The clock struck 2:47 a.m., and the air in the small, dimly lit radio studio felt heavier than usual. Vincent Drake, a late-night DJ for WZRD 99.9 FM, leaned back in his creaky chair, the glow of the control board casting faint shadows across his tired face. The graveyard shift was his domain—five hours of spinning obscure vinyl records for insomniacs, truckers, and the occasional conspiracy nut who called in to ramble about Bigfoot or UFOs. It was a lonely gig, but Vincent liked the solitude. At least, he used to.
The station sat atop a hill just outside of town, an old brick building with peeling paint and a single flickering neon sign that buzzed like a dying insect. The transmitter tower loomed outside, a skeletal silhouette against the moonless sky, humming faintly with static electricity. Vincent had been working there for six years, long enough to know every quirk of the equipment—the way the microphone popped when it got too warm, the faint hiss in the left headphone, the occasional burst of static that sounded almost like whispers if you listened too closely. But tonight, something was different.
He’d just finished playing a warped rendition of Billie Holiday’s “Gloomy Sunday” when the phone line blinked red. The calls were rare this late, so he picked up with a casual, “You’re on with Vinny D, what’s your poison tonight?”
There was a long pause, filled only with a low, crackling hum. Then, a voice came through—soft, raspy, and unnervingly deliberate. “Play ‘In the Mood’ by Glenn Miller. For my wife, Eleanor. She loved that song.”
Vincent smirked, assuming it was some old-timer with a nostalgia kick. “Sure thing, pal. Got a name to go with that dedication?”
“Henry,” the voice said, then added, almost as an afterthought, “Henry Grayson. Tell Eleanor I’ll see her soon.”
The line went dead before Vincent could reply. He shrugged, scribbled the request on a sticky note, and dug through the station’s dusty record bin until he found a scratched-up copy of “In the Mood.” As the brassy swing filled the airwaves, he leaned into the mic. “That one’s for Eleanor, from Henry Grayson. Hope it brings back some good memories, folks.”
The song ended, and the night rolled on. Vincent didn’t think much of it until the phone lit up again an hour later. Another voice—this one a woman, her tone fragile and quivering. “Play ‘Moonlight Serenade,’ please. For my boy, Tommy. Tell him Mama’s waiting.”
“Alright, Mama,” Vincent said, keeping his voice smooth despite the odd chill creeping up his spine. “Who’s this?”
“Clara,” she whispered. “Clara Henshaw.” The line clicked off.
Vincent played the song, but this time, he didn’t brush it off. Two calls in one night, both with that same eerie weight to their words—like they were coming from somewhere far away, somewhere wrong. He glanced out the studio window at the tower, its red lights blinking like unblinking eyes in the dark. The static in his headphones seemed louder now, almost rhythmic, almost… pleading.
By 4 a.m., the calls were coming faster. A gruff man asked for “Sweet Home Alabama,” dedicating it to his buddy Pete, “who didn’t make it back from the river.” A child’s voice—high and trembling—begged for “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” saying, “Daddy needs to hear it so he knows I’m okay.” Each caller gave a name, a dedication, and then vanished into silence. Vincent’s hands shook as he queued up the songs, his usual banter replaced by terse acknowledgments. The studio felt smaller, the walls pressing in, the air thick with something he couldn’t name.
He tried to rationalize it. Prank callers, maybe. A coordinated stunt by bored locals. But then came the call that broke him.
“Play ‘You Are My Sunshine,’” the voice said, low and guttural, like it was forcing itself through a throat full of gravel. “For Vincent. From me.”
Vincent froze, his finger hovering over the disconnect button. “Who—who is this?”
“Eddie,” the voice rasped. “Eddie Drake. Been a while, little brother.”
The room spun. Eddie Drake—his older brother—had died twelve years ago in a car accident, burned beyond recognition when his pickup flipped off Route 17. Vincent had been the one to identify the twisted class ring on what was left of his hand. There was no way this was real. No way.
“You’re not Eddie,” Vincent stammered, his voice cracking. “Eddie’s gone.”
The line crackled, and then Eddie’s voice came again, slower, colder. “Play the song, Vinny. I’ve been trying to reach you. We all have.”
Vincent slammed the receiver down, his breath ragged. The static in his headphones surged, a chorus of whispers clawing at his ears—names, pleas, fragments of laughter. He yanked the headset off and stumbled to the record bin, hands trembling as he found “You Are My Sunshine.” He didn’t want to play it, but something compelled him—a pull he couldn’t resist, like a hand on his shoulder guiding him back to the controls.
As the cheerful melody filled the air, the static softened, and Eddie’s voice returned—not through the phone, but from the speakers themselves. “Look out the window, Vinny.”
Vincent didn’t want to. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to lock the door and hide until dawn. But his legs moved anyway, dragging him to the streaked glass. Outside, the tower’s red lights pulsed faster, brighter. And there, at its base, stood figures—dozens of them, pale and indistinct, their heads tilted up toward the studio. He recognized Eddie’s slouch, the way he stuffed his hands in his pockets. Beside him was a woman in a floral dress, swaying faintly—Clara, maybe. A child clung to her skirt. More shapes emerged from the shadows, their outlines flickering like bad reception.
The song ended, and the figures began to move—slowly, deliberately, toward the station. Vincent backed away, knocking over a stack of records. The phone rang again, and kept ringing, the red light blinking in time with the tower’s pulse. He didn’t answer it. He couldn’t. The whispers were everywhere now, seeping from the walls, the floor, the air itself.
“Vincent,” they hissed. “Play us home.”
He bolted for the door, but it wouldn’t budge. The lock was cold, unyielding, as if welded shut. The lights flickered, and the control board lit up on its own, dials spinning, needles jumping. A record dropped onto the turntable—a warped, unlabeled disc Vincent had never seen before. The needle scratched across its surface, and a sound poured out: not music, but voices, overlapping, screaming, laughing, crying—a cacophony of the dead, calling his name.
The last thing Vincent saw before the lights went out was his reflection in the window, and behind it, Eddie’s face—charred and grinning—pressed against the glass.
The next morning, the station manager found the studio empty. The equipment was fried, the turntable still spinning that unlabeled record, now silent. Vincent’s car sat untouched in the lot, keys dangling in the ignition. No one could explain the faint static that lingered on WZRD 99.9 FM, or the occasional whispers that broke through the dead air—names, dedications, pleas from voices long gone.
Some say if you tune in late at night, when the signal’s weak and the static hums just right, you can still hear Vincent’s voice, faint and trembling: “You’re on with Vinny D. What’s your poison tonight?”