When the city blacked out, radio DJ Mark Willis was still live on air. The storm had cut power across town, but the station’s backup generator kept humming. He sipped stale coffee, cracked a joke about the “apocalypse,” and cued up a late-night blues track.
Then the call came in.
Static.
And then… breathing.
“Uh, you’re on air,” Mark said, chuckling nervously. “Say hello to the night owls.”
A whisper followed: “Don’t let them in.”
He laughed, assuming a prank.
“They’re in the static. Don’t listen too close.”
The call dropped. The track ended. The studio filled with a low hum—the same frequency that precedes dead air. Mark tapped the console. Lights flickered.
Then came the voices.
Not just one. Dozens. Whispering from the speakers, the soundboards, even the headset. Whispering his name.
Panicked, Mark yanked off his headphones. The studio door creaked. It was locked—he had locked it. But it opened anyway.
No one was there.
Just shadows.
And whispering.
The last thing the emergency responder heard when they played the recovered tape was Mark’s voice, trembling:
“If you hear this… don’t listen to the static. That’s where they live.”
