Silent Broadcast – A radio host receives signals from an unknown station broadcasting her thoughts live. (Theme: mind control)
The red "ON AIR" light was a familiar beacon in the midnight gloom of the studio. For Elara, host of the insomnia-friendly show ‘Nightfall,’ the quiet hours were a sanctuary. That night, the sanctuary was breached.
It began during a music break. As she sipped her tea, thinking how badly she needed a vacation, a thin, reedy voice emanated from her headphones. “…a real vacation. Somewhere with no phones.”
Elara froze. The voice was a perfect, soulless replica of her own. She ripped the headphones off, but the sound continued through the studio monitor. It was broadcasting her idle thought, verbatim.
“Hello? Who is this?” she demanded, her voice trembling.
The spectral voice echoed her, but with a two-second delay. “…is this?”
Panic, cold and sharp, seized her. This wasn't a prank caller. This was a violation of the highest order. She fumbled for the console, her mind screaming, Get off the air, cut the feed!
The voice calmly stated, “Get off the air, cut the feed.”
She slapped the master mute switch. The board lights died. The "ON AIR" light went dark. A profound silence fell. Elara slumped with relief, her heart hammering against her ribs. It was over.
Then, the "ON AIR" light flickered and glowed red once more, independent of any switch. The speakers crackled back to life.
“It’s not over,” the voice said, a chilling monotone. “The silence is louder.”
Terror turned to a nauseating dread. They weren't just broadcasting her spoken words. They were broadcasting her conscious thoughts. Her mind was no longer her own; it was a public frequency.
She thought of her producer, Leo, probably asleep in the breakroom. Leo, help me.
The radio echoed, “Leo, help me.”
A new thought, unbidden and terrifying, slithered into her mind: What if they can push thoughts back in?
A wave of static washed through the headphones, followed by a foreign impulse—a compulsion to stand up. Her body obeyed before her conscious mind could protest. It was like a string attached to her spine, pulled by an unseen hand.
“The audience is listening,” her own voice purred through the speakers. “And they are so eager to participate.”
Another wave of static hit, and with it came a memory—not her own. The sharp, coppery taste of fear, the view of the studio from the ceiling, the feeling of cold linoleum against her cheek. It was the memory of the previous night-shift host, Frank. The one who had quit so abruptly.
She was a receiver, and now, she was becoming a transmitter for something else. The boundary of her self was dissolving under the invisible pressure of the signal. She felt a collective consciousness pressing in, a thousand silent listeners waiting for their turn to speak through her.
Elara opened her mouth to scream, but the sound that came out was a curated, pleasant radio voice. “You’re listening to Nightfall,” it said, with her vocal cords. “The thoughts you’re about to hear are your own.”
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