Every night, my old radio turns itself on at exactly 3:07 a.m. It doesn’t play music, just soft static — like a heartbeat hidden beneath white noise. At first, I thought it was a wiring issue. I unplugged it, even removed the batteries, but the next night, it was on again. That’s when I started hearing the voice.
It began faintly — a whisper beneath the static, just my name, over and over. “Liam… Liam…” The tone was neither male nor female, just flat and distant, like someone speaking from underwater. I threw the radio away.
The next night, I woke to the sound of static again. The voice was louder, clearer, coming from my phone this time. “Liam… let me in.”
I checked the door. Nothing. The following night, the voice said something new — an address. My address. Then it added, “I’m outside.”
I called the police, but when they arrived, they found nothing. No footprints, no sign of entry. They left.
It’s been quiet since then — until tonight. The static returned, but not from any speaker. It’s coming from inside my walls, vibrating through the plaster. And through the noise, that same flat voice whispered something new.
“Stop calling the police, Liam. They can’t help you. You already let me in.”