The Old Phone BoothShaina TranquilinoOctober 12, 2024

The Old Phone Booth Shaina Tranquilino October 12, 2024

The phone booth stood in the middle of nowhere, an ancient relic from a forgotten time. Its glass panes were cracked, the once-bright red paint now faded to a dull rust. A lonely road stretched in both directions, endless and desolate. No one came here. There was no reason to. Yet the phone booth remained, untouched by time or vandalism, waiting for something—or someone.

It was late one autumn evening when Xander found himself lost along that very road. His phone had died hours ago, and there hadn’t been another car in sight since he left the small town behind. The cold, bitter wind gnawed at him as he walked, and just when hope seemed to dwindle, he saw the phone booth up ahead.

Relief washed over him. It was bizarre—who kept a phone booth running these days? But he didn’t care. He just needed to call for help. As he approached, something about the booth unsettled him. It didn’t belong here, in the vast emptiness of the fields around it. But desperation overpowered any lingering doubt.

Xander pushed open the creaky door and stepped inside. The air within felt colder than it should, a damp chill clinging to him. The phone hung crookedly from its cradle, an old rotary model that hadn’t been in use for decades. The grime and cobwebs hinted it hadn’t been touched in years. But before he could reach for it, the phone rang.

The sharp, metallic ring echoed in the booth, startling him. Xander froze. His mind raced—who would call a phone like this? There was no one around for miles. Perhaps it was a coincidence, some automated system. But as the phone continued to ring, a strange compulsion overcame him. He reached out, hesitated, then lifted the receiver.

"Hello?" His voice was shaky.

At first, there was silence. Then, faintly, from the other end of the line, he heard it—whispering. It was low, indistinct, like a distant conversation just out of earshot. Xander strained to listen, but the words remained elusive. He should’ve hung up then, but something in those whispers tugged at him, drawing him closer.

“Hello? Who is this?” he repeated, but the whispers only grew louder, surrounding him, filling his ears with their unintelligible murmur. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the tone felt wrong—off, like voices that weren’t meant to be heard. A cold dread began to creep up his spine, but his hand wouldn’t let go of the receiver.

The whispering continued, insistent, crawling into his mind like insects burrowing deep. Xander tried to pull away, but he found himself rooted to the spot, paralyzed by some unseen force. His heart pounded as he realized the whispers weren’t just words—they were inside him now, writhing in his thoughts, unravelling them. The voices were no longer on the line; they were in his head, echoing from the corners of his mind, relentless and invasive.

The wind outside had picked up, rattling the booth, but Xander didn’t notice. The whispers were all he could hear, growing louder, drowning out everything else. They spoke in a language he couldn’t understand, yet somehow he knew what they wanted. They were telling him things—dark, terrible things—about himself, about the world, about everything that waited beyond.

He tried to scream, but his throat tightened, suffocated by their presence. His vision blurred as the world around him seemed to warp, bending and twisting in unnatural ways. The booth felt smaller, closing in on him, the glass distorting like a funhouse mirror. The whispers consumed him, tearing through his thoughts, leaving nothing but a hollow echo where his sanity had once been.

With a final gasp, Xander dropped the receiver. The phone swung limply, the dial tone buzzing faintly beneath the rising wind. He staggered out of the booth, his mind shattered, eyes wide with terror but unseeing. His legs buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, mumbling incoherently to himself, the whispers still echoing in the dark recesses of his mind.

Hours later, a passing truck driver found Xander wandering along the road, his clothes soaked from the evening rain. His eyes were glazed, and his lips moved, forming words that made no sense. He was taken to a nearby hospital, but no one could reach him. He spoke of voices, of the whispers that wouldn’t stop, of things that had no name. Days later, he vanished from his hospital room without a trace.

The phone booth remains there, silent and waiting.

Sometimes, on lonely nights, it rings. And if you answer, you’ll hear the whispers too.

But be warned: once they find you, they never let go.

The Diary's Secrets Shaina Tranquilino October 6, 2024

Sophie had always adored her grandmother, a woman of grace and charm who filled every room with warmth. But when her grandmother passed away, Sophie was left with an overwhelming sense of loss. After the funeral, she returned to her grandmother’s quaint, creaky old house to sort through her belongings. Among the porcelain figurines, embroidered pillows, and stacks of faded photographs, Sophie found something unexpected — an old, weathered diary, its leather cover cracked with age.

Her grandmother had never mentioned a diary. The clasp was rusted, but it popped open easily under her fingertips. As she flipped through the yellowing pages, she noticed something strange. The ink appeared faded, yet readable, and as her eyes skimmed the words, she could have sworn she heard something — faint, almost imperceptible whispers.

Sophie frowned and closed the book quickly. The whispers ceased immediately, leaving an unnerving silence in their wake.

"Must be my imagination," she murmured, trying to shake off the chill that crept up her spine.

That night, Sophie took the diary home with her. Curiosity gnawed at her, and she couldn't resist opening it again. The moment she turned the first page, the whispers returned, low and unintelligible, as though the very paper itself was breathing secrets into the air. This time, the whispers were louder, more distinct, like fragmented pieces of conversations just beyond her grasp.

The words on the page were written in her grandmother’s delicate hand. January 5, 1956. The entry was brief, recounting a typical day. But as Sophie read further, the entries became darker, more cryptic.

February 12, 1956: “The shadow came again last night. It watches me. I hear it whispering from the corners of the room.”

Sophie’s heart skipped a beat. She looked around her small apartment, suddenly aware of the shadows pooling in the corners, the way the lamplight flickered just slightly. She swallowed, pushing the growing unease aside, and continued reading.

March 3, 1956: “I tried to speak with it. It knows my name. It knows things about me I never shared with anyone. The whispers grow louder every night.”

The whispers in Sophie’s own ears seemed to swell in response to the words on the page, almost as if the diary itself was reacting to the memories being uncovered. She slammed the book shut, panting, her breath shallow and fast. But the whispers didn’t stop. They lingered in the room, filling the space around her with unseen presences. She could feel something watching her.

Desperate, Sophie shoved the diary into a drawer and stumbled to bed, hoping that sleep would bring her peace. But the dreams came — vivid, terrifying dreams of her grandmother, her face twisted in fear, standing at the edge of Sophie’s bed, mouthing words she couldn’t hear over the cacophony of whispers filling the room.

The next morning, exhausted and shaken, Sophie yanked the diary from the drawer. She had to know what was happening. As soon as she opened it, the whispers returned, louder and more insistent.

April 15, 1956: “I’m not alone. It’s in the house with me. I feel its cold breath on my neck when I sleep. It wants something. I don’t know what, but it won’t leave me in peace.”

Her grandmother had been haunted, tormented by something unseen. The realization sent a cold shiver through Sophie. But there was more, a final entry. It was written in frantic, uneven script, unlike her grandmother’s usual elegant handwriting.

May 2, 1956: “I tried to lock it away. Tried to bind it to these pages. But it’s not enough. I can hear it still, scratching, whispering. It wants out. I fear it will find someone else, someone to continue what I could not finish. God help whoever opens this book after me.”

Sophie’s hands trembled as she dropped the diary. The whispers grew louder, no longer faint but echoing through the apartment, a cacophony of voices overlapping, seething with malevolence.

Suddenly, a gust of wind slammed the windows shut, plunging the room into darkness. The whispers were everywhere now, suffocating, as if invisible hands were reaching out from the shadows to close around her throat. Sophie staggered back, her breath hitching in her chest, eyes darting to the diary lying on the floor.

The pages fluttered on their own, turning violently, as though something trapped inside was desperate to be freed.

"No," Sophie gasped, her voice barely a whisper over the maddening chorus. "Please, no."

But it was too late. From the corners of the room, the shadows began to coalesce, forming a shape, a figure that seemed to crawl out of the very air itself, twisted and hunched, its eyes burning like embers in a sunken face. It moved toward her, slow, deliberate, its presence suffocating the light.

Sophie couldn’t move. The whispers were in her ears, her head, her mind, filling every thought with dread.

"You shouldn't have opened it," the voices hissed in unison.

The last thing Sophie saw was the figure looming over her, its cold breath on her neck, just as her grandmother had described. The diary lay open at her feet, the final page blank — waiting for the next entry.

The Forgotten Cellar Shaina Tranquilino October 5, 2024

The Harrisons moved into the old Victorian house on the outskirts of town with the kind of enthusiasm that accompanies a fresh start. The house was a bargain—too good to pass up. Rebecca, her husband Gerald, and their son, Caleb marvelled at the high ceilings, the vintage wallpaper, and the spacious rooms. It felt like a dream, albeit one wrapped in a bit of dust and cobwebs.

The cellar door was the only thing out of place. It sat at the end of a narrow hallway in the kitchen, locked with a heavy, rusted chain. Rebecca had asked the realtor about it, but all she’d said was that the previous owners had forgotten about it. The key, like the history of the house, was lost to time.

"It’s just a storage space," Gerald had said, brushing off Rebecca's concerns. "We can deal with it later."

But on the first night, Rebecca heard it—the whispers.

She had been lying in bed, half-asleep, when a soft, disembodied murmur floated up through the floorboards. She strained her ears, thinking it was the wind or maybe the house settling. The house was old, after all. But the longer she listened, the clearer it became.

“Please... let me out...”

Rebecca sat up in bed, her heart pounding in her chest. The voice was faint, almost pleading, rising from somewhere deep below the house.

"Did you hear that?" she whispered, shaking Gerald awake.

"Hear what?" he mumbled, rolling over.

"The whispering... from downstairs."

He frowned, still half-asleep. "Probably just the pipes. This place is ancient."

Rebecca wasn’t convinced, but she let it go, hoping it was just her imagination playing tricks on her in the unfamiliar home.

The next night, the whispering came again, louder this time. And this time, she wasn’t the only one who heard it.

"Mom?" Caleb’s small voice quivered from the doorway of their bedroom. "There’s someone downstairs. I heard them."

Rebecca's skin prickled with dread. She glanced at Gerald, who had now fully woken, his brow furrowed. They sat in silence for a moment, listening. There it was again—a faint, desperate whisper.

“Please... help me…”

Rebecca's stomach turned. It was coming from beneath the floorboards, from the cellar.

"We need to see what’s down there," Rebecca said, her voice barely above a whisper. Gerald hesitated, but the unease in his eyes mirrored her own.

Armed with a flashlight and a crowbar, Gerald made his way to the cellar door the next morning. Rebecca stood behind him, her heart in her throat as he forced the rusted chain from the door. The heavy wooden door groaned open, releasing a rush of cold, damp air that smelled of earth and something else—something rotten.

The stairs creaked as Gerald descended, the beam of his flashlight cutting through the darkness. Rebecca followed, holding Caleb’s hand tightly. The cellar was larger than they had imagined, the walls lined with crumbling stone and ancient wooden beams. But something else caught their attention—a large, decrepit trunk in the corner, covered in dust.

Rebecca's pulse quickened as they approached it. The whispers had stopped, but the air felt thick with an unspoken presence. Gerald knelt down, hesitating before unlatching the trunk.

It creaked open slowly.

Inside, there were no treasures or old clothes as they had expected. Instead, the remains of a person—a skeleton, curled up, bound in chains—lay within. Rebecca gasped, stepping back in horror, her hand flying to her mouth.

"Who... who is this?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

Before Gerald could respond, the whispering began again, louder now, filling the cellar with an oppressive weight.

“Please... set me free...”

The voice was coming from the skeleton. Rebecca's blood ran cold as the realization dawned on her. The whispers weren’t just voices in her head. They were real.

As if responding to the plea, the chains around the skeleton began to rattle, slowly unwinding themselves from the brittle bones. Rebecca stumbled back, dragging Caleb with her as Gerald froze in place, his eyes wide with terror.

“We have to go!" Rebecca screamed, her voice shaking. She pulled Gerald toward the stairs, but the air grew thick, almost solid, as if something unseen was holding them in place. The whispers intensified, turning into anguished cries.

"Let me out... let me out!"

Suddenly, the cellar door slammed shut above them, plunging the room into darkness. Rebecca's flashlight flickered wildly, casting frantic shadows on the walls as the temperature dropped further. She felt an icy hand brush her arm, the faint whisper now right in her ear.

“Stay with me…”

With a burst of panic-fueled strength, Gerald lunged toward the door, yanking it open. They scrambled up the stairs, slamming the door behind them. The whispers were muffled now but still persistent, like a voice trapped beneath layers of earth, desperate to be heard.

They left the house that night, too afraid to stay another minute in the presence of whatever haunted the cellar.

Weeks later, the house stood empty, its windows dark and its doors locked. No one spoke of the Harrisons or the skeleton in the cellar, as if the house itself had swallowed their secret. But on quiet nights, if you stood close enough, you could still hear the whispers rising from below.

“Please... help me... let me out…”

The house waited, patient and silent, for the next family to come.

The Echo in the Walls Shaina Tranquilino October 1, 2024

Amelia and Jonathan had been searching for a fresh start, away from the noise and chaos of the city. The mansion they found, nestled deep within a forest, seemed like the perfect escape. Towering and ancient, with ivy crawling up its stone walls, it was a place shrouded in mystery. But the price was too good to ignore.

“This feels like a dream,” Amelia said as they stood in the grand foyer, gazing at the high, arched ceilings and marble floors. The place had a cold beauty to it, untouched by time, as though it had been waiting for them.

Jonathan smiled, squeezing her hand. “It’s perfect.”

But on the first night, as they lay in bed, Amelia heard something strange—a soft, almost imperceptible whisper, like wind sliding through cracks in the walls.

“What was that?” she asked, sitting up, her heart quickening.

Jonathan shrugged sleepily. “Probably just the wind. The place is old, after all.”

Amelia nodded, though she wasn’t convinced. As the days passed, the whispering became more persistent. At first, she thought it was her imagination. But then the whispers began to take shape, forming words—words she didn’t want to hear.

"He’s going to leave you."

She froze the first time it happened, standing alone in the long, dark hallway outside their bedroom. The voice was faint, almost tender, but unmistakable. It sounded like her own thoughts echoing back to her from the walls.

Amelia told herself it was stress. Moving had been difficult. Adjusting to a new place, especially one so isolated, could play tricks on the mind. She didn’t tell Jonathan. How could she explain that the house seemed to know her darkest fears?

But the whispers grew louder. At night, as they sat by the fireplace, she could hear them—soft murmurs hidden beneath the crackling of the flames. The voices whispered of betrayal, of loneliness, of secrets Jonathan was keeping.

"He’s hiding something from you."

One evening, Amelia finally asked, “Have you heard anything strange in the house?”

Jonathan looked at her, frowning. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” she hesitated. “Like… voices?”

He laughed, though the sound was strained. “You’re just imagining things. This place is big. Old houses settle, creak.”

But that night, Amelia woke to the sound of Jonathan speaking in his sleep. She turned toward him, her pulse quickening.

"You can’t protect her."

She sat up, eyes wide. His lips moved, the words barely audible, but there was no mistaking the fear in his voice. He was dreaming, caught in some nightmare. But whose words were they?

The next morning, Jonathan was quiet, distant. When Amelia asked if he was okay, he brushed her off.

But she knew the truth. The house was getting to him too.

Days turned into weeks, and the mansion’s whispers became an ever-present hum. Amelia began to lose sleep. The whispers echoed in her ears, feeding her anxiety, telling her things she didn’t want to believe.

"He’s tired of you."

"You’re not enough."

The walls felt alive, like they were watching her, waiting for her to break. She avoided the mirrors, terrified of what she might see in them. Her reflection felt foreign, her mind unraveling under the weight of the house’s secrets.

One evening, as the sun set behind the thick trees, Amelia confronted Jonathan.

“Something’s wrong with this place,” she said, her voice trembling. “The walls… they know things. They’re telling me things.”

Jonathan’s face darkened. “Amelia, stop. You’re letting it get to you. It’s just a house.”

“No, it’s not!” she cried. “I can hear them, Jonathan. And I know you can too.”

For a moment, his expression softened. He opened his mouth to speak, but then the whispers came, louder than ever before, echoing between them.

"He’s already planning to leave you."

Jonathan’s eyes flickered, and in that brief second, Amelia knew the truth. The whispers weren’t lying.

With trembling hands, she backed away from him. “What have you been hiding from me?”

Before he could answer, a violent gust of wind tore through the room, rattling the windows. The house groaned, as if waking from a deep sleep. The whispers grew louder, drowning out their voices.

"It’s too late now."

Suddenly, the walls began to tremble. Cracks appeared, snaking across the ceiling like veins. Amelia’s heart pounded in her chest as the mansion seemed to close in around them. The whispers rose to a deafening roar.

And then, silence.

Jonathan stood frozen, his eyes wide, his face pale. "Amelia…" he whispered, but the fear in his voice was unmistakable.

The walls had spoken the truth.

The mansion had been waiting for them all along.

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating, as if the mansion were holding its breath. Amelia felt the chill of dread wrap around her like a shroud. She wanted to run, to escape the walls that seemed to pulse with an unseen energy, but Jonathan stood rooted in place, his face pale and expressionless.

“Amelia, we need to get out of here,” he finally said, breaking the heavy stillness. His voice was laced with fear, and for the first time, she saw the uncertainty in his eyes.

She nodded, feeling a surge of adrenaline. They turned toward the door, but as they stepped into the hallway, the whispers returned, cascading around them like a wave.

"You can’t escape your fate."

They hurried down the corridor, each step echoing ominously, but the whispers grew louder, swirling around them, drowning out their thoughts. The shadows seemed to stretch and twist, creeping closer with every passing second.

“Amelia!” Jonathan grabbed her arm, his grip tightening. “We have to stick together!”

She met his gaze, her heart racing. “We can’t let the house take us! We need to find a way to break whatever hold it has on us!”

They raced toward the main staircase, but as they reached the bottom, the house trembled again, and the whispers turned to a cacophony, a terrifying symphony of their deepest fears.

"He will leave you. You are nothing without him."

Amelia clutched her head, overwhelmed. “Stop! Just stop!” she screamed into the dark void.

Then, in that moment of desperation, she recalled the legend she had read about the mansion—a story of a family that had succumbed to the house’s whispers, unable to resist the pull of their own insecurities. But it also spoke of a way to silence the echoes: one had to confront the source of their fears.

“Jonathan!” she shouted over the noise, her voice fierce. “We have to face it! We need to confront what we’re afraid of!”

He hesitated, confusion and fear mingling in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“The house feeds on our doubts! If we face what we fear the most, it might lose its power!”

Before Jonathan could respond, the walls shuddered violently, and a shadow darted past them. It was as if the very essence of the house was alive, writhing and grasping for them.

“Together,” Amelia urged, gripping his hand tightly. “We can do this together.”

They took a deep breath and faced each other. “I’m scared you’ll leave me,” Amelia admitted, her voice shaking. “That I’m not enough for you.”

Tears shimmered in Jonathan’s eyes. “I’m scared that I’ll fail you, that I won’t be able to protect you. But I love you, Amelia. I don’t want to lose you either.”

With those confessions, the whispers quieted, but they weren’t gone. Instead, they morphed into a softer, almost melancholic tone, as if the house itself were listening.

Amelia pressed on, her voice steady. “I’m afraid of being alone, of not being able to find my way. But I know I’m stronger than this place. We both are.”

The walls trembled again, but this time, they felt more alive than threatening. Jonathan nodded, his resolve strengthening. “I refuse to let this place take us. I love you, and together, we can face anything.”

With their hands clasped tightly, they moved deeper into the house, each step echoing their newfound strength. They faced the whispers together, acknowledging the fears that had haunted them since their arrival.

As they climbed the grand staircase, the air grew lighter, the oppressive darkness fading. The whispers became mere murmurs, like distant memories rather than threats.

Finally, they reached the room at the end of the hall—the library, where the walls were lined with books, tales of love and loss, joy and sorrow. In the center of the room stood a massive fireplace, cold and empty.

Amelia knelt beside the hearth, touching the stones. “This is where it ends,” she whispered, taking a deep breath. “We need to cleanse this place of its hold over us.”

Jonathan joined her, and together they gathered kindling from the surrounding shelves—pages torn from books that had whispered secrets of fear and despair. They stacked the wood in the fireplace, their hands steady despite the trembling walls.

“Are you ready?” he asked, looking into her eyes.

“Yes,” she said firmly. “Let’s burn away the fear.”

Jonathan struck a match and lit the kindling. Flames danced and flickered, casting a warm glow around the room. As the fire grew, the whispers grew frantic, rising in pitch and intensity, but they held their ground.

“Leave us!” Amelia shouted. “You have no power here!”

The flames roared, and with a final wail, the whispers faded into silence. The house trembled violently for a moment, and then—calm.

As the fire crackled, the room felt different. The air was lighter, the oppressive energy that had weighed on them lifted. They looked at each other, tears of relief in their eyes.

“Did we do it?” Jonathan whispered, his voice a mix of hope and disbelief.

Amelia smiled through her tears. “I think we did.”

They embraced, feeling the warmth of each other, of love conquering fear. The mansion, once a prison of whispers, now stood transformed, its shadows retreating into the corners.

Hand in hand, they stepped outside into the golden light of dawn. The forest around them was serene, birds chirping, sunlight filtering through the trees.

“We’re free,” Jonathan said, looking back at the mansion.

“Yes,” Amelia replied, a sense of peace settling in her heart. “And now we can start anew.”

Together, they walked away, leaving the echoes of the past behind, ready to embrace whatever lay ahead.

The Phantom Operator Shaina Tranquilino October 10, 2024

Macy sat alone in her dimly lit apartment, the glow from her TV flickering across the walls as an autumn storm rattled the windows. The wind howled through the trees outside, and rain pattered against the glass like skeletal fingers tapping to get in. She had always loved October’s eeriness, but tonight, an unfamiliar dread settled over her. It started with a ring—sharp and shrill, cutting through the white noise of the storm. Macy glanced at her phone, confused. The screen displayed “Unknown Caller,” a designation she hadn't seen in years. She hesitated but eventually swiped to answer.

“Hello?” she said, her voice tentative.

There was silence on the other end, only the faint hiss of static. Macy was about to hang up when she heard it: a whisper, faint and distant, but unmistakable.

"Macy…"

She froze. The voice was achingly familiar, one she had buried in the deepest recesses of her memory. Her throat tightened as chills crept up her spine.

"Maverick?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

The static crackled again, louder this time. The whisper came through once more, clearer now, unmistakably his voice. "Macy... I miss you."

Her heart pounded in her chest. It had been five years since Maverick died in a car accident. The grief had been suffocating, but she had moved on—or so she thought. The sudden resurgence of his voice felt like a knife turning in a half-healed wound.

“This isn’t funny,” she said, her voice rising. “Who is this?”

But the voice on the other end didn’t respond. The static grew louder, filling her ears, drowning out the storm outside.

“I miss you,” the voice repeated, echoing like it was coming from far away, from somewhere it shouldn’t be able to reach.

With a gasp, Macy dropped the phone onto the couch, staring at it in horror. Her hands were shaking. This had to be a prank—some cruel, heartless prank. But how? Maverick was dead. She had attended his funeral, seen his body lowered into the ground.

The phone went silent. For a long minute, she just stared at it, hoping the nightmare was over. But then, it rang again.

Macy nearly jumped out of her skin. “Unknown Caller” flashed on the screen once more. She didn’t want to answer, but her hand moved involuntarily, as though compelled by some unseen force.

She pressed the green icon and brought the phone to her ear, her pulse hammering in her throat.

This time, the voice came through immediately, but it was different. It wasn’t just a whisper. It was distorted, warped, as though Maverick’s voice had been dragged through layers of static and something darker—something inhuman.

"Why did you leave me?"

Tears welled up in her eyes. "You... you died, Maverick. You’re gone. This isn’t real."

"I’m still here," the voice rasped. The words were drenched in agony, in longing. "I’ve been waiting for you."

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She tried to reason with herself—this was impossible, a trick of the mind. Maybe it was the storm, maybe it was grief resurfacing after all these years. But the voice… it was too real. Too familiar.

The call cut out, plunging the room into silence once more. Macy stared at the phone in her hand, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Her fingers hovered over the call log. She needed to know where the calls were coming from.

With trembling hands, she tapped the number.

Nothing.

No record. The call didn’t exist.

A chill swept over her as the storm outside raged on, the wind howling like a mourning soul. She stood, pacing the living room, her mind racing. It couldn’t have been Maverick. He was gone. He had to be.

Suddenly, the phone rang again.

This time, Macy didn’t answer immediately. She let it ring, her stomach twisting into knots as the shrill sound echoed in her small apartment. Finally, with a deep breath, she answered.

“Maverick, please stop this,” she pleaded, tears streaming down her face. “Please… just let me go.”

There was a long pause, the kind of silence that felt like the dead themselves were listening.

"Come back to me," the voice said. It was louder now, more insistent. "You promised."

Her mind raced back to the night of his accident. They had fought—bitterly. She had told him she was leaving him, that she couldn’t take the jealousy, the paranoia anymore. He had driven off in a storm not unlike tonight, his last words to her echoing in her mind: “If you leave, I’ll never let you go.”

The static rose again, and beneath it, Macy could hear something else—a distant noise, growing louder. It was the unmistakable screech of tires on wet pavement, the crunch of metal twisting and shattering.

Then, the voice. His voice. Crying out her name in terror.

The memory slammed into her like a freight train, and she dropped the phone, stumbling backward, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She covered her ears, but she couldn’t block it out—the sound of his death was all around her, suffocating her.

The lights flickered and then went out, plunging the room into darkness. Only the faint glow from her phone illuminated the room. The call was still active, the static crackling like fire.

And then she heard it. Footsteps. Soft, deliberate, moving toward her.

Macy backed into a corner, her heart pounding, tears streaming down her face. “Maverick... I’m sorry…”

The footsteps stopped just behind her. She could feel the air grow cold, could sense something—someone—standing there, unseen but present.

A whisper brushed her ear, so close it felt like icy breath on her skin.

“You can’t leave me. Not again.”

And then, the lights flickered back on. The room was empty, but Macy knew—she wasn’t alone.

The phone went dead in her hand, the call finally over. But the fear remained, gnawing at her, whispering in the back of her mind.

She knew it wasn’t the last time he would call.

Maverick was waiting.

And he always would be.

The Midnight Broadcast Shaina Tranquilino October 13, 2024

It began without warning. One night, in towns across the country, late-night listeners searching for something different on the radio stumbled upon a strange, unlisted frequency. The numbers on the dial didn’t quite match anything they had ever heard before. The signal came from nowhere, and yet it was too clear, too precise, to be accidental.

People found it somewhere between 93.7 and 94.1 on their analog dials. No music, no static, just a low, droning hum and, underneath it, the faintest whisper of voices. Curious insomniacs, night shift workers, and loners tuned in. The whispers grew louder, more distinct, until they were impossible to ignore.

There was no station identification, no DJ announcing the time or weather. Only that strange hum and a constant stream of voices, whispering just low enough that listeners had to strain to hear. But as they did, they realized something disturbing.

The voices were familiar. Too familiar.

At first, it seemed like a coincidence. But soon, across online forums and late-night chat rooms, the reports started piling up. Every person who tuned into the station heard their own voice—whispering their darkest, most personal fears and memories. Nightmares they thought they had forgotten. Things they had locked away. As if the radio signal was pulling the worst of them out of the depths of their minds and broadcasting it back to them.

A woman named Rachel, in a small coastal town, was one of the first to speak out. She was a habitual night owl, always flipping through channels while painting in her tiny studio. She stumbled upon the signal one night and froze when she heard herself whispering about drowning. About the icy water filling her lungs, the darkness closing in as she struggled to scream.

Rachel had almost drowned when she was twelve, something she hadn’t thought about in years.

The whispers grew more vivid, more terrifying, with each passing night. They no longer just recalled nightmares—they created them. Listeners reported strange shadows moving in their rooms after they tuned in, or hearing voices even when they turned the radio off. Sleep became impossible. Eyes appeared in mirrors where there should have been only reflections. Phantom touches brushed against their skin as the voices murmured darker things, impossibilities and horrors that couldn’t be unseen.

More people began to tune in despite the growing dread surrounding the broadcast. Curiosity, fascination, and fear mixed into a hypnotic pull that made the station impossible to ignore. Listeners couldn’t help but come back for more, even as it cost them their peace, their sanity.

One by one, they began to disappear.

A man named Greg was the first to go missing in his town. He’d been posting obsessively about the broadcast in an online community, describing in detail the whispers that plagued him. He had started hearing them outside of his radio, in the dead silence of his apartment, in the whine of his fridge, and even in his own breathing. His last post was fragmented, barely coherent: "It’s not in my head anymore. They’re here. They’re inside me."

After that, nothing. No one could reach him.

The disappearances spread across states. The Midnight Broadcast, as it became known, was no longer a rumor. Local news stations reported cases of people going missing, some vanishing from their locked homes without a trace. There were no signs of struggle, no clues—only a faint, lingering static coming from their radios, still tuned to the phantom frequency.

By then, those who hadn’t yet heard the broadcast began to actively avoid it. They warned others, telling stories of people who tuned in just once and never turned off the radio again. Some claimed the broadcast wasn’t just tapping into their minds but stealing their very souls, piece by piece, through the whispers.

The broadcast seemed to know its time was running short. It became more erratic, the hum shifting into something deeper, more guttural. The voices, once fragmented whispers, turned into a low, maddening chant that infected anyone who listened for more than a few minutes.

One night, a late-shift trucker named Bill, alone on an empty highway, tried to switch his radio over from the broadcast after realizing what he was hearing. He hadn’t believed the stories but found himself frozen in his seat as his own voice, distorted and thick with static, whispered his greatest shame. The one secret he had never told a soul. His fingers hovered above the dial, shaking, but he couldn’t turn it off. His eyes blurred as tears streamed down his face, and suddenly the chanting voices broke into a cacophony of shrieks.

Bill's truck was found later that night, abandoned on the highway. The engine was still running, his driver’s side door wide open. But there was no sign of him. Only the soft crackle of static from the radio.

In the weeks that followed, more trucks were found along the same stretch of road. Empty.

No one dares listen anymore. But late at night, when the wind dies down and the world goes still, if you turn the dial just right, you might hear it. That same haunting hum. Those same whispered voices, waiting for someone new to listen. Someone new to take.

The Midnight Broadcast still airs.

Waiting for you to tune in.