The Last Broadcast
August 15, 2025
The static was almost a comfort now.
Elliot sat in the darkened control booth, headset pressed against one ear, watching the red “ON AIR” light pulse like a heartbeat in the gloom. The radio station had been off the official grid for years—most listeners assumed it had gone silent—but for Elliot, Dead Air 103.5 had never stopped.
He kept the station alive for an audience he couldn’t see, couldn’t verify, and sometimes doubted even existed. His voice was the only thing between himself and the quiet, and the quiet was dangerous.
It was 2:13 a.m. when the call came through.
“…Hello?” The voice was faint, filtered through layers of interference.
“Dead Air, you’re live,” Elliot said, leaning toward the mic. “Who’s this?”
The caller exhaled—a slow, wet, uneven sound. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Elliot smirked. “Bit late for that. You’re listening to Dead Air, the station for insomniacs, ghosts, and those who like bad company.”
“You’re not supposed to talk after midnight,” the voice said.
He frowned. “That’s kind of the point of a late-night show.”
“No,” the caller whispered. “They hear you.”
“Who hears me?”
The static deepened, almost like a breath being drawn through the wires. Then, without warning, the call disconnected.
Elliot stared at the phone line indicator. Normally, prank callers didn’t leave him rattled—especially in this part of town, where the only regular audience was truckers, conspiracy nuts, and the kind of people who thought their microwaves were spying on them.
But the voice had a weight to it. It wasn’t joking.
He shook it off and cued the next track—an obscure, haunted-sounding blues number from 1932. But halfway through the song, something changed in the sound.
It was faint at first: a whisper beneath the music, almost hidden in the hiss of the old vinyl.
He leaned forward, headphones tightening against his skull.
“…Elliot…”
His name.
He froze. It wasn’t possible. The record was decades old. The singer had been dead for half a century.
“Elliot…” the whisper came again, clearer now, layered under the guitar like it had always been there.
Elliot yanked the record off the turntable. The voice stopped.
He stared at the grooves, as if they could explain anything.
At 3:04 a.m., another call came in.
“Dead Air, you’re live—”
“You made them listen.”
It was the same voice.
“I don’t know what game you’re playing—”
“They’re not supposed to know your name,” the caller said sharply.
A second voice joined in then, far in the background. It didn’t sound human.
It was a low, layered murmur, like many mouths speaking in unison from deep underwater.
“They’re here now,” the caller whispered. “You’ve got seconds. Get off the air.”
The phone clicked dead again.
Elliot sat frozen for a long moment, then did what any good late-night host would do—he tried to laugh it off.
But the red “ON AIR” light was still glowing.
And now… now there was something new.
The light pulsed irregularly, like it was struggling to keep time.
And beneath the faint hum of the equipment, there was breathing.
Not his.
Slow, heavy, deliberate. Coming from the corner of the booth where the shadows pooled deepest.
He turned toward it.
The chair in the corner was occupied.
Something sat there, unmoving, almost blending into the dark. It was tall enough to scrape the ceiling if it stood. Its head—or what might have been a head—tilted unnaturally to one side.
The breathing grew louder, matching the irregular pulse of the “ON AIR” light.
Elliot’s throat tightened.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, echoing the caller’s words before he realized it.
The thing shifted slightly, and the movement was wrong—jerky, like it was remembering how to mimic human motion.
“Elliot…” it said in a rasp that felt like it was inside his ears rather than coming from the corner.
He slammed the control board’s master switch. The lights went out. The sound died.
For a few moments, there was silence—real silence.
Then the “ON AIR” light came back on by itself.
No hum of the machines. No music. Just the faint hiss of static, and then:
“…We can see you now.”
Elliot bolted from the booth.
The hallway outside was just as dark, but the air was colder—unnaturally so, like the building had been gutted of heat.
He ran for the front door.
Halfway there, he passed Studio B’s glass window. Something moved inside. He looked before he could stop himself.
Every microphone in the studio was live.
And every speaker was whispering his name. Over and over.
He kept moving.
The exit was locked.
Not just locked—jammed, as if something had pushed it inward from the outside.
Elliot pounded on it until his hands hurt, then stopped when he realized there was something on the other side.
Pressing back.
The whispers grew louder, filling the building now, echoing in layers. Some were high-pitched, some so deep they rattled his ribs.
He backed toward the stairwell, hoping to find a way to the roof.
But as he reached the stairs, he saw that the steps were… wrong.
The concrete was cracked, warped, and in the middle of the landing, there was a patch of darkness deeper than the rest. Not shadow—something thicker. It pulsed faintly, like a second heartbeat.
From inside it, hands began to emerge.
He stumbled back, nearly tripping, and found himself once again facing the hallway toward the booth.
The red “ON AIR” light was still glowing.
And now, every door along the hallway was slowly swinging open.
One by one.
A third call came through. He didn’t answer. The ringing filled the whole station now, echoing without speakers.
The lines between sound and space seemed to dissolve—the ringing was in the walls, the static was in his head, the breathing was right behind him—
He turned.
The thing from the booth was closer now. Still sitting, but somehow impossibly nearer, as if the hallway had bent around it.
“Elliot,” it said again, more clearly this time. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
“What are you?” His voice cracked.
The figure leaned forward, and for the first time, he saw its face—or what passed for one.
It was his own.
But stretched, elongated, the eyes too wide, the mouth a black, endless gash.
“We are the broadcast,” it said. “And now, so are you.”
The “ON AIR” light blazed so brightly it hurt to look at.
When the police finally forced the door open the next morning, the building was silent.
No Elliot. No signs of forced entry—except the deep gouges in the walls, as if something had clawed its way out from inside.
The only thing still working was the transmitter.
It was playing a live broadcast.
A man’s voice.
Repeating the same phrase over and over, under layers of static:
“You’re not supposed to be here.”