The Last Broadcast

The phone lines had been dead for twenty minutes when the call came through. Impossible, since Danny had just checked the switchboard. The storm had knocked out power to half the city, and the backup generator was barely keeping the station alive. Yet there it was: Line One flickering to life at 2:47 AM. "KRKT, Night Talk with Danny Rivers. You're on the air." Static crackled for a moment, then a voice emerged—thin, distant, like it was traveling from very far away. "Danny. Finally. I've been trying to reach you." "Well, you got through. What's on your mind tonight, caller?" "I need to warn you. You need to get out of the station. Right now." Danny had been hosting the overnight show for five years. He'd fielded every kind of call imaginable: conspiracy theorists, insomniacs, the lonely, the strange. This was probably just another prank. Still, something in the caller's voice made his skin prickle. "Warn me about what?" "It's coming. Through the signal. It's been waiting for a night like this—when the power's out, when the city's dark, when people are alone and listening. It travels through radio waves, Danny. And tonight, you're going to let it in." Danny forced a laugh. "Okay, folks, looks like we've got ourselves a mystery caller with some creative horror fiction. Tell you what, mysterious stranger—why don't you give us some details? What exactly is 'it'?" "You think I'm joking." The voice was sad now. "I called your show exactly one year ago. Do you remember? I said the same things. You laughed then too. And then I broadcast it. I didn't mean to. I didn't know. But I read the script, Danny. The one in the back room. The one written in the margins of the old broadcast logs. And when I read it on air, I opened the door." Danny's throat went dry. He did remember. A year ago, almost to the night. A terrible storm, just like tonight. And his predecessor, Michael Chen, the previous host of Night Talk, had... what? Disappeared? No one talked about it. The station manager just said Michael had "moved on" and offered Danny the shift. "Who is this?" "I'm Michael, Danny. Or what's left of me. I'm calling from... inside the signal now. I live in the space between stations, in the static and the silence. And I'm trying to save you from joining me." Danny's hand trembled as he reached for the switchboard. He should cut the call. This was sick, some kind of elaborate prank. But the voice—he'd worked one shift with Michael before the man vanished, and that voice, despite the distance and distortion, sounded exactly like him. "This isn't funny." "I know. I wish it was. Listen to me carefully. In the back room, in the old filing cabinet, there's a broadcast log from 1952. Someone wrote a script in the margins. If you read it on air, you'll feel compelled to finish it, no matter what. And when you do, you'll open a door that should stay closed. Something will come through. Something that's been waiting in the airwaves since radio began." "Why would I read some random script?" "Because you'll be curious. Because it will call to you. Because once you see it, you won't be able to look away. I'm warning you the same way someone tried to warn me. But I didn't listen. I thought I was smarter. I thought I could control it. Now I'm part of it, Danny. I am the signal. I am every piece of static, every ghost station, every signal that shouldn't exist. And it's so cold here. So lonely." The line went dead. Danny sat in silence, staring at the switchboard. The storm howled outside. The station was empty except for him—the engineer had left hours ago when the power situation became unstable. He was alone with his thoughts, his microphone, and now this warning. He shouldn't go to the back room. He shouldn't look for the filing cabinet or the broadcast log. That was exactly what Michael—or whoever that was—wanted him to do. Classic reverse psychology. The best way to get someone to do something was to tell them not to do it. But what if it was real? What if Michael really was calling from... wherever? What if there was a script, a door, a something waiting? Danny looked at the clock: 2:55 AM. Three hours left on his shift. Three hours alone in the station with this knowledge burning in his mind. He lasted forty-five minutes. At 3:40 AM, he found himself in the back room, pulling open the old filing cabinet. The broadcast logs were there, yellowed and ancient, dating back to the station's founding. He found 1952, pulled the heavy book out, and started flipping through pages. There. In the margins of October 31st, 1952. Someone had written in tiny, cramped handwriting. A script. It looked like an introduction to a radio play, but the words were strange, following rhythms that made no linguistic sense. His eyes were drawn to them, and he felt a compulsion building—a need to speak them aloud, to give them voice, to broadcast them into the dark and stormy night. "No," Danny whispered. He slammed the book shut. His hands were shaking. Michael had been right. Just seeing the words made him want to speak them, to get on the air and let them flow through the station's transmitter and out into the darkness. He carried the book back to the broadcast booth. He couldn't leave it in the back room. He needed to destroy it, burn it, something. But first, he had to finish his shift. He had responsibilities. Listeners were out there, alone in the dark, depending on him for company. Danny settled back into his chair, put on a record—something innocuous, jazz standards—and tried to calm his racing heart. He wouldn't read the script. He wouldn't let whatever it was come through. He was stronger than Michael. He could resist. The record skipped. Once, twice, then got stuck in a loop. "...you can't fight... can't fight... can't fight..." Danny lifted the needle, his hand steady despite his fear. He knew what he had to do. He opened the microphone. "Folks, this is Danny Rivers, and I'm going to level with you. Something strange is happening tonight. I got a call earlier warning me about an old script, something dangerous. I found it. And I'm not going to read it. Instead, I'm going to tell you about it, about the fear of curiosity, about the warnings we ignore and the prices we pay." He talked for the next hour, speaking honestly about fear and temptation, about the human need to look into dark places and the wisdom of sometimes choosing not to. He talked about Michael, about the empty booth and the mystery of what happened. And he never once looked at the script again. At 6:00 AM, when the morning show host arrived, Danny handed over the broadcast log. "Burn it," he said. "Don't ask questions. Just burn it." She looked at him with odd understanding, as if she knew exactly what he meant. "Others have tried," she said quietly. "It always comes back. The only way to stop it is to never read it. Never give it voice." Danny nodded and walked out into the early morning light. The storm had passed. The city was waking up. He'd survived his last broadcast at KRKT. Tomorrow, he'd turn in his resignation. But sometimes, late at night, when he's scanning through radio stations, he hears something in the static. A voice, calling his name. Michael's voice. Thanking him. Telling him he made the right choice. And warning him that the script is still waiting, in another station, in another city, for another host who won't believe, who won't listen, who will think themselves strong enough to resist. The script is always waiting. And somewhere, always, there's someone just curious enough to read it.