The Last Broadcast
It was 11:57 p.m. when the phone line blinked red.
Maya Lang leaned closer to the console, her voice smooth through the microphone. “You’re live on Midnight Frequency. Who am I speaking to?”
A long pause. Static filled the silence. Then, a voice — low, calm, trembling slightly. “You don’t know me, but you will. Something terrible is going to happen at 12:17.”
Maya frowned, signaling to her producer behind the glass. “Okay… what’s your name?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just listen. You’ll hear the sirens soon.”
Click.
The line went dead.
Her producer shrugged. Probably another prank. The city was full of them — lonely insomniacs calling into her late-night show with ghost stories, confessions, and nonsense. Maya brushed it off, forcing a laugh on air. “Looks like we’ve got another time traveler tonight, folks. Remember—keep your clocks running, and your lights on.”
At 12:17, the police scanner in the corner crackled to life.
“—Units respond to a 10-54. Possible homicide. Corner of Bay and 9th.”
Maya froze. Bay and 9th. That was two blocks from the studio.
Her producer stared at her, pale. “Coincidence,” he muttered. “Has to be.”
But something in her gut whispered otherwise.
Over the next week, the calls continued. Same voice. Same calm tone.
“You’ll see the red car tonight. Don’t let him in.”
“Someone’s following you after the show. Stay on the main road.”
“Don’t trust the man who says he’s here to fix the lights.”
Every time she tried to trace the call, the number vanished — unlisted, untraceable, like it never existed. And every time, the warning came true.
One night, she came home to find her front door ajar. On the table lay a cassette tape. Written on the label: PLAY ME.
Her hands shook as she pressed play. Static filled the room, followed by her own voice — from earlier broadcasts — stitched together, edited. Then, the caller’s voice cut in: “You’re not safe anymore, Maya. He’s closer than you think.”
That’s when the lights went out.
Maya grabbed her phone, fumbling for the flashlight. The glow revealed muddy footprints leading from the back door to the stairs.
She moved silently, heart pounding. At the top of the stairs — another sound. Breathing.
Her phone vibrated. A new message from an unknown number: He’s behind you.
She spun around — nothing. Only shadows and the hum of the city beyond the glass.
Then she heard it again. A voice, low and familiar, coming from the dark.
“You should have listened sooner.”
A figure stepped into the light — her producer.
He smiled faintly. “You made it easy, Maya. Every night, telling me where you’d be, when you’d be alone…”
She stumbled back. “It was you?”
“The caller warned you,” he said, pulling something from his coat pocket — a small tape recorder. “But you didn’t listen.”
Before she could scream, another voice echoed through the room — the same calm tone from the phone calls. “Drop it, Eric.”
Her producer froze. Maya’s eyes widened — the voice came from her speaker system, broadcasting live on air.
“Drop it,” the voice repeated. “We’ve been listening the whole time.”
Moments later, red and blue lights flashed outside her window. The real caller — whoever he was — had saved her life.
When the police took Eric away, Maya stared at the console, the phone still blinking red.
One final message appeared on the screen: You’re safe now. Thank you for listening.
The line went dead for good.
Meaning / Reflection:
The Last Broadcast explores the thin line between paranoia and truth, between fear and instinct. It reminds us that sometimes the voice we doubt the most is the one trying to save us — and silence can be far more dangerous than sound. 📻🕯️
— End of Story —