The Radio Station That Broadcasts Nothing
I host a jazz show from 2 AM to 5 AM on a small local station called WJKT, out in the edge of town where the streetlights get fewer and farther apart. Most nights I thought nobody listened at all. I figured it was just me, a coffee pot, and the hum of old equipment that had been running since before I was born. I was wrong about that, and I wish I still believed I was right. My booth is in the basement of an old house that got turned into a radio studio back in the seventies. The paint on the walls is yellowed and peeling in the corners. There's a smell down there, like old carpet and dust that never really leaves no matter how many times you air the place out. The ceiling is low, and the pipes groan sometimes when the heat kicks on upstairs. It's quiet in a heavy kind of way, the kind of quiet that makes you very aware of your own breathing. That night started like any other. I had my playlist set, a stack of old vinyl records next to the turntable, and a cup of coffee going cold by my elbow. I was playing a slow Miles Davis track, just letting the trumpet fill the room, when the request line rang. It doesn't ring often at that hour, so I was almost excited. I picked it up fast, hoping for a song request, maybe someone driving home from a late shift wanting to hear something nice. Instead, I heard breathing. Heavy, slow breathing, like someone standing too close to the phone. I said, "Hello? WJKT, who's calling?" Nothing but that breathing, steady and wet-sounding, like it was coming from somewhere deep. I asked again, "Hey, is someone there?" Then the line went dead. Just a click, and then the dial tone. I sat there staring at the phone for a second, telling myself it was probably a prank call or some drunk kid messing around. I put the receiver down and tried to shake it off. A few minutes later though, the lights on my control board started flashing. Not just flickering, but flashing in a pattern, on and off, on and off, faster than any normal power problem I'd seen before. The power jumped, I felt it in the air almost, and then the music just stopped. Dead silence in a basement that's never fully silent. I tried to switch to the backup equipment, my hands moving on instinct because I've trained for dead air plenty of times. But instead of music, the radio let out this screeching sound, high and painful, like metal scraping metal but worse, like it was alive somehow. I had to pull my headphones half off my ears it was so loud. I looked at my screens, the little monitors that show signal levels and waveforms, and the patterns on them were all wrong. Sharp, jagged lines that didn't match anything I was playing, like something else was feeding into the system. I grabbed my mic, about to call out to my engineer, a guy named Carl who usually sits in the next room over keeping an eye on the signal. I said, "Carl, cut the feed, something's wrong with the board." No answer. I looked through the little window between the booths, and his chair was empty. His coffee mug was still sitting there, like he'd just gotten up, but the room was dark and still. The doors to that section lock from the outside at night, for security, so I knew there was no way he could've slipped out and back in without me hearing the door. That's when I heard it. My own voice, coming through the speakers. But it was deeper, slower, wrong in a way I can't fully explain. It didn't sound like a recording either, it sounded live, like it was happening right then. It started reading names. My name came first, clear as anything. Then my mother's name, my father's name, my sister's name. Then the names of my close friends, one after another, like someone reading off a list at a funeral. It was every single person I have ever loved, in order, like whoever or whatever was speaking knew my whole life by heart. I tried to stand up out of my chair. My legs wouldn't listen. I pushed down on the armrests, tried to get up, but it was like my body had turned to stone from the waist down. I could feel panic rising in my chest, that cold tight feeling, but I couldn't even really move my arms much either. I looked at the glass in front of the booth, the thick soundproof glass that separates me from the hallway, and I saw my own reflection staring back, pale, eyes wide. Then behind my reflection, in the dim hallway light, I saw them. Tall, thin figures wearing old-fashioned suits, the kind you'd see in black and white photographs from decades ago. They stood very still, almost unnaturally still, not swaying or shifting their weight the way people normally do even when trying to stand quiet. They weren't looking at me at all. Their heads, what I could see of them, were turned toward the old tape machines against the wall, the ones that haven't worked in years. Those tape reels were spinning on their own, slowly, with nobody near them. The voice on the radio finished reading the names. Then it said, clear and calm, "Welcome to the permanent broadcast." Right after that, I felt it. A hand, cold as ice, pressed down on my shoulder from behind. I didn't see anyone there when I managed to turn my head slightly, but I felt the weight of it, the cold sinking through my shirt into my skin. The music started again after that, but it wasn't anything I recognized. A slow, sad song, something with strings and a woman's voice humming low, and it made me feel hollow inside, like something was being pulled out of me while I listened. It has been three days now. I haven't eaten. I haven't slept. I haven't left this booth, not once. My legs still won't carry me past the chair, and honestly, some part of me isn't even sure I want to try leaving anymore. The station keeps broadcasting, but it's not playing jazz records anymore. It's playing pieces of my life, my memories, conversations I've had, laughter from years ago, arguments I thought I'd forgotten, all looping over and over through the speakers for whoever might be listening out there in the dark. Through the glass, I still see them, the tall men in their old suits, standing just as still as before, waiting. I don't know exactly what they're waiting for, but I have this feeling, deep down, that they're waiting for me to run out of stories to tell. Like once my memories dry up, once there's nothing left of me to play, that'll be the end of it. I think that's when they'll finally move. I think that's when they'll come through the glass, and whatever this broadcast is, it'll be over for good.