The Static Between Stations - Chapter 3: Echoes of the House

By the third night, I didn’t even pretend I’d sleep.

I sat upright in bed with the lamp on, staring at the radio like it might sprout legs and walk toward me. Every tick of the clock pulled me closer to that cursed time, and the anticipation was worse than anything the static itself could conjure.

When the hands finally aligned at 2:14 a.m., the room seemed to dip in temperature. The lamp flickered once. And then, as though on cue, the red glow of the radio returned.

The static followed.

I clenched my fists, jaw tight, trying not to panic. I told myself I wouldn’t listen—that I’d ignore it until the morning. But ignoring it was impossible. The hiss filled every corner of the room, weaving through the shadows.

And soon, the voices came.

At first, faint whispers bled beneath the noise. I strained, against my better judgment, to pick out words. They weren’t talking to each other anymore—they were talking about me.

“He’s awake.”

“He hears us.”

“He can’t turn away now.”

I pressed my palms over my ears, but it didn’t help. Somehow, the whispers slid past skin and bone, finding their way inside my skull.

And then, chillingly, they changed their subject.

“The lamp is on,” one voice murmured, flat and factual.

“He’s sitting up in bed,” another added.

“The blue blanket. He’s holding it tight.”

My blood ran cold. My lamp was on. I was sitting in bed. The blanket in my lap was blue. They were describing me.

I jumped up, yanking the lamp cord from the socket. Darkness rushed in, broken only by the glow of the radio’s single red eye. The whispers didn’t falter.

“He turned the light off.”

“He’s standing now.”

“He’s looking at us.”

“No—” My voice cracked out loud. “No, I’m not.”

But even as I said it, I felt the absurdity of arguing with disembodied voices. They weren’t just watching. They were narrating, recording my every movement as if I were some unwilling character in their play.

I stepped back toward the door, heart hammering. I wanted to leave the room, to bolt down the stairs and sleep in the living room, anywhere but here.

But the radio spoke again.

“He’s at the door now,” a voice whispered.

“He won’t leave,” another hissed. “He can’t leave.”

“He belongs here.”

I froze. My hand hovered over the doorknob, slick with sweat. Somehow, I believed them. I couldn’t leave. Not while it was still speaking.

Swallowing hard, I forced myself back to the nightstand. The static pulsed like a heartbeat, rising and falling in waves. My reflection in the dusty glass dial looked warped, stretched thin, eyes too wide.

“I don’t belong here,” I whispered back. My own voice sounded alien in the oppressive stillness.

For a moment, silence.

Then, laughter—faint, overlapping chuckles that rippled through the static like a breeze through dry leaves.

“You already do.”

I ripped the cord out.

The radio’s light died instantly, plunging the room into total darkness. My breaths came fast, uneven. My ears rang in the sudden silence, as though the static had been inside me all along and was only now draining away.

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat in the corner, knees pulled to my chest, staring at the unplugged machine until dawn painted the walls grey.

In the morning, I considered smashing it to pieces, taking a hammer to the wood until nothing was left. But deep down, I was afraid of what might happen if I did.

What if destroying it only made things worse?

So I left it there. Unplugged. Silent.

But that night, when I tried to leave the bedroom door cracked, I found it closed again at 2:14 a.m. And though I didn’t dare look at the radio, I knew—I knew—the dial had shifted closer to centre.

The voices weren’t just whispering anymore. They were waiting.

Source: Some or all of the content was generated using an AI language model