Snow fell thick over the abandoned mountain town of Larkfield, each frozen flake settling silently onto cracked roads and shuttered windows. The town’s lone radio tower, a skeletal monument to a bygone era, staggered against the storm as if it, too, bore the weight of unseen memories. For three days, no transmissions had cut through the blizzard’s howl—no voices reaching the outside world. The silence was absolute.
Evelyn dripped a steady stream of darkness from her canister, the slow hiss of the gas filling the cramped control room beneath the tower. The glow of a single lantern caressed peeling walls, the flickering light casting long shadows across wires and rusted consoles. She gripped the microphone tightly, knuckles pale beneath her gloves, every breath a shallow frost inside her mask.
“We’re still here,” she whispered to the static, her voice raw from weeks of solitude. “Larkfield Radio, live on air… if anyone is listening.”
Outside, the wind moaned low, dragging icy branches across broken glass like skeletal fingers scraping a coffin lid. Evelyn’s fingers trembled, her eyes darting to the frequency dial. The storm had isolated her completely, and she knew it. But there was something more. Something in the silence she couldn’t shake — a heaviness that pressed on her chest, suffocating in its unknown nature.
She adjusted the headset, hoping to pierce the static with a familiar voice, some connection beyond the thick, relentless whiteness pressing against the windows. But instead, the radio crackled with an uninvited guest: a quiet, distorted voice she didn’t recognize.
“…Are you there?” it cooed, soft and sticky as old syrup.
Evelyn froze. The signal was faint, fragmented, like a whisper caught in a gale. She stared at the microphone, breath shallow, heart a frantic drum against her ribs.
“Who’s this?” she cracked, voice nearly breaking. “Speak clearly, please—”
The voice shattered into static for a long, ragged second before returning, layered atop the hiss. “I’m the last one here. I keep the signal alive.”
Her fingers clenched tighter. “Last one? Here where? Larkfield?”
“Yes,” it breathed. “But not as you remember.”
A cold dread curled in Evelyn’s gut. She thought of the disappearances—people vanishing without trace in the week before the storm. No distress calls, no footprints in the snow.
“What do you mean?” She tried to steady herself, glancing out into the swirling white where shadow shapes seemed to loom just beyond sight.
The voice softened, almost mournful. “This radio tower isn’t just for the living. It holds the transmissions of those who never left. The echoes that bind this place. We’re caught between voices — between worlds.”
Evelyn swallowed hard. “You mean… ghosts?”
There was a pause heavy with static, then a sigh that felt like it came from under the earth.
“Yes. But not just spirits. Memories. Regrets. Stories waiting to be untold. I’m the keeper of the station, forever broadcasting their stories so they won’t die. But the storm… it’s coming. It’s always coming to silence us.”
Fingers trembling, Evelyn glanced at the fading console lights. The gas hissed lower, shadows deepening like ink spilled across the floor.
“How do I stop it? If you’re trapped—”
The voice faded, distant. “You can’t. The frequency will go dark soon. But if you share this broadcast, it might keep the voices alive. Tell them our story.”
Static rose, swallowing the room in harsh white noise. Then, a sudden crackle and silence. Only the storm’s howl remained.
Evelyn stayed frozen, the weight of solitude crushing around her. Then her headset glowed faintly—a soft pulse in the dark.
She keyed the mic again, voice shaking with hope. “This is Larkfield Radio. Are you still there?”
A whisper, a breath: “Always.”
—
Days later, when the rescue team finally pushed their way through drifts to the radio tower, the control room was empty.
The lantern burned low, casting a weak, intermittent glow that seemed to dim with each flicker.
On the console, the radio broadcast still played softly in the night—distorted voices weaving together stories of a town caught in a cold, endless storm that wasn’t just of wind and snow. Stories of those who vanished but never left, their voices locked somewhere between the static and the silence.
And beneath it all, one final broadcast—a voice, speaking from nowhere, ending with a plea:
“Tell them our story.”
