The Radio Station from Hell - An Original Short Story by Josh
I’d heard stories about haunted everything—radio stations, houses, hospitals, gas stations. I always wrote them off. I don’t believe in paranormal stuff; I’m the kind of person who finds a scientific explanation for anything that feels “unexplainable.”
That confidence lasted right up until I started working the midnight shift at the town radio station—the one on the hill. I’d heard the rumors, sure. I just never thought I’d become part of them.
I got the job right after finishing my communications degree. Radio was the dream, but I figured I’d be mopping floors or hauling trash for a year before anyone let me near a mic.
Then I saw a listing for the midnight shift: 9 p.m. to 6 a.m. The pay was… suspiciously good—especially for entry-level. I applied anyway, expecting an instant rejection.
I hit submit Friday night. Saturday morning, my phone rang.
They asked the usual questions, then: “When can you start?” I actually laughed. “Wait—are you serious?”
They told me they needed the shift filled fast, and that hiring a local kid made sense. I said Monday and drove straight to my parents’ house, grinning like an idiot.
They were excited—until I told them where. “It’s local,” I said. “The station on the hill.”
My mom’s smile stiffened. My dad’s hands stopped moving like someone had paused him mid-gesture. Then they both put their faces back on—wide smiles, too bright.
“We’re happy for you,” my mom said, a little too quickly. “We’ve just… heard stories. Ghost stories.”
I rolled my eyes and asked what they meant. They asked if I’d seen the news a few weeks back—something about an “accident” with the night talk host. I hadn’t. When I pressed them, they just kept smiling and said, “If you want to work there, we’ll support you.”
I told myself they were being dramatic. The job sounded easy: the music ran on automation; I just had to monitor the feed so it didn’t cut out and tank their ratings. Management even said I could have someone come hang out with me. “Company policy,” they said. “Nothing weird.”
I started Monday. They had me come in early and promised someone would walk me through everything. “You’ll have a trainer for the first week,” my boss said, like this was the most normal job in the world.
I asked the day-shift host if he’d be with me at night too. He hesitated—just long enough to make my stomach dip—then said, “No. That’ll be someone else. I tried the night shift and it… didn’t work out.”
My trainer showed up a few minutes later. Nice enough, friendly enough—until he said, like it was a weather report, “I always hated nights here.”
I tried to laugh it off. “Why does everyone act scared when they talk about this shift?”
He stared at the console like it might answer for him. “It’s just… different at night,” he said finally. “Like a scary movie where you’re waiting for the jump scare.” Then, quieter: “You know about the last guy, right?”
When I told him I didn’t, his face tightened. “Oh. You haven’t heard what happened to Bobby.”
I admitted my parents had acted weird about the job, but wouldn’t explain. He swallowed like he’d bitten into something sharp. “Let me show you around,” he said, and stood up too fast.
As we walked the building, he turned on every light. Not most of them—every single one. Hallways that should’ve needed one fixture had six or eight blazing overhead like we were trying to keep something pinned down in the corners.
He kept glancing behind us. When a door clicked shut somewhere down the hall, he flinched hard enough that his badge slapped his chest.
The station itself was nicer than I expected—small gym, kitchenette, an entertainment room—like they wanted you comfortable if you had to be here for long stretches.
Then we reached the outside stairwell. The door was laced with tape: CAUTION—CRIME SCENE. The tape looked sun-faded, like it had been there longer than anyone wanted to admit.
Back in the studio, I asked why he seemed so on edge. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m just nervous at night.” The lie sat between us, humming.
The first couple of nights were… normal. He showed me the automation system, the emergency playlists, the dead-air alarms. But he kept quizzing me like there was a timer running out. Like he was trying to get me to “good enough” before something happened.
On the third night he said, “I think you’re ready.” He checked his watch, stood, and announced he’d be leaving in an hour. I told him he could stay and hang out. “Nope,” he said. “I’ve gotta be home.”
“Call me if you need anything,” he added, already backing toward the door. “I can help you over the phone.” Then he was gone—down the hall, out into the dark—like the building was on fire behind him.
For a few more days, nothing happened. I started to think everyone was just spooked by old stories and stale tape.
Then, the following week, I began to hear footsteps behind me—soft, deliberate steps that stopped the instant I turned around. I checked the halls. Empty. I checked the cameras. Nothing that matched what my ears insisted was real.
No matter where I sat—control room, break room, bathroom—I felt like someone had leaned in close, just out of view, watching. The air felt heavier at night, like the building held its breath. I told myself it was the schedule, the sleep debt, the weird hours. It would get better.
One night I nodded off at the console. I’m still sure it was only twenty minutes.
When I jerked awake, the board lights looked wrong—too still. The log showed dead air. Not a few seconds. An hour.
My phone was already ringing. My boss. “Hey—are you okay?” he said. “The station went silent for an hour. And… someone reported screaming on the line. I called the police. They’re on the way.”
I told him I’d fallen asleep and apologized until my throat hurt. He wasn’t even mad—just kept asking if I was hurt. After I hung up, I sat there staring at the speakers. We played alternative rock. Nothing with that kind of screaming. Nothing that sounded like a person.
A hard knock rattled the front door. When I opened it, two officers stepped in and asked to look around. I said yes—of course—then one of them took my wrists and clicked cuffs on like it was routine.
“Standard procedure,” he said when I protested. “We heard a scream. We need to make sure nobody’s hurt.” They searched the building, quick and thorough, then came back and uncuffed me. “You’re good,” one said. “Sorry. There’s been some weird stuff here.”
That was when I snapped. I told them about the crime scene tape, the way people dodged my questions, the name—Bobby. “What happened to him?” I asked. “Why is that door still taped off?”
The older officer glanced down the hall like he expected to see someone listening. Then he leaned in and lowered his voice. “They say he went out that stairwell door,” he said. “Then he went over the railing. Dead at the bottom.”
“Suicide,” he added quickly, like the word had sharp edges. “That’s what it was ruled. Case closed.” His eyes didn’t match his mouth. “Best advice? Get out while you can.”
I didn’t call my boss. Not right away. I needed the job, and I didn’t know how to say, “Hey, your station is doing something impossible,” without sounding like I was trying to quit on the spot.
But every drive up that hill felt longer. My hands started shaking before I even unlocked the door. The pay was good enough to trap me there, and every other station I applied to hit me with the same line: no experience.
I started having panic attacks in the studio, quiet ones where I couldn’t breathe but couldn’t make noise either—like the building would hear me. Shadows moved in my peripheral vision. Whispers threaded through rooms that should’ve been empty. And the station felt darker every night, even with all the lights on.
One night I locked myself in the bathroom and gripped the sink until my knuckles turned white. I looked up.
In the mirror, there was a face over my shoulder—close enough that it should’ve fogged the glass with breath. It wasn’t snarling or rotting or anything dramatic. It was just… there. Watching.
I screamed. “What do you want from me?”
A voice answered from nowhere and everywhere at once, flat as the station’s dead-air tone: “You need to get out. Now. Before they get you.”
“Who?” I whispered. “Who gets me?”
The reflection was just my own again. No footsteps. No whisper. Just the hum of fluorescent lights and my heartbeat trying to outrun my ribs.
I didn’t finish the shift. I grabbed my stuff, typed a resignation letter with shaking hands, and left it on the keyboard. I walked out into the night and never went back to that damn radio station.