Static

Then a man said, “Don’t let the transmitter room go dark at twelve-oh-three.”

Rowan glanced at the clock.

11:49.

“That’s a specific request.”

“Listen to me.”

The voice was thin, worn down by distance. Rowan heard a wet clicking behind it, perhaps a bad connection, perhaps someone breathing through a damaged throat.

“You’re calling the station to report a maintenance problem?”

“At twelve-oh-three, the signal will die.”

“Great. I’ll alert the engineers.”

“There are no engineers there tonight.”

Rowan looked through the glass again. The hallway remained empty. The transmitter booth was at the far end, beyond the locked door and two flights of stairs. He had not gone near it in months.

“Who is this?”

“My name is Daniel Rusk.”

The name moved through Rowan without catching. He reached for the bottle and poured more bourbon into the glass.

“Daniel, do you have a song request?”

“Don’t go below.”

Rowan ’s fingers stopped.

“Below what?”

The static thickened. For one instant, beneath the caller’s voice, Rowan thought he heard a second transmission: a low murmur, too deep to be language.

Daniel said, “It knows when you’re alone.”

Rowan laughed, but the sound came out dry. “That’s a little dramatic for a Tuesday.”

“It will cut the carrier at twelve-oh-three. You’ll fix it. You’ll think you’ve fixed it.” The caller paused. “When it comes back, don’t answer the next call.”

“What next call?”

“Please.”

The word was so nakedly frightened that Rowan sat straighter.

He muted the microphone and leaned toward the phone. “Daniel, how do you know about the transmitter?”

A long breath passed through the line.

“I used to listen to you every night.”

“Used to?”

“I died three years ago.”

Rowan looked at the clock again. 11:51.

The studio seemed to contract around him. The refrigerator-sized equipment rack hummed against the wall. The red ON AIR sign buzzed. His cigarette had burned down to the filter, scorching his fingertips.

He dropped it into the ashtray.

“Okay,” he said. “That’s enough.”

“I’m not joking.”

“Daniel, I’m going to disconnect you now.”

“Rowan, when the signal drops, you’ll hear something in the booth. It will sound like a woman you trust.”

Jessica’s name rose in his mind before he could stop it.

The line went dead.

Rowan remained still, listening to the empty receiver. Then he unmuted the microphone.

“That was a strange one,” he said to the audience. “Let’s take some music.”

He reached for the playlist, but the screen had frozen. A gray field covered the monitor, crawling with tiny black flecks. He slapped the side of it. Nothing changed.

The clock read 11:53.

Rowan called Jessica.

The first ring clicked twice, then her voice came through.

“Hey.”

He closed his eyes. Her voice was soft, slightly breathless, exactly as it should have been.

“Are you awake?”

“I’m here.”

“I got a weird call.”

“You’re working.”

“He said he was dead.”

Jessica exhaled gently. “You’ve been drinking.”

“Not that much.”

“Rowan.”

He looked at the bottle. The level had dropped below the label, though he could not remember pouring the last glass.

“He knew about the transmitter,” Rowan said.

“Then go check it.”

“I don’t want to leave the studio.”

“You’re not alone.”

He opened his eyes. The hallway beyond the glass appeared darker than before.

“Jessica, stay on the phone.”

“I’m here.”

He carried the receiver with him, its cord stretching across the console. At the studio door, he hesitated. The corridor lights were motion-sensitive. He opened the door, and the nearest strip light came alive with a weak amber glow.

The next one did not.

“Jessica?”

“I’m listening.”

He stepped into the hallway.

The station felt unfamiliar outside the studio. The walls seemed longer, the doorways set farther apart. He passed the vending machines, then the storage closet, then the stairwell. Each landmark arrived a little later than he expected, as though the building had shifted while he walked.

“Talk to me,” Jessica said.

“I’m going to the transmitter booth.”

“Don’t go if you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

A soft sound came through the phone, almost a laugh. “You always say that when you are.”

At the stairwell, Rowan found the door propped open. He did not remember leaving it that way. Cold air crawled up from below and touched his ankles.

He stopped.

From somewhere beneath the station came a faint transmission, a voice repeating through static.

Don’t answer the next call.

Rowan gripped the receiver harder. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

He looked down the stairs. The lower landing was dark. A red emergency bulb glowed beside a door marked TRANSMITTER CONTROL.

“Jessica, I’m going back.”

“Good.”

He turned.

The stairwell door swung shut behind him.

Rowan jerked the handle. It resisted, then opened with a metallic groan. The hallway outside was empty, but the studio door stood at the far end, its small window reflecting a pale shape that vanished when he blinked.

He hurried back, breathing through his mouth. The phone pressed hot against his ear.

“You’re okay,” Jessica said. “Just come back to the microphone.”

“I am.”

“Put on a song.”

“I can’t. The system froze.”

“Then talk.”

He entered the studio and locked the door. The lock clicked with comforting finality.

At 12:01, the board lights began to dim.

Rowan sat down, pulled the microphone close, and lit another cigarette from the dying one in the ashtray. His hand trembled enough to spill ash across the console.

“You’re listening to WNCR,” he said. “Still here. Still broadcasting.”

The carrier meter dropped.

12:02.

Static rose through the headphones. It filled the studio, loud enough to vibrate in his teeth. Jessica’s voice became faint beneath it.

“Rowan?”

“I’m here.”

“Don’t go into the booth.”

“I have to keep us on air.”

“You don’t.”

The board went black.

At 12:03 exactly, every sound vanished.

No hum. No ventilation. No electrical whine. The silence was so complete that Rowan heard the blood moving in his ears.

Then, from the dead headphones, Daniel Rusk whispered, “Now.”

Rowan tore them off.

The emergency lights came on. The studio fell into a red wash. Outside the window, the hallway had disappeared into darkness.

Jessica was still speaking through the phone.

“Rowan, listen to me. You’re safe. Stay where you are.”

He stared at the receiver. “You’re not on the station line.”

“I’m on your phone.”

His phone lay beside the ashtray, its screen dark.

Rowan set the receiver down. Jessica’s voice continued from it, calm and close.

“Come back to me.”

He snatched up the phone. The screen showed no call, no signal, only his own reflection warped across the glass.

The station’s dead carrier hissed from the speaker.

He had one choice. If he stayed in the studio, the station would remain silent. If he went to the booth, he might find an ordinary fault, a blown fuse, a loose connection. Something with a name.

Rowan took the master key from the drawer.

“Jessica,” he said, “keep talking.”

“I am.”

He left the studio again.

This time the hallway lights did not come on. He moved by the weak red glow spilling through the studio window behind him. The stairwell waited at the end of the corridor, its open mouth black against the walls.

As he descended, the phone in his hand crackled.

Jessica’s voice changed.

Not in pitch. In distance.

“You shouldn’t have killed me.”

Rowan stopped so abruptly his shoulder struck the wall.

“What did you say?”

Static answered.

Then Jessica was gentle again. “You’re tired.”

He looked at the phone. Her name was displayed on the screen.

Jessica.

He pressed it to his ear.

“I’m here,” she said.

The transmitter booth door unlocked before he touched it.

Inside, the equipment glowed with a sickly green light. Rows of meters trembled. A panel near the floor had been pulled open, exposing a nest of cables. Rowan crouched and found a breaker half-tripped.

Daniel had been right.

He shoved it into place.

The room filled with a rising electrical whine. The meters climbed. Somewhere above, the station speakers clicked back to life.

Rowan laughed once, too loudly.

“I fixed it,” he told Jessica.

“No,” she said. “You opened it.”

The phone crackled. Her voice thinned until it became indistinguishable from the static.

Rowan ran upstairs.

The ON AIR sign glowed again. The board rebooted in uneven bursts, bringing the dead playlist back with it. He slid into the chair, adjusted the microphone, and watched the carrier meter steady.

For a few seconds, he could not speak.

Then he pressed the broadcast switch.

“You’re back with me,” he said, though he did not know whether he meant the audience or Jessica. “We had a brief technical interruption.”

The phone line blinked.

Incoming.

Rowan stared at it.

On the console screen, the station had restored its call log. He searched Daniel Rusk with shaking fingers. A record appeared beneath the name: an obituary from three years earlier. The photograph showed a narrow-faced man with tired eyes.

The same voice whispered through the ringing line.

“Rowan.”

He reached for the receiver.

“Don’t answer,” Jessica said from the dead phone beside him.

The call continued to ring.

Rowan lifted the station receiver to his ear.

“WNCR,” he said. “You’re on the air.”

End of chapter one. 14 more chapters and about 27,392 words in the full book.