No Sleep After Dark

Story 12: The Last Broadcast

[Setup: small-town radio station, late-night DJ inherits an old reel-to-reel tape labeled “DO NOT AIR – 11/03/1997”]

I took the graveyard shift at WKRV 101.7 because it paid $14 an hour and I could play whatever I wanted after midnight. The station is in a cinderblock building off Highway 17, twenty miles outside of town. The previous DJ, a guy named Harlan, quit without notice. Left a note taped to the console: “I’m done. Don’t play the black reel. Sell the station if you have to.”

The black reel sat on the shelf above the turntables, unmarked except for that single strip of white gaffer tape with the date and warning in red Sharpie.

I ignored it for six months.

Then ratings started dropping. The station manager—some guy in his 60s who still called playlists “the hits”—told me to “do something memorable or we’re all out of jobs by summer.” So one night in July, 3:12 a.m., I cued up the black reel.

It was a single voice. Male, mid-30s, calm, almost bored.

“Testing, testing. This is Broadcast Zero. If you’re hearing this, the loop has failed. Again.”

Static for ten seconds. Then the same voice, same tone.

“Testing, testing. This is Broadcast Zero. If you’re hearing this, the loop has failed. Again.”

It repeated seven times exactly, then silence.

I laughed, called it “vintage creepypasta,” and went to commercial. When I came back, the phone lines were lighting up. Five callers in a row, all asking the same thing: “Who was that guy? He sounded like my dad/brother/uncle who disappeared in ’97.”

I brushed it off on air. “Just an old test tape, folks. Spooky, right?”

The next night the calls doubled. People saying they recognized the voice. One woman sobbed on the line: “That’s my husband. He went missing November 3rd, 1997. He worked here.”

I pulled Harlan’s personnel file. He’d been the overnight guy since 1995. Left suddenly in 2025. No forwarding address.

I played the tape again the following week. Same seven repetitions. But this time, at the end, there was something new—a faint whisper layered under the static:

“…you’re still listening… you’re still here…”

I stopped the reel. The studio felt colder. The on-air light blinked even though I hadn’t hit the mic.

Calls exploded. People driving to the station at 4 a.m. to demand answers. One guy tried to break in.

I locked the doors and played music nonstop for three nights.

On the fourth night I listened to the tape alone, headphones on, volume maxed.

Under the seventh repetition, buried deep, was a date: “November 3rd, 2025.”

That was six days away.

I told no one.

November 2nd I came in early. The reel was already threaded on the machine. I hadn’t touched it.

I hit play anyway.

This time the voice was different—tired, older.

“Testing, testing. This is Broadcast Zero. If you’re hearing this, the loop has failed. Again. It’s November 3rd, 2025. You’re the last one. You have to break it.”

A long pause.

“You’re going to play this tape tomorrow at 3:12 a.m. You’re going to think it’s a joke. It isn’t. When the seventh repetition ends, do not stop the reel. Let it run. Let it run until the station goes off air. Do not turn it off. Do not leave the building. Do not answer the phone. Just let it play.”

The tape hissed for thirty seconds.

Then, my own voice—clear, calm, recorded sometime in the future:

“I’m sorry. I didn’t listen. I turned it off. I’m still here.”

Click. End of tape.

I sat there shaking.

I called in sick the next night. Told them I had food poisoning. They put on a syndicated show.

At 3:12 a.m. I was in my car in the parking lot, listening on the radio.

The syndicated feed cut out. Dead air for two minutes.

Then the voice—Harlan’s voice—came on.

“Testing, testing. This is Broadcast Zero…”

Seven times.

Then my voice.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t listen.”

The station went silent.

It’s been three months. WKRV is dark. The building is padlocked. No one answers the corporate line.

But every night at 3:12 a.m., no matter where I am—my apartment, a hotel, a friend’s couch—my phone turns on by itself and plays dead air.

Until the seventh minute.

Then I hear myself whisper:

“You’re still listening. You’re still here.”