Dead Air

CHAPTER ONE: THE SIGNAL Rain fell like static. It tapped against the glass of the control booth in uneven rhythms, syncing perfectly with the soft crackle of dead air humming through the headphones resting beside Mira Lane’s elbow. The city was asleep, or pretending to be. Midnight in Briar Glen was always like this—half-dead, half-drunk, and steeped in the kind of silence that made you feel watched, even when you were alone. Mira twisted the volume knob slowly to the right. The hiss grew louder, a whisper in the dark.She glanced at the red-lit sign above the soundproof door. ON AIR But no one was speaking. Not yet. She shifted in her chair, the ancient leather groaning beneath her. The station’s equipment was barely functional, much like the station itself. WBRG 88.1 had been on the verge of shutting down since she got here, kept alive only by a skeleton crew, a handful of insomniacs, and the stubbornness of a dead man’s legacy. The last station in town still running analog. Mira had only been hosting the late-night slot for four months. She didn’t ask too many questions when they offered her the job. A paycheck was a paycheck, and the silence—truth be told—was comforting. A break from the chaos she’d tried to leave behind in Chicago. But tonight, the silence was… different. She leaned in toward the mic, adjusting her script as the clock struck 12:03 a.m. “Good evening, Briar Glen. This is Mira Lane, and you’re listening to the midnight frequency on WBRG 88.1—the only place left for the restless, the lonely, and the nightwalkers.” She paused, letting her words stretch and linger. “Tonight’s show is unscripted. If you’ve got a story, a confession, or a warning—tonight’s your night. Lines are open. Let’s hear what the dark has to say.” Her finger hovered over the blinking phone line—Line 2, the only one that ever worked. For a while, there was nothing. Then a low click. She blinked. No voice. No sound. Just… a pulse of static. “Hello? You’re on WBRG. What’s your name?” she asked. Silence. Then breathing. Soft. Unmistakable. “Do you have something to share?” she tried again, masking the sudden chill running down her spine. The breath on the other end hitched. Then a voice—barely audible—spoke. “He’s awake.” Mira sat straighter. “Excuse me?” Another pause. Then, louder: “You opened the door. Now he won’t go back to sleep.” The line went dead. For several long seconds, all she could hear was her own breathing, slightly elevated now. She tapped the receiver. Static. No connection. She checked the call log. The number was blocked. Her gaze drifted to the equipment. Everything looked normal. The board lights blinked their usual slow blink, like a dying heartbeat. The hiss in the headphones hadn’t changed. And yet… Mira rewound the call on the backup recording deck, just to be sure she hadn’t imagined it. But when she hit play, all she got was noise. No voice. No breath. Just a long, empty hiss that burrowed into her ears like something alive. She stopped the tape. Her reflection in the dark studio glass looked pale. Off. She took a breath. “Looks like we’ve got prank callers tonight,” she said aloud, forcing her voice into its usual smoky calm. “That’s okay. It’s been a while since we had some fun.” She tried Line 2 again. Nothing. She moved to Line 1. Miraculously, it lit up. Another call. This time, there was music in the background. A slow piano tune—off-key, distant, warbling like a music box left out in the rain. A child’s voice murmured something. Then a thud. And the line dropped again. Mira stood. She needed air. The hallway outside the booth smelled like mold and old coffee. The janitor’s closet door at the far end was slightly ajar, though she didn’t remember it being that way earlier. The station was locked to the public after 9 p.m. Only she and the security guard, Otis, were supposed to be here. She headed to the front desk. Otis wasn’t there. Just a half-full mug of coffee, still warm. She called his name. No answer. Then the power flickered. Just once. Barely enough to register. But when she turned back to the broadcast booth, the ON AIR sign was no longer red. It was dark. And through the glass, she could see someone standing inside. She froze. Heart hammering. There was no one else scheduled tonight. No guests. No interns. She had the shift until 4 a.m., and it was only 12:17. But someone was definitely in there. The silhouette didn’t move. It stood exactly where she’d been sitting—right in front of the mic. Mira took a step back, unsure whether to call for help or grab something heavy. Then the booth lights flickered back on. The figure vanished. The ON AIR sign lit up red again. But the chair was still spinning. Slowly. Mira returned to the booth cautiously. The equipment was fine. The mic levels normal. The door had remained locked the entire time. But the chill in the air had teeth now. She sat, hands trembling slightly, and turned the mic back on. “Well, listeners,” she said, voice a little thinner than before. “Looks like we’ve got a few technical difficulties tonight. Or maybe we’ve just got company.” She smiled, tight-lipped. “Either way, if you’re out there, if you heard what I heard—call in. I’d like to know I’m not the only one losing it.” The line blinked again. She hesitated, then pressed the button. This time, the voice was familiar. Male. Calm. Almost soothing. “I remember this frequency,” the caller said. “I used to speak here. Before they buried me.” Mira’s skin crawled. “You’ll find the tape in the drawer,” the voice continued. “But don’t play it. If you do—he’ll know. He always knows.” The line dropped. She turned slowly toward the desk drawer to her left. It had been empty for weeks. She kept a spare pen and a candy wrapper in there. But now it was closed. She reached out. Opened it. And inside—sitting neatly in the center—was a dusty reel-to-reel tape. No label. Just a red s***h across its face, like a wound.