The Dispatcher’s Call

I’ve been staying with my aunt in her old farmhouse for the past few months, trying to get back on my feet. The place is drafty and the stairs creak, but it’s cheap and quiet. After a particularly rough break-up, I moved my things into the ground-floor den, which used to be my aunt’s sewing room. It has a big window that looks out onto the overgrown garden, and a door that leads to the porch. My aunt, bless her, is in a care facility now, so I have the place to myself.

For the first few weeks, the only noise was the wind rattling the loose windowpanes and the occasional hoot of an owl from the tree line. I started to relax, thinking the move had done me good. But then my girlfriend, Lena, started staying over. She’s a light sleeper, and on the second night, she nudged me awake, her eyes wide. ‘Marcus, there’s someone talking upstairs. On the phone, I swear.’ I mumbled something about the neighbors’ kids and rolled over, but she was insistent. ‘It’s coming from the room above us. The one with the boarded-up window.’

That room had always creeped me out. My aunt had kept it locked ever since her husband died in there, decades ago. I never went in, and I didn’t want to start now. But Lena wouldn’t let it go. ‘It sounded like a man’s voice, low and calm. Like he was giving instructions. Almost like a dispatcher.’ I laughed it off, said she’d been listening to too many podcasts. But she didn’t laugh. She just stared at the ceiling, her face pale in the moonlight.

A few nights later, my buddy Dan crashed on the couch after a night out. In the morning, as he was sipping coffee, he looked at me strangely. ‘Marcus, at about 3 AM, I heard a voice coming from upstairs. It was clear as day, like someone was in the room right above us. It said, ‘The extraction point is set. Proceed with the procedure.’ I froze, my coffee cup halfway to my lips. Dan shrugged, ‘Probably just the old TV playing static, right? But it was too distinct. And it happened twice.’

I tried to brush it off, but the pattern was unnerving. Lena heard it again last night, and this time she recorded it on her phone. I listened to the audio on the drive to work. In the background, over the hum of the house, there was a voice—crisp, masculine, and utterly calm—saying, ‘Phase one complete. Prepare for the second. Await the signal.’ It wasn’t a neighbor, it wasn’t a stray radio signal. It was coming from that room.

After work, I decided to finally peek inside. My aunt’s old key was in the kitchen drawer, labeled ‘upstairs storage.’ I climbed the creaking stairs, my heart thumping. The door was painted a sickly green, with cracks in the wood. I turned the key, and the lock gave way with a dry click. The room was empty except for a single wooden chair in the center, facing the window, which was covered with a dusty sheet. On the chair sat an ancient shortwave radio, its dials and knobs coated in grime. The power light was on, glowing a faint red. And as I took a step inside, the radio crackled to life. A voice, the same one from the recording, said, ‘Subject has entered the chamber. Begin the final phase.’

I backed out, slammed the door, and locked it. But as I stood in the hallway, I realized the voice had come from the radio, but also from directly behind me. I turned, and there was nothing. Yet a cold draught swept past me, and I could swear I felt a presence brush my shoulder. I ran down the stairs, my footsteps echoing.

That night, I told Lena everything—the attacks I’d kept from her, the voices, the radio. She listened, her face hardening. ‘Marcus, that’s not a ghost. That’s a relay. Someone’s been using that radio to communicate, and the room is like a hotspot. But the voices? They’re not just coming through the radio. They’re coming through the house itself. We need to leave.’ I agreed. I’d rather live in my car than stay another night.

But as we were packing, the radio crackled again, louder this time, and the voice said, ‘Destination confirmed. Terminate all witnesses.’ A chill ran down my spine. I looked at Lena, and she was staring at the ceiling. ‘It’s not just voices anymore, Marcus. It’s a conversation. And we’re the subject.’

We fled to my car, and I drove without a destination. But at every gas station, every rest stop, I hear the faint echo of that voice in my mind, reciting coordinates and protocols. Lena says she hears it too, even when we’re miles away. The last time we stopped, the radio in my car—which was off—suddenly emitted a burst of static. And a voice, cold and clinical, said, ‘Mobile target acquired. Recalculating.’

Now, I’m driving, and the voice keeps giving updates. ‘Heading north. ETA 30 minutes.’ It’s not coming from the speakers. It’s coming from inside my head. And I know, with unshakable certainty, that when it next speaks, it will be to announce our arrival. And we will have been the ones to drive us there.