The Static Between Stations - Chapter 5: The Past Revealed

I didn’t touch the radio the next morning.

It lay in pieces across the floor, its back panel snapped off, wires and dust spilling out like the innards of some gutted animal. But I couldn’t bring myself to pick it up. Just looking at it made bile rise in my throat.

Instead, I did what any sane person would—I went looking for answers.

The house wasn’t new. I’d known that when I bought it, lured in by its cheap price and “quaint character.” It was old enough that the floorboards sighed with every step and the wallpaper hid hairline cracks like wrinkles on tired skin. But I hadn’t bothered to look too deeply into who lived here before me. Until now.

I started at the public library. The local history section was a dust-coated shrine to forgotten tragedies—yellowed newspaper clippings, brittle town records, microfilm that hummed in old machines. I asked the librarian if she knew anything about my address. She gave me a strange look before pointing me to a stack of archived newspapers.

It didn’t take long.

The headline was dated fifteen years ago:

LOCAL MAN MISSING: RADIO STATIC MAY BE FINAL CLUE

I read the article twice before it sank in. The man’s name was Samuel Harper. He’d lived in my house—my house—and neighbours reported strange sounds coming from his windows at night. One neighbour described it as “a broken radio, hissing and mumbling at all hours.” Another swore they heard “voices” when passing by.

Then one night, Samuel disappeared. The only thing left behind, according to the police report, was a toppled chair and the sound of a radio buzzing faintly in his locked bedroom.

My stomach twisted as I read the last line: The radio was never found.

I snapped the folder shut, heart racing. Never found? Then what the hell was sitting on my bedroom floor?

I tried to tell myself it was just a coincidence—old houses collect junk, and radios aren’t rare. But I couldn’t ignore the sinking certainty in my gut: this was the same machine. The same cursed object that had swallowed Samuel Harper whole.

I left the library in a daze, the autumn wind biting harder than it should. On the walk home, I kept glancing over my shoulder, convinced someone was following. But the streets were empty. Only the rustle of leaves answered me.

When I reached the house, I stood at the threshold for a long time, key trembling in my hand. Going back inside felt like willingly stepping into a trap.

But I went in. I always did.

Upstairs, the radio hadn’t moved. It lay broken open, silent, as though it had never spoken a word. For a flicker of a moment, I considered leaving it there, untouched, pretending it was just a dead piece of scrap.

But then I noticed something I hadn’t before.

Inside the cracked casing, beneath the dust and frayed wires, was a slip of yellowed paper.

I crouched down and tugged it free with shaking fingers. The edges crumbled, but the writing was still legible—jagged, frantic pen strokes scrawled across the page.

It doesn’t stop. It never stops. Don’t listen. Don’t answer. If you do, they’ll know you’re here.

Beneath that, a final line scratched so hard it tore the paper:

They’re in the static.

I dropped the note like it burned me, stumbling back. My pulse thundered in my ears.

The red light of the radio flickered once. Just once. Then it went dark again.

I stood frozen, terrified to breathe, until I realised what time it was.

2:13 a.m.

One minute before.

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