The Last Broadcast
November 8, 2025
Rain drummed on the cracked window of the small-town radio station, WNTR 98.4 FM, the only light on Main Street still burning after midnight. Inside, the “ON AIR” sign glowed red.
“Good evening, folks,” said the smooth voice of Tom Riker, longtime late-night DJ. “It’s twelve past twelve, and you’re tuned to the Midnight Hour. Tonight’s weather — dark, wet, and full of mystery.”
He chuckled into the mic, then switched to a blues record. Behind the glass, the soundboard lights flickered. The studio smelled of old coffee and vinyl.
Then — knock knock knock.
Tom frowned. No one visited the station this late. He rose, crossed the narrow hallway, and opened the door.
A woman stood there, drenched and shivering. Her black raincoat dripped onto the linoleum. She wore no umbrella, no bag, no smile.
“Are you Tom Riker?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
“Uh, yeah. You okay, miss?”
“I need to talk to you. It’s about something you said on the air last night.”
Tom blinked. “The missing man?”
She nodded. “You mentioned my brother. Nathan Cole.”
Tom stepped aside. “Come in. You’re soaked.”
She entered, glancing around as if expecting someone else to appear from the shadows.
Ten days earlier, a local fisherman named Nathan Cole had vanished. His truck was found by the river, door open, keys still inside. No note. No signs of struggle.
Tom had talked about it on the air, as he often did with small-town gossip — nothing serious. “People disappear all the time,” he’d said then. “But in Grayridge, we like to think the river keeps its secrets.”
Now, staring at Nathan’s sister, he felt uneasy.
“I’m Emily,” she said, sitting down by the console. “I heard your broadcast. You said he might have been involved with someone at the station. Why did you say that?”
Tom frowned. “It was a rumor, that’s all. A caller mentioned—”
“Who?” she interrupted.
“I didn’t catch his name. We don’t always get them.”
Emily looked at him sharply. “You shouldn’t spread rumors about the dead.”
He shifted in his chair. “Hold on. The sheriff never confirmed he’s dead.”
Emily’s eyes were cold. “He is.”
For a moment, only the sound of rain filled the room.
After she left, Tom couldn’t focus. Her eyes haunted him — not sad, but furious. When his shift ended at 2 a.m., he locked up and walked home through puddles.
The next morning, Sheriff Doyle was waiting outside the station.
“Morning, Riker,” Doyle said, chewing on a toothpick. “You got a minute?”
“Always, Sheriff.”
They stepped inside. Doyle’s raincoat dripped on the floor. “We found Nathan Cole’s body. Washed up near the dam.”
Tom froze. “Jesus. I’m sorry.”
“Gunshot wound to the chest. Looks like murder.”
“Murder?”
“Yup. And his phone had a voicemail. From you.”
Tom’s stomach dropped. “What? No — I never—”
Doyle held up a hand. “Relax. We listened. It’s your voice, but it’s… strange. You say, ‘Meet me at the dam, 11:30.’ Ring a bell?”
Tom shook his head. “I never called him. I didn’t even know the guy personally.”
“Well,” Doyle said, scratching his chin, “someone did a damn good impression.”
By evening, rumors spread like wildfire. “The radio guy killed him.” “He confessed on air.” “The devil’s voice came through WNTR.”
Tom’s boss, Marla, stormed in before the next show. “Tom, what the hell is going on? The sheriff says your voice was on that man’s phone!”
“I’m telling you, I didn’t make that call,” he said. “Maybe someone’s setting me up.”
“Who’d want to do that?”
He thought of Emily, drenched in the doorway, asking about rumors.
“I don’t know,” he muttered.
That night, he locked the studio door and started his shift. The mic crackled as he spoke.
“Midnight again, Grayridge. Strange days lately. If you’re listening, keep your lights on.”
He played an old Johnny Cash song, but halfway through, the sound cut. Static filled the air.
“Marla?” he called into the mic. “We got interference again.”
No answer.
Then a voice came through the static — his own voice.
“Meet me at the dam, 11:30.”
Tom’s blood ran cold. “What the hell—”
The recording played again, clearer this time. It was definitely him. But he had never said those words.
He ripped off his headphones and stormed into the hall. “Who’s messing with the feed?”
Silence.
The building was empty.
He called the sheriff’s office, but the line was dead. He called Marla — voicemail. He thought about going home, but curiosity pulled harder.
By 11:20, he was driving through the rain toward the dam.
The place was pitch-black except for the beam of his headlights cutting through the fog.
“Stupid,” he muttered, stepping out. “This is how people die in horror stories.”
Then he heard it — faint, familiar. Music. From a radio.
He followed the sound along the guardrail until he found it: a small battery-powered radio lying on the ground, playing his show.
But it wasn’t live. It was last night’s broadcast.
Suddenly, headlights flared behind him. A car door slammed.
“Tom Riker,” said a voice.
Emily Cole stepped out of the shadows, holding a gun.
“I should’ve known,” Tom said, hands raised. “You killed your brother.”
Her face twisted. “He was going to ruin me. He found out what I did.”
“What did you do, Emily?”
She hesitated. “Nathan and I inherited our parents’ store. But he wanted to sell it. I forged his signature — took a loan against it. When he found out, he said he’d tell the bank, the sheriff, everyone.”
“So you shot him.”
Her eyes glistened. “I didn’t mean to. It just… happened.”
“And the voicemail?”
“I made it sound like you. Took one of your old broadcasts, spliced the words together. You talk too much, Tom.”
He swallowed hard. “And now what? You’ll kill me too?”
She lifted the gun. “I can’t let you go. You’ll tell Doyle.”
Before she could fire, red and blue lights flashed from the ridge.
“Drop the weapon!” Sheriff Doyle’s voice thundered through a megaphone.
Emily froze. “How—?”
Tom smiled weakly. “You should’ve checked the airwaves. I’ve been broadcasting this whole thing live.”
Her eyes went wide. “No—”
Doyle’s deputies tackled her before she could pull the trigger.
Hours later, as dawn broke over Grayridge, Tom sat in the empty studio, exhausted. Doyle leaned on the doorframe, coffee in hand.
“You’re lucky you thought to turn that mic on.”
Tom chuckled wearily. “Guess radio still saves lives.”
Doyle nodded. “She confessed everything. Smart woman, dumb crime.”
He turned to leave, then paused. “You’re going back on air tonight?”
Tom looked at the red “ON AIR” light. “Yeah. Someone’s gotta keep folks company through the dark.”
Doyle smiled. “Try not to solve another murder while you’re at it.”
That night, the Midnight Hour returned. Tom leaned into the mic, voice steady, calm.
“This is Tom Riker, signing on once again. Tonight’s theme: confessions. Sometimes they come through the cracks, sometimes through the static.”
He paused, glancing at the rain outside.
“And sometimes,” he said softly, “they come too late.”
The record spun. The rain fell. And Grayridge listened — quiet, haunted, and alive.