Chapter 2-The tape
1124 Words
CHAPTER TWO: THE TAPE
The reel sat in her palm like it had weight beyond plastic and tape—heavier, somehow. Denser. Mira turned it over once, twice. No label. No date. Just that red s***h, jagged and uneven, like it had been scratched on in anger or warning.
She didn’t move for a long moment.
The booth around her buzzed with the familiar drone of equipment and rain, but everything inside her had stilled.
Who the hell leaves a reel-to-reel in a drawer she checked every night? How had it gotten there?
Her thoughts ticked off like a metronome.
Security footage. Otis. Another prank caller.
But no prank caller would have known she’d look in that drawer. And Otis… she hadn’t seen him in nearly forty minutes.
Mira leaned forward and slid the reel into the dusty old playback unit mounted beside the desk—a leftover from the station’s analog days. Most of the DJs ignored it. Mira liked that it still worked. That it felt like a link to something older than her. Older than the building, maybe.
She hesitated over the PLAY button.
The words from the last caller echoed back:
“Don’t play it. If you do—he’ll know.”
He who?
Her finger hovered.
Then dropped.
The tape clicked into motion with a low whir.
At first, nothing. Just a faint buzz—normal, analog static. Then, a voice.
Male. Mid-thirties, maybe. Professional tone. Smooth, practiced.
“This is Dr. Eli Carrow, recording on May 12th, 1976. I’m submitting this tape to the Briar Glen Broadcasting Archive per my arrangement with WBRG management. It is not for public release.”
Mira froze.
The name was familiar.
Carrow… there was a plaque downstairs in the lobby—a donor, maybe? Founder?
The tape crackled. The voice continued.
“There are things beneath the surface of sound. Frequencies that exist outside the auditory range of the human ear. But if you amplify them, if you listen long enough… they start listening back.”
A chill crept up Mira’s arms.
Carrow’s voice lowered, like he was suddenly aware someone might be listening.
“I began hearing it during my research into infrasound effects—below 20 Hz. The station had old analog equipment capable of capturing it. WBRG was the only one in the region. That’s why I chose it. Why I stayed.”
A rustle. Papers. A breath.
“I didn’t believe it at first. Thought it was stress. Sleep deprivation. But then the calls started.”
Calls…
Mira’s eyes flicked to the blinking switchboard.
“All of them said the same thing,” Carrow whispered. “They’d heard something between broadcasts. A pattern. A signal. Something speaking through the silence. And every one of them…”
A pause.
“…went missing within a month.”
The reel popped suddenly, like a tiny explosion of static, and Carrow’s voice returned more frantic, thinner now.
“I made contact. I recorded it. It only speaks when it knows you’re listening. That’s the trick—it waits. And once it knows you’ve heard it, it starts learning your frequency. Mimicking. Calling others.”
A loud click, like the mic had been hit. Then—
“It found me.”
The tape spun faster for a moment, whirring.
“I burned the originals. Hid this copy in the hopes someone would find it after—after it was too late to matter. But if you’re listening to this—stop. Don’t go further. Don’t answer the calls. Don’t amplify the dead air.”
A long pause.
And then, faintly, layered beneath the static:
A second voice. Whispering.
“He’s awake.”
The reel clicked to a stop.
Mira sat frozen, the air in the booth suddenly too thick to breathe.
Outside, the rain had stopped.
The stillness that followed felt unnatural—like the world was waiting for her next move.
She removed the reel and shoved it back in the drawer, slamming it shut. Then turned the mic back on.
“Listeners,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady, “we’re going off-script tonight. I just played something I wasn’t supposed to. And if anyone out there knows the name Eli Carrow, or what the hell this station is really broadcasting—call in.”
She hesitated. Then added:
“Or… don’t. Maybe that’s better.”
It was only then she noticed Line 3 blinking.
Mira stared. They only had two functioning lines. There was no Line 3.
But it blinked. Steady. Waiting.
She reached toward it—and stopped.
Don’t answer the calls.
Her hand hovered.
And still, it blinked.
On.
Off.
On.
She snatched the headphones and slid them on, opening the line without speaking.
Breath.
Not hers. Not the machine’s.
Then, a voice. Childlike, soft, but wrong—like a recording looped too many times.
“Play it again.”
Mira ripped the headphones off.
The line still buzzed.
Her fingers flew to the switchboard. She killed the connection. All of them.
And then—without prompting—Line 3 lit up again.
Faster, now.
She shut the entire board down. Power off.
The line blinked in total darkness.
She left the booth.
The hallway was colder than before.
Far down the corridor, the janitor’s closet door was now wide open.
She called for Otis again. No answer. Her shoes echoed as she walked carefully past the door, refusing to look inside. Her instinct was screaming now.
The lobby lights flickered as she entered. Still no guard. She grabbed her coat from the back of the chair and pulled out her phone.
No signal.
No Wi-Fi.
No battery—dead, even though it had been at 60% not thirty minutes ago.
Something shifted in her peripheral vision.
Mira turned sharply.
On the far wall, the framed plaque that read DR. ELI CARROW – FOUNDER, 1972 was cracked clean down the center.
And beneath it—something new.
Scratched into the drywall with uneven, jagged lines:
“THE FREQUENCY REMEMBERS.”
She didn’t remember running.
Not exactly.
One minute, she was staring at the wall. The next, she was outside the station, soaked in fog, the cold slicing through her clothes like glass. Her hands were shaking.
She stood under the old WBRG sign—its red letters blinking on and off like a failing heartbeat.
Behind her, the booth lights flickered to life again.
Even though she’d turned everything off.
Even though she was alone.
Through the fogged-up windows, she saw the reel turning.
No one was touching it.
But the tape was playing.
And somewhere deep inside the station, a voice she hadn’t heard before whispered across every speaker:
“You’ve heard me now.”
- Writer
