Chapter 4: The Radio Station

The moment those smiling faces all turned toward her, Maya’s instincts kicked in. She stepped away from the radio slowly, trying not to draw attention, though she already had it. Every pair of eyes on the street seemed locked onto her, unmoving. Watching. Waiting.

A man in a business suit walked by, tipping his hat robotically.

“Enjoy your stay in Halstead,” he said.

His voice sounded… hollow. Like a recording.

Maya slipped out of the bakery and back into her car. She started the engine, hands trembling. Whatever Carter had uncovered here it was still active. And now it knew she was here.

She didn’t drive toward the motel.

Instead, she turned down an alley behind the square and pulled up the hand-drawn map from her coat. The X labeled B7 Beacon_7 was on the northern edge of town, behind an old factory. But between her and that location stood one landmark she remembered from the files: the Halstead Community Radio Station.

Carter’s last known workplace.

It was worth the risk.

As she drove down Main Street, the sky darkened even though it was only mid-afternoon. The clouds above Halstead were always too low too heavy, like the sky itself wanted to crush the town.

The radio station sat at the end of a winding service road, surrounded by tall fences and overgrown weeds. A rusted satellite dish jutted out from the rooftop at an awkward angle. The “ON AIR” sign above the door flickered, as if protesting its own existence.

Maya parked around back and broke the padlock on the rear entrance with a crowbar.

Inside, the air was thick with dust and mildew.

Old posters of radio hosts lined the walls faces scratched out with deep gouges. Cables hung from the ceiling like vines. The place had been gutted, except for one room near the center: Studio B.

The door was ajar.

She pushed it open slowly.

Inside, the studio was untouched.

A reel-to-reel recorder sat on the desk, still spinning slowly. A microphone with a red light glowed faintly. The walls were padded with foam panels, some torn. On the back wall, a strange phrase had been scrawled in black marker:

“Signal controls sight. Static preserves memory.”

She stepped inside and tapped the desk. The lights flickered once and the reel-to-reel stopped spinning.

Silence.

Then, without warning, it began rewinding itself violently until it snapped and hissed.

The speakers on the desk came to life.

“You shouldn’t have come here, Maya.”

It was Carter’s voice again but different now. Distorted. Frantic.

“I thought the station was dead. But they’ve been using it amplifying the signal. Controlling what people see… what they remember. It’s not just sound it’s command.”

The sound warped, like an old VHS tape melting.

“They embedded it into the town’s infrastructure. Traffic lights. Radios. Televisions. Anything that emits a frequency. They don't just track thoughts, they guide them.”

She leaned closer. “Carter, where are you? Are you still in town?”

“If you can hear this, I’m alive… but not for long. Meet me at the edge where the signal dies. Midnight. Bring the receiver.”

Then: silence.

Except for one thing.

A whisper. Not from the speakers but from behind her.

“You shouldn’t be listening.”

She spun around.

No one.

But the lights went out.

And outside the studio door, footsteps echoed down the hallway. Slow. Deliberate.

Maya grabbed the receiver from her bag and backed into the corner. The handheld device pulsed softly detecting a faint frequency nearby. The screen blinked:

SPEKTRUM 103.9 — SIGNAL ACTIVE

She pointed it toward the hallway. The signal grew stronger.

Something or someone was coming.

And it wasn’t human.