The Transmission

Prologue: Dead Air

Late-night radio host Eli Graves didn't think much of the unmarked package that arrived at WKXR studios - until he saw the vinyl record inside. No return address, just the words "PLAY AT 3:33 AM" etched into the label in jagged handwriting. Against his better judgment, he played it during his "Graveyard Shift" show.

The first two minutes were pure static. Then a voice whispered, "Eli, can you hear me? I'm in the studio with you right now." The studio was empty except for Eli. The voice continued, perfectly mimicking Eli's speech patterns: "You shouldn't have played this. Now it's too late. They're coming up the stairs."

            "The static suddenly resolved into a perfect copy of Eli's own voice screaming. The recording ended with three distinct sounds: the studio door opening, a wet crunch (like a neck snapping), and finally, the record scratching as if the needle had been violently knocked off. The timestamp on Eli's computer read 3:34 AM - the exact time his producer would find his body the next morning, his neck broken and the record player still spinning silently."
        

Chapter 1: The Caller

Eli's producer, Mara Chen, kept the record as evidence. That night, her phone rang at 3:33 AM. No caller ID. When she answered, it was Eli's voice - but he was standing right next to her in the studio, alive and well. "Mara," the voice whispered, "you have to destroy it before it-" The line went dead just as the real Eli walked in, pale and sweating. "Did you hear that?" he asked. "It sounded like... me."

The next day, Mara visited the station's audio engineer, Javier. Spectral analysis revealed something impossible - the record contained ultrasonic frequencies that shouldn't exist on vinyl. "This isn't just recorded sound," Javier said, his hands shaking. "There are... voices in the grooves. Hundreds of them, layered deeper than physics allows."

            "That night, Mara played the record again. This time, it was her voice. 'You shouldn't have listened,' it whispered. Behind her, the radio switched on by itself, broadcasting white noise - and the sound of someone breathing in her ear. When she turned, the studio glass reflected two figures standing behind her: Eli and someone else... someone whose face was nothing but static. The reflection mouthed words that matched perfectly with the record: 'We're broadcasting live.'"
        

Chapter 2: The Signal

Mara traced the record to WXLP, a defunct radio station that had experimented with "time-delayed broadcasts" in the 1970s. The station's final log entry read: "Test #47 successful. We've contacted tomorrow." The station went off-air moments later, mid-broadcast, with the DJ screaming about "voices in the static."

At the abandoned transmitter tower, Mara's phone suddenly picked up a signal - a live feed of her own voice begging her to run. The broadcast ended with a loud bang and the sound of vinyl scratching. Inside the control room, Mara found the original recording equipment still running, its reels turning despite having no power source.

            "The machines sprang to life, recording Mara's terrified breathing. The VU meters spiked as the speakers whispered in dozens of overlapping voices - all Mara's. The broadcast ended with a loud bang - the sound of the control room door slamming shut behind her. When Mara turned, the exit was gone. The only sound left was the record spinning on the floor, playing her final scream on an endless loop as the machines continued recording."
        

Chapter 3: The Feedback Loop

WKXR received Mara's final broadcast the next night at 3:33 AM - a perfect recording of her last moments at the transmitter tower. The new host, unaware of the danger, played it on air. Listeners reported hearing their own voices in the static afterward, whispering personal details no one else could know.

The station manager ordered all copies destroyed, but the recording kept reappearing in the playlist. Engineers found the digital files regenerating after deletion, growing larger each time. The final attempt to erase it caused the entire station's archive to be overwritten - every recording now played Mara's scream before cutting to static.

            "A week later, a new record arrived at the station. The label read: 'PLAY AT 3:33 AM.' The staff swore they destroyed it - but that night, every radio in the city tuned itself to WKXR at exactly 3:33 AM. The broadcast began with Mara's voice: 'This is a test of the emergency broadcast system. The following is a recording...' Then came the sound of thousands of voices screaming in unison - including yours, recorded just now as you listened."
        