He stared at the microphone, hands trembling. It was time. The Endless Broadcast. His voice was ragged, his breath shallow, yet he couldn’t stop. It was out of his control now. Midnight. He leaned closer, lips brushing the metal grille, eyes fixed on the clock. The end was near.
“This is how it ends,” he whispered. His words hung in the stale air of the studio, like a death sentence.
Three weeks earlier, Jonathan Archer was the voice of the night. After Hours was his domain, a late-night radio show where listeners shared the strange, the unexplained. But Jonathan? He didn’t believe in any of it. He liked to play the skeptic, poking fun at the ridiculous. Until the night it all began.
“Let’s get into it, folks. Weirdest call gets a free mug. You know the drill,” Jonathan announced, his tone as smooth as the whiskey in his hand.
He flicked a switch, opening the line. Silence. Then, a faint crackle. “You’re live. What have you got for us?”
The static deepened, then a voice, low and fractured, cut through. “She’s already dead. You can’t stop it.”
Jonathan froze, the hairs on his neck standing on end. He had heard all kinds of nonsense before, but this—this was different. He played it off, chuckling into the mic. “We’ve got a comedian here, folks. Care to elaborate?”
Whispers in the Static
The line clicked dead. Jonathan frowned, staring at the receiver. A prank, he thought. Yet, something in that voice lingered, wrapping around his thoughts like a noose.
Hours later, the news broke. A woman had been found dead. Her name was Lisa Hayes. A single mother, just 29. Jonathan read the details in disbelief. The time of death? Precisely when the call came in.
He didn’t sleep that night. He replayed the call in his mind, over and over, the voice echoing in the dark corners of his consciousness.
The next night, Jonathan was restless, distracted. Carl, his producer, watched him with narrowed eyes. “You look like shit, Jon. You hungover?”
“No,” Jonathan snapped, a little too harshly. He rubbed his temples. “Something weird happened last night.”
Carl shrugged. “It’s a weird show. Weird is what we do.”
Jonathan nodded, but the unease gnawed at him. He wasn’t prepared for what came next.
The lines opened, and once again, that same crackle of static filled the room. “You’re live with Jonathan.”
The voice returned, more guttural, more distorted. “It’s too late. He’s already gone.”
Jonathan’s blood ran cold. “Who are you?” His voice was tight, barely controlled.
Trapped in the Airwaves
The silence dragged on, then the line clicked dead. Jonathan stared at the microphone as if it had betrayed him. This wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.
But it was. Two hours later, a man named Harold Greene was found hanging from a bridge. Time of death? The same as the call. Jonathan’s hands shook as he read the report. He felt sick. This was no coincidence.
“Jon, what the hell’s going on with you?” Carl asked, concern seeping into his normally sarcastic tone. “You’re pale as a ghost.”
Jonathan couldn’t look him in the eye. “I think…I think I’m killing people.”
Carl laughed, but it was forced, uneasy. “You’re losing it, man. It’s just a freak accident. You don’t really believe this crap, do you?”
Jonathan didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because deep down, he knew it was true.
Days passed. Jonathan became a shell of himself. He barely ate, barely slept. He was terrified of the next call, but he couldn’t stop the show. It was as if something else was controlling him, pulling the strings. Then, it happened again.
“This is After Hours, you’re on with Jonathan.”
The voice, twisted and dark, slithered through the speakers. “He’s burning now. Burning alive. You’ll hear the screams.”
Jonathan’s throat tightened…
He slammed the switch off, ending the call, but the words lingered. He could almost hear the screams in his head, raw and desperate.
Two hours later, it happened. A house fire. A man trapped inside. The screams, they said, were horrifying, echoing across the neighborhood as the flames consumed him. Jonathan’s heart pounded in his chest. He was the one who heard those screams first. Long before the fire had even started.
He had to know. Then he began digging into old recordings, old broadcasts. He spent hours in the archives, searching for answers. And then he found it. Buried deep in the static of a forgotten broadcast, he heard his own voice.
“We can’t stop it. It’s me. It’s always been me.”
Jonathan’s breath caught. It was him—his voice—but older, ragged, filled with fear. How? Why?
He listened again. “You’re trapped, Jon. This is how it ends. Every time. No escape.”
Jonathan’s mind reeled. He was caught in a loop, a twisted cycle he couldn’t break. Each call, each death—it was all leading to this moment. But whose voice was it? His future? His past? It didn’t matter. He was the cause, the catalyst, and he couldn’t change a damn thing.
The final call came sooner than he expected.
“You’re next, Jonathan.”
The voice was his own. Clearer, stronger, but filled with a despair that chilled him to the bone.
“Who are you?” Jonathan whispered into the void. “What do you want?”
“I want you to understand,” the voice said. “I want you to see. You did this. You always did this.”
Jonathan’s hand trembled as he reached for the switch, but it was too late. The cycle had already begun. The voice on the other end chuckled, a bitter, hollow sound. “Goodbye, Jonathan.”
And then the line went dead.
No One Escapes the Final Call
The broadcast room was empty now. Silent. The static had died down. Jonathan stared at the clock. Midnight. The end was here. His hand hovered over the microphone, his mind racing, but there was nothing left to say.
He knew what was coming. The final twist. The truth he had been running from. His voice cracked as he spoke, barely audible.
“This is how it ends.”
He closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable. But the silence was deafening. The air grew colder, the lights flickered one last time, and the studio door creaked open.
A figure stepped inside. It was him, older, worn, with eyes that held the weight of countless failures. The future Jonathan stared at his younger self, a sad smile playing on his lips.
“You can’t change it, Jon. You never could.”
Jonathan’s breath hitched. “But why? Why me?”
The future Jonathan shook his head. “Because this is who we are. Who we’ve always been. A voice in the dark. The harbinger of death. Our voice.”
With that, the older Jonathan faded, like smoke dissipating into the night.
Jonathan sat alone in the dim light of the studio, his hand still hovering over the microphone. He knew it was over. The cycle would continue, as it always had, as it always would. He couldn’t escape it, couldn’t change it.
And then, the phone rang
Jonathan stared at it, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew who it was. And he knew what it meant. He reached for the receiver, hand trembling, and brought it to his ear.
The voice on the other end was calm, resigned. His own voice. “It’s time, Jonathan. It’s time to end it.”
Jonathan’s eyes filled with tears as he whispered back, “I know.”
The line went dead.
He placed the receiver back on the cradle, his hand shaking, his mind numb. The clock ticked over to 12:01. The end had come. Jonathan took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let the silence wash over him.
But it wasn’t over. It never would be. The phone rang again, and this time, he didn’t answer.
Instead, he let the endless broadcast continue, its twisted cycle forever repeating, dragging him deeper into the darkness with every passing second.
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