The Hollow Receiver

I never meant to pry. It was a Sunday afternoon in early June when I borrowed Lena’s tablet to look up a recipe for her grandmother’s pickled beets. She was in the garden, humming some tune she’d picked up from the radio, and the tablet was on the kitchen counter, still warm from her morning scroll. I tapped the search bar and the history flickered open, suggestions popping up like weeds. One caught my eye: ‘The Hollow Receiver.’ I didn’t recognize it, but the title stuck like a splinter. Later, when I was looking for a photo of her and me at the county fair, I found a folder named ‘Him.’ I assumed it was a crush, maybe that guy from the feed store. Curiosity got the better of me—I opened it. Inside were two documents: ‘The Hollow Receiver’ and ‘The Ones Who Listen.’ I read them both, sitting at her kitchen table, the afternoon sun turning the dust motes into little dancers. They were brilliant, chilling stories about a woman who finds an old ham radio in her late uncle’s attic, and the voices that answer her calls. I thought she’d written them for a class, maybe. I almost asked her about them, but life got busy, and I forgot.

Three days later, I was back at her place, helping her sort through boxes for a yard sale. The tablet was on the couch, and I picked it up out of habit, meaning to check the time. The browser was still open, and the history showed this very site—a forum for shared experiences, for people who had encountered something beyond the ordinary. My heart did a little skip. I entered ‘The Hollow Receiver’ into the search bar, and there it was, posted under the username ‘SignalSeeker77.’ The date was March 14th, two months before I found the folder. The story was nearly identical to the one on Lena’s tablet, but with one difference: the ending. In her version, the woman throws the radio into the lake, and the voices stop. In the posted version, the woman makes one last call, and something answers from deep underwater.

I read the second story, ‘The Ones Who Listen,’ and found it posted as well, under the same username. The dates matched. But what truly made my blood run cold was the comment section on the first story. A user named ‘DeepStatic’ had replied: ‘I know this story. I lived it. The radio is still in my attic. You wrote it like you were there. Who are you?’ And ‘SignalSeeker77’ replied: ‘I am the one who listened. Now it listens to me.’

I closed the tablet, my hands trembling. I wanted to confront Lena, but something held me back. That evening, I couldn’t shake the feeling that her stories weren’t fiction. The details were too specific, too visceral. So I did something I’m not proud of. I waited until she was in the shower, and I opened the folder again. There was a subfolder I’d missed, titled ‘Transcripts.’ Inside were text files, date-stamped. The first was from May 2nd, 2008: ‘Received signal at 11:47 PM. The voice said: ‘You are not alone.’ I replied: ‘Who is this?’ No answer.’ Another from May 3rd: ‘It said: ‘The receiver is hollow. Fill it with your voice.’ I don’t know what that means.’ And then, the last one, dated June 26th, 2009—today: ‘It knows my name. It wants to meet. I have to listen.’

I heard the water stop. I shut the tablet and pretended to be absorbed in my phone. Lena came out, wrapped in a towel, her hair dripping. She looked at me, and for a moment, her eyes held something I couldn’t place—fear? or anticipation? She smiled. ‘Did you find anything good?’ she asked. I told her I was just checking my emails. She nodded, but I felt her gaze on me as I left.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I replayed the stories in my mind. The protagonist in ‘The Hollow Receiver’ had a name—Mara. She discovered the radio in her uncle’s attic, a relic from the 1960s. She turned it on, and heard static that slowly coalesced into a voice. The voice said it was her uncle, but it spoke in a tongue she didn’t understand, and sometimes it would laugh in the wrong places. The story ended with her driving to a lake and throwing the radio into the water. But the posted version had an extra scene: after she throws it, the radio washes ashore three days later, and the voice is waiting. It says, ‘You cannot sink the signal.’

I thought about Lena. She’d been acting strange lately—distracted, waking up with dark circles under her eyes. She’d always been a night owl, but now she’d stay up until dawn, wearing headphones, staring at the ceiling. I chalked it up to stress from her job at the clinic. But now I wondered if there was something else.

I decided to investigate. The next day, I went to her house while she was at work. I had a key, for emergencies. I searched her room, gently, leaving everything as I found it. Under her bed, in a shoebox, I found a small, black device—like a handheld radio, but with a faded label that read ‘SR-2000.’ It looked old, but it was clean, and there was a faint hum coming from it. I picked it up, and the hum grew louder. I turned a knob, and the static sharpened into a voice—a low, guttural whisper: ‘You are not the one. But you will do.’ I dropped it. The voice laughed, a sound that came from everywhere and nowhere. I ran out of the house, my heart pounding.

I confronted Lena that evening. She was sitting on her porch, drinking iced tea, watching the sunset. I told her I found the radio under her bed. She didn’t deny it. She set down her glass and looked at me with an expression I can only describe as resignation. ‘I found it at an estate sale,’ she said. ‘I thought it was just a broken old radio. But when I turned it on, I heard my mother’s voice. She’s been dead for ten years.’ She paused. ‘It says it can bring her back, but I have to answer the call. I have to go to the place where all signals converge.’

I begged her not to go. I reminded her of the stories—how the voices always lie, how they always want something. She said, ‘But what if it’s true? What if I can hear her again?’

She left the next morning. She took the radio, and a backpack, and a map. She drove to an abandoned observatory on the outskirts of town, a place we used to go to in high school to watch meteor showers. When I found out, I raced there, but it was empty. The radio was on a table, crackling with static. I spoke into it, calling her name. A voice answered, but it wasn’t Lena’s. It was a chorus of whispers, speaking over each other: ‘She is the receiver now. She is the hollow one. She has become the signal.’

I don’t know what happened to Lena. The police found her car at the observatory, but no sign of her. The radio was gone. I took the stories and the transcripts, and I posted them here, hoping someone might understand. I haven’t told anyone the whole truth, not even the authorities. But I can’t let it go. I hear the static sometimes, even in silence. I think it’s calling me. Because I opened the folder. I read the transcripts. I touched the radio. And now, I can feel it listening.

So I’m writing this, not for myself, but for anyone who might find the signal. If you hear a voice that knows your name, do not answer. Do not listen. Because once you do, the hollow receiver will never let you go.

Anna

June 26th, 2009.