, and time left behind. On the wall was a framed photo of the early crew. Jamila’s gaze lingered until she found him — her father — standing in the back, smiling faintly, wearing the same wristwatch he’d been buried with. Her stomach twisted.

Jamila lead them straight to the control room.

The place was half-devoured by cobwebs. A single chair sat in front of the dusty console, as if waiting for someone who never came back.

“Jadon used to work here,” Jamila muttered, brushing a layer of dust off a nearby microphone. “Before he got sick. He was the last one except me who kept this place running.”

Aisha crouched beside the console, tracing her finger over faded labels.

“Look at this.”

On the old logbook lying open on the desk, the last few entries were smudged but still legible. The dates stopped five years ago.

She flipped back through the pages. Between the usual listings — Morning Devotion, Market News, Rogo Rhythms — a strange title appeared again and again in neat, looping handwriting:

“The Voices of Rogo – 12:00 a.m.”

Jamila frowned. “That was the midnight show hosted by my late father”

Aisha’s eyes were scanning the notes beneath. “Look — ‘Segment theme: Confessions of the Dead.’”

The words sent a shiver crawling up her arms.

Jamila leaned closer, reading aloud the next part scribbled faintly in pencil:

“Voices received between 12:03 and 12:07 a.m. Distorted transmission. No identifiable source.”

Aisha closed the book gently, as if afraid it might whisper back.

They searched through drawers, file boxes, even the half-collapsed cabinet in the corner. Most of the tapes were cracked or blank. Then Jamila found one that wasn’t.

Its label was faded but still readable: Rogo – 18/06/13 – The Voices of Rogo.

Her breath caught. “Aisha… this is one of them.”

The cassette was cold to the touch. Aisha hesitated.

“There’s an old player here,” Jamila said quickly, already reaching for the plug.

“Wait,” Aisha snapped. Her tone softened immediately. “Let’s think this through. We don’t know what’s on it.”

Jamila’s eyes darted toward her. “And that’s exactly why we have to know.”

After a long silence, Aisha nodded. The player wheezed as it started. Static filled the room like a swarm of bees.

Then — a voice.

Low. Crackling. Familiar.

“If you are hearing this… you’re already part of it.”

The girls froze. Jamila’s heart thudded in her chest.

“This is The Voices of Rogo. We collect the echoes of those who have not yet left.”

Another burst of static. Then, faintly — sobs.

Jamila turned the volume down slightly. The voice that followed was distorted, trembling.

“My name is Musa Ibrahim. I can’t find my way home. The road is dark. Please tell her—”

The tape clicked and went dead.

Aisha swallowed hard. “That name… isn’t that—?”

Jamila’s voice was barely a whisper. “My father’s producer.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. Aisha stood abruptly, pushing the chair back.

“This is wrong. This—whatever this is—it’s not normal radio. It’s not even possible.”

“What if your father wasn’t just hosting a show? What if he was trying to reach them?”

“Reach who?”

“The dead.”

The word hung in the air like a physical thing, heavy and impossible.

They didn’t speak for a while after that. The only sounds were the creaking of the floor and the slow hum of a dying fluorescent bulb overhead.

Finally, Aisha exhaled shakily. “We can’t do this alone.”

Jamila nodded. “I was thinking the same thing.”

“What about Jabir?”

Jamila turned sharply. “Jabir? No. He’ll think we’ve lost it.”

“Maybe. But he’s logical, careful. We’ll need that.”

Jamila paced near the console. The thought of involving someone else made her uneasy. Yet something deep down told her Aisha was right.

The last time they’d done something impulsive, they’d both ended up terrified — and still, somehow, closer to the truth.

“I’ll call him,” Aisha said. “Not now, but soon. He’ll listen if it’s me.”

Jamila didn’t answer. Her eyes had caught something in the corner — another book, thinner, bound in red leather. She reached for it and opened the first page.

It wasn’t a logbook. It was a journal.

The handwriting was neat, almost painfully precise.

June 10, 2013. The signal came again last night. I think they’re learning how to answer back.

She flipped the page.

June 12. I heard my own voice in the playback. But I never spoke those words.

Her hands began to tremble.

A voice came from behind her. “ what is it?”

Jamila closed the book slowly, her face pale. “It’s his handwriting. My father’s.”

They sat together on the floor for a long time, reading the fragments that remained. Most pages had been torn out. The ones left were full of lines that made no sense — coordinates, timestamps, and single words repeated over and over: frequency, hollow, return.

Jamila tried to joke, “Maybe he was experimenting.”

But her voice cracked halfway through.

Outside, the wind howled against the broken shutters, making them rattle like skeletal fingers.

“This place feels… wrong,” Aisha whispered.

“It’s more than that,” Jamila replied quietly. “It feels like it’s listening.”

The lights flickered once. Twice.

Then, from the old speaker on the console — a faint hiss.

Both girls froze. The cassette deck was empty. The radio wasn’t even on.

The hiss grew louder, stretching into a slow, rhythmic pulse, like breathing through static.

Jamila’s voice shook. “Aisha…?”

Aisha stepped closer, eyes locked on the speaker. “It’s coming from the broadcast line.”

“How? There’s no power connected.”

Before either could move, the sound shifted — static bending into something that almost formed words.

Ais—ha…

Her name.

Clear. Drawn out. Coming from inside the static.

The breath left her body in a single gasp.

Jamila lunged forward and slammed the power switch off — but the sound didn’t stop.

…don’t… leave…

The air in the room thickened. The temperature dropped sharply; their breaths came out as faint clouds.

Jamila grabbed Aisha’s hand. “We need to go.”

Aisha didn’t move. Her eyes were fixed on the logbook, on the final entry Jamila’s father had written years ago. The ink had bled through from the other page, forming a single blurred sentence:

The voices know who listens.

They bolted out of the room, down the corridor, and into the cold daylight. The station loomed behind them — silent once again.

They didn’t speak until they reached the main road, panting, shaken.

Jamila finally said, “Tomorrow… we bring Jabir.”

They turned toward the station one last time.

Somewhere deep inside, behind those broken walls, a soft hum started again — faint, but growing.

It sounded like someone tuning a radio.

Then — a whisper, carried on the wind:

We’re still here.