Ethan's Final Broadcast

Kitty

So, it's late at night, and the station is quiet. Ethan, our exhausted but dedicated DJ, is halfway through his shift, you know, in that kind of eerie stillness that only comes when the rest of the world seems to be asleep. He's doing his thing, spinning some tracks, reading out a few dedications, when the phone rings. Now, that’s not unusual, right? Listeners calling in with requests or jokes—it’s all part of the gig. But this call—it’s, well, it's different.

Kitty

Ethan picks up, expecting a quick song suggestion or maybe a prank. But instead, there's this whisper coming through the line. It’s shaky, barely audible, like the person on the other end is trying not to be heard by... someone. The voice says, and it sends a chill right through Ethan, “He’s here. He’s watching me.”

Kitty

Now, Ethan—he’s pretty skeptical, you know? He's the type to roll his eyes at ghost stories. So, he plays it cool, asking the caller if this is some kind of joke. But the voice? Oh, it doesn’t laugh. It doesn’t say another word. All Ethan can hear is this heavy, panicked breathing—like they’re trying to fight back tears, or maybe trying to fight back terror. And then, just like that, there’s this awful gasp, and the line goes dead. Just—click.

Kitty

Ethan’s left sitting there, the silence pressing in. And as he’s staring at the phone, probably trying to convince himself it wasn’t, like, as weird as it felt, something else happens. A whisper. Not from the phone this time—no, no. This whisper comes through his headset. It’s faint, almost like it’s tangled in the static, but it’s there. It’s the same voice, the same trembling tone, saying the same chilling words: “He’s here. He’s watching me.”

Kitty

And, you know, if that wasn’t creepy enough, the lights in the studio flicker, bathing the room in these jagged shadows. Ethan freezes as the shadows stretch and touch the edges of the walls—like something, or someone, is just out of sight. And…

Kitty

Ethan sits there, gripping the edges of his desk, the silence in the studio thick enough to choke on. But he's—he's not a coward, you know? He tells himself, maybe out loud just to drown out the static in his headset, that he’s gotta get up and figure out what’s going on. So, he stands, shaky but determined, and steps out of the booth into the hallway.

Kitty

The hallway—it’s this long, dim corridor lined with photos of station alumni, and tonight it feels so much longer than it should. The flickering overhead light casts everything in this, like, jittery, otherworldly glow. And then—he sees it. A shadow. Not, you know, the kind cast by a chair or a broom—it’s darting. Moving. He barely catches it out of the corner of his eye, and, honest to God, he’s not sure if he even saw it. But his heart races just the same.

Kitty

He calls out. And it’s not like a brave “Who’s there?”—it’s more like a shaky, breathy whisper, almost like he doesn’t really wanna invite an answer. And…nothing. Just this oppressive quiet. The kind that makes your ears ring. Finally, he bolts back into the studio and slams the door shut, locking it, like that’s gonna—that’s gonna somehow keep, whatever it is, out. His back’s pressed against the door, and he laughs a little to himself. Just nervous laughter. Like, "Come on, Ethan, get a grip."

Kitty

But here’s the thing. As he’s sitting there, trying to calm down, he starts thinking about these old DJ stories—legends, really. Stories about spirits finding ways to, like, use radios to talk to people. Honestly, he never took them seriously, but now? Now, with this, uh, whatever-this-is happening? He’s not so sure. And the longer he thinks about those stories, the more this growing pit of dread settles in his stomach.

Kitty

And then…it starts. First, the equipment. Lights blinking in these quick, erratic bursts. Then the console—the sliders, the buttons—they just…they just start moving on their own. Like someone else, someone unseen, is running the controls. And through all of that chaos, faintly at first but growing louder, he hears it—the caller’s voice. It's distorted, scraping. And it repeats those same words: “You should have listened.”

Kitty

And then, just as Ethan’s breathing starts to steady, heavy footsteps echo from beyond the locked door. They’re slow, deliberate—almost like whoever, or whatever, it is knows exactly where he’s hiding. Each step sends vibrations up through the floor, rattling the equipment, the mugs, even the desk itself. Ethan's voice cracks as he goes live on air again, his words fumbling out as he tries to project some kind of normalcy… but his fear? Oh, it’s unmistakable. It bleeds through, raw and human.

Kitty

His listeners, if there are any still tuned in, must have heard it. That breathless, trembling plea as he says, “If anyone's listening, please—please call for help.” But before he can say more, the door handle rattles. Just slightly at first. Then harder. Slowly, the knob begins to turn, even though it—it's supposed to be locked. Ethan backs away, his chair toppling over behind him, his eyes locked on the door as though looking away might make it worse.

Kitty

And then... nothing. The door doesn’t burst open. The footsteps stop. There’s silence. Not just in the studio, but through the entire building. Even the equipment, the static, the hum—it’s all gone. And just as Ethan dares to exhale, a freezing cold hand clamps over his mouth from behind, cutting off his breath, his voice. His headset falls to the ground with a clatter, and the airwaves? They’re suddenly flooded with sound—the distorted, gasping breaths of his caller looped over and over again, sending shivers through anyone listening.

Kitty

The next morning, the studio is empty. No sign of Ethan, no trace of struggle. His co-workers find the equipment fried, the phone dangling from the receiver, and the strangest of all—his last broadcast. The tape is still playing. It replays his final, terrified gasps… endlessly. The words, “You should have listened,” hiss through the static, leaving those who hear them feeling like maybe, just maybe, they’re being watched too.

Kitty

And that's all for tonight. Stay safe out there, folks. Remember, sometimes, it’s not what you can see that should scare you—it’s what you can’t. Until next time.