The Voice Between Stations
3 minute read · A fictional tale from Punkin’Head Unleashed
The caller asked Lena to play the silence again.
It was 3:13 a.m. at a tiny radio studio above a shuttered record shop. Lena had been filling the overnight slot for eleven nights. The station phone had never rung before.
‘What silence?’ she asked.
‘Between the last two records. You cut her off.’
Lena checked the playback. Four seconds separated the songs. At first she heard only the hum of a loose cable. Then, beneath it, a woman speaking very carefully: ‘Nora Bell. Kitchen window. Don’t look down.’
‘Who is this?’ Lena asked. The caller had gone.
She searched the name. The only match was an old newspaper notice: Nora Bell, missing since 1986. The accompanying photograph showed the building across the street. Fourth-floor kitchen. Same crooked fire escape.
Lena looked out. A light came on in the fourth-floor window. A woman stood there with both hands against the glass. Lena lifted her phone to call for help. Before she could dial, the light went out.
The next record finished. This time Lena left the channel open.
‘Marcus Vale. Passenger seat. Keep your eyes closed.’
A car idled beneath her window. The driver’s seat was empty. In the passenger seat, a man held both hands over his eyes. Every traffic light on the block turned red at once.
Lena pulled down the microphone fader. The woman kept speaking. She unplugged the headphones. The voice came from the little speaker above the studio door.
‘Lena Ortiz. Studio door. Do not let yourself in.’
Three knocks followed. Lena froze with her hand on the desk.
‘I forgot my keys,’ said her own voice from the hallway. ‘Come on. It’s freezing out here.’
The studio had no heating. Lena could see her breath. Under the door, the hallway light was interrupted by two shadows. Both pointed toward her.
She found the old patch sheet taped beneath the desk. In pencil, beside the telephone input, someone had written: WHEN THEY ARRIVE, KEEP TALKING.
Lena pushed up the microphone fader. She described the desk, the peeling paint, the cup she had brought from home. She said her mother’s name. Her childhood address. The name of the first record she had bought. Outside, her other voice began to cry.
She talked until a delivery truck rattled past and daylight reached the studio floor. The knocks stopped. Beneath the door lay a key with a paper label: OVERNIGHT.
The station manager found her still on the air. He said the telephone line had been disconnected for years.
Lena quit that morning. She never went back, but sometimes, driving late at night, her radio slips between stations. She hears her own tired voice describing the studio, one ordinary object at a time.
Last night, it stopped describing the room.
It started describing her car.