The Midnight Radio Station I Found On The Office Security System
I work the night shift at a massive logistics center on the edge of town, a place that feels like it was designed by someone who hates sunlight. The building is an endless maze of concrete, steel, and high-ceilinged warehouses that seem to stretch on forever into the darkness. It is an old, drafty structure that never seems to fully warm up, even in the middle of summer. From midnight until six in the morning, I am the only soul for miles. My workspace is a small, windowless security booth tucked away near the main entrance. It is a cramped little box that constantly smells like stale, burnt coffee and the faint, dusty scent of industrial floor wax. My shift revolves around a bank of flickering monitors that display grainy, black-and-white views of the silent loading bays and empty hallways. Along the walls of the booth, there are several outdated intercom speakers that are mostly disconnected or broken. They are relics from an era before we switched to digital systems, and I have always ignored them. About three weeks ago, that changed. It started as a faint, rhythmic pulse buried deep beneath a layer of harsh static. It sounded like a heartbeat, heavy and steady. I leaned in close to the wall, thinking it was just a loose wire, but then the static shifted. I reached over to the old radio sitting on my desk, clicking the dial until the frequency aligned with the sound coming from the wall. Suddenly, the static cut out, replaced by the clear, calm voice of a woman. She was reading lists of numbers—five-nine-two-one-zero, four-eight-one-three-four, seven-two-zero-nine-six. It was mesmerizing, like those old mysterious spy broadcasts you read about in thrillers. I spent the rest of the night just listening, wondering where the signal was coming from. The next day, I brought it up to my coworker, Sarah, during the shift handover. Sarah is the definition of practical; she is the kind of person who believes that if you can’t see it or measure it, it doesn’t exist. When I told her about the voice and the numbers, she didn't even look up from her clipboard. She just laughed, a short, sharp sound that made me feel a little foolish. She told me the wiring in this building is ancient and falling apart. She said we were likely picking up rogue signals from the nearby highway towers or some amateur radio hobbyist nearby. I wanted to believe her. I told myself it was just a technical glitch, a random crossover of frequencies caused by the humidity or the age of the equipment. For the next few nights, I tried to keep my focus on my rounds, but I found myself hovering near the booth. Every night, the woman was there. Her voice was steady, never changing pitch or tone. She never paused to breathe, cough, or clear her throat. It was unnervingly perfect, like a recording on an endless loop. Then came last night, and the whole atmosphere of the building shifted. The air felt heavy, almost pressurized, making my ears pop whenever I walked through the long corridors. The hallway lights began to flicker erratically, casting long, jumping shadows against the brick walls. I felt like I was being watched, a prickly sensation that crawled up the back of my neck. I finished my rounds as quickly as I could, my boots echoing loudly on the concrete, and retreated to the safety of my booth. I sat down, gasping for air, and reached out to turn on the intercom to check the loading bay camera feed. Instead of the usual hum of the facility, I heard her. She was still reading numbers, but then, she stopped. Silence filled the small booth, so complete and heavy that I could hear my own blood rushing in my ears. I sat perfectly still, holding my breath. Then, I heard the unmistakable sound of paper shuffling, the crisp, dry rustle of pages being turned. Then, she spoke. It wasn't a number. She said my name. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I froze, my hand hovering over the control panel, my brain struggling to process what I had just heard. I wanted to tell myself I was tired, that I was imagining things, but the voice was too distinct, too cold, and too hollow. She said my name again. It sounded like she was reading it off a list, exactly as she had read the numbers just moments before. I was just another entry in her ledger. The temperature in the booth plummeted, and I could see my own breath misting in the air. I stopped trying to find a logical explanation. I didn't care about the wiring or the highway towers anymore; I just needed the sound to stop. My hands were shaking as I reached over and slammed the master power switch down, cutting the signal to the speakers. Silence rushed back in, but it wasn't peaceful. It was suffocating. I sat in the dark for the next five hours, refusing to leave the booth, terrified that if I walked the halls, I would run into someone—or something—that didn't belong. I haven't gone down to the basement since that night, and I keep my keys ready to bolt out the door at the first sign of trouble. I have no idea who she is, how she knew my name, or what that list is, and I have absolutely no desire to find out. The speakers are quiet now, but the damage is done. Every time I walk past one of those rusted intercoms, I hold my breath, waiting for the static to come back, waiting for her to say my name one more time.