The Hollow Broadcast

The rain hadn’t stopped for three days. It drummed against the tin roof of our rented cottage in the middle of nowhere, a constant, oppressive sound that made the walls feel closer than they were. My sister, Mara, and I were supposed to be on a quiet retreat to finish our art projects, but the isolation was starting to gnaw at us. The only connection to the outside world was an old AM radio that sat on the kitchen counter, its dial worn smooth from use. It was my habit to switch it on at night, letting the crackling static and distant signals lull me into a false sense of companionship.

That evening, Mara was sprawled on the couch, sketching, while I attempted to do her math homework because she had convinced me it was ‘inspiring’ for her arts. The radio hummed and fizzed, tuning between stations that only played droning music or religious sermons. As the clock neared eleven, a strange clarity cut through the static. A voice, smooth and cold, spoke directly into the room: ‘Leave. Now.’ It wasn’t a suggestion; it was a command. My pen stopped. Mara looked up, her eyebrows raised. ‘Did you hear that?’ I whispered, already reaching for the blanket to pull over my head. She just shrugged, ‘It’s probably a prank station.’ But her hand shook as she set down her pencil.

I tried to shake it off, burying myself under the thick woolen blanket, my heart thudding. The radio went silent for a moment, then clicked back on, louder. The voice returned, now layered with a second voice that seemed to echo beneath it: ‘She is not your sister.’ A chill raced down my spine. I peeked out from under the blanket. Mara was staring at me, her face pale, her eyes wide. ‘That’s not funny, Maya,’ she said, her voice thin. But I hadn’t spoken.

The lights flickered, and a crash came from the kitchen—the set of ceramic plates we’d bought from a local market shattered on the floor, as if thrown by an invisible hand. Shards scattered across the linoleum. Mara screamed, and we both flung ourselves under the nearest table. The radio crackled with static, and the voice laughed, a low, guttural sound that seemed to come from all directions. ‘She knows,’ it said.

We huddled together, trembling, as more crashes followed. The toaster, the coffee cups, the picture frames—everything on the counters exploded outward. The radio kept repeating, ‘Leave. Leave. Leave.’ I could hear my own teeth chattering. Mara gripped my arm, her nails digging in. ‘Maybe we should go,’ she whispered, but her voice was drowned by the radio’s blare.

I thought of our grandmother, who had warned us about the cottage before we left. ‘There’s something in the walls,’ she had said, ‘something that doesn’t like guests who stay past midnight.’ We hadn’t believed her then. Now, as the clock struck midnight, the radio suddenly stopped. The silence was worse. It pressed against my eardrums. I could hear Mara’s ragged breath.

Then, from the radio, came a voice that was not the icy command but a softer, younger one. It was a child humming a lullaby—our grandmother’s lullaby, the one she used to sing to us when we were small. A wave of nostalgia washed over me, and I felt my grip on the table loosen. Mara looked at me, her eyes glazed. ‘Come, sit with me,’ the child’s voice said, sweet and inviting. My body felt heavy, as if compelled. I started to crawl out from under the table, but Mara grabbed my ankle. ‘Don’t,’ she begged, but her voice sounded far away.

The radio clicked off. The room fell into darkness. A cold draft swept through, extinguishing the last of the candles we’d lit. In the pitch black, I heard the crunch of broken plates underfoot. Something moved toward us. I could feel its presence, as if the air itself was solidifying. A whisper, barely audible, brushed against my ear: ‘You should have left when I told you.’

I don’t remember what happened after that. The next morning, we found ourselves outside the cottage, sitting on the damp grass, the rain finally stopped. The cottage was silent, its windows dark. We didn’t speak. We just got in the car and drove. But as we passed the first signpost back to civilization, the radio in the car, which was off, suddenly crackled on. The same cold voice said, ‘I’ll be waiting until you come back.’ We drove straight home, not stopping for anything. I never told anyone the full story, except now. The radio in my room at home remains unplugged, wrapped in a cloth, but at night, I can still hear it. A faint humming, singing our grandmother’s lullaby, reminding me that it’s waiting. And I know, one night, I’ll have to go back.