The Last Broadcast

My friends and I had always been obsessed with the unexplained, but we never actually expected to find anything. It started as a joke, really, after I found an old cassette recorder at a flea market. It was the kind of bulky thing with actual tapes, and the seller swore it had belonged to a radio journalist who disappeared in the 1980s. I thought it would be a fun prop for our ghost hunting videos, but it turned out to be more than that.

Our usual spot was the old Ironwood Asylum, a crumbling building on the edge of our town that had been abandoned for decades. It was infamous for the experiments that supposedly happened there, and the locals avoided it after dark. But we were young and reckless, and the thrill of trespassing outweighed our fear. That night, it was just me, my best friend Marcus, and my cousin Lena. We had the recorder, a couple of flashlights, and a cheap EMF meter we’d bought online.

We set up in the main corridor, where the paint was peeling and the windows were boarded up. The air was thick with dust and the smell of decay. We started asking questions, the usual stuff, ‘Is anyone here?’ ‘What’s your name?’ We laughed at our own nervous jokes, but the recorder was rolling. After about an hour, we packed up and headed home, expecting nothing.

Back in my apartment, we listened to the tape. There was nothing unusual except for a faint, rhythmic clicking that started about halfway through and continued until we stopped. We dismissed it as a faulty tape or the recorder’s mechanics, but I kept the tape anyway. A few days later, I listened again, alone. This time, the clicks were clearer, and I realized they were Morse code. I jotted down the letters: ‘T-H-E-R-E-A-R-E-T-H-R-E-E-O-F-T-H-E-M’.

I called Marcus and Lena, my heart pounding. We tried to decode it further, but that was all. We decided to go back, determined to get more. The next visit, we brought better equipment: a digital audio recorder, a thermal camera, and a spirit box. We were armed with questions and a newfound belief that we might actually catch something.

As we entered the asylum, a cold breeze swept through, even though the windows were sealed. We made our way to the same corridor, and I switched on the cassette recorder, letting it run. We asked our questions, but the spirit box only produced static. After ten minutes, we heard a loud thud from the end of the hall. We shone our lights, but saw nothing. Lena pointed out that the cassette recorder was emitting a low hum, different from before.

We decided to leave shortly after, but when we reviewed the tape, we found a clear voice layered under the static. It was a man’s voice, harsh and broken, saying, ‘You should not have come back.’ A chill ran down my spine. We had a contact. Over the next few weeks, we returned multiple times, and each time, the voice grew clearer. We learned his name was Joel, a former patient who had been subjected to the asylum’s experimental lobotomies. He spoke of other spirits, ones that were not friendly, and warned us not to trust the ones that sounded like children.

Joel told us that the asylum was a crossroads for something darker, a place where the veil was thin. He urged us to stop coming, but we were hooked. We wanted to help him move on, and we thought we could communicate with the others he mentioned.

On our final visit, we brought a paranormal investigation kit we’d ordered online, complete with a spirit box and a motion sensor. We set up in the old operating theater, where Joel said he had been taken. The air was icy, and our breath formed clouds. We asked for him by name, and the spirit box crackled. A distorted voice, not Joel’s, came through: ‘They are coming. Run.’

Suddenly, the motion sensor went off, and we heard footsteps in the hallway. We shone our flashlights, but the beams revealed nothing. The footsteps grew louder until they were right outside the door. We froze. The door creaked open slowly, and we saw nothing, but the footsteps entered the room. One by one, our flashlights died. The cassette recorder started playing on its own, and we heard Joel’s voice, but he was sobbing, ‘I told you not to come. Now they know you’re here.’

The temperature dropped further, and we felt icy hands on our shoulders, but there was no one there. Panic set in. We screamed and ran, stumbling down the dark corridors, our legs barely carrying us. We burst through the front door, gasping for air. As we fled to the car, I looked back and saw a dark silhouette in the window, watching us.

We drove in silence, trying to process what had happened. When we got back to my apartment, we listened to the cassette tape one last time. Under the static and our screams, there was a new voice, calm and menacing, saying, ‘We will be waiting. The three of you are ours now.’

We never went back. We tried to destroy the tape, but it wouldn’t burn, and when we buried it, it resurfaced. Marcus moved away, Lena refuses to speak of that night, and I am left with the recorder. It scribbles on its own, etching names and dates in a shaky hand, names of people who have recently died. And last night, it etched my own name, with a date that is three days from now.

I am writing this to warn others, not to chase the paranormal. Some doors should stay closed, and some voices should remain unheard. But I know the end is coming, and when it does, they will claim me.

The last broadcast from the asylum will be my own.