The Last Caller

‘And that was Nude by Radiohead. For those just joining me, I’m Miranda Doss, it’s 3 AM, and this is Echoes After Dark.’ A calm, rich, and warm voice reverberated into her headphones as she spoke.

Miranda sat in a dimly lit soundproof recording studio, with its worn and curling posters from decades ago, the red glowing ‘On Air’ sign above her head, radio equipment, and a microphone laid out before her, a stark contrast to her modern laptop. The small room smelled like day-old sweat, week-old cigarette smoke, and cheap perfume, which she assumed was the air freshener they used to make the room smell better—it didn’t.

The radio station operated from a building that had seen better days, situated in a crumbling industrial estate on the edge of town. It wasn’t a popular radio station, and it didn’t pay much, but Miranda had never cared about stuff like that; she just wanted to be able to run her segment without annoying station managers or CEOs telling her what she could or couldn’t say or do. Having free rein was a dream.

Nothing big or interesting had happened during her time as a presenter until a week ago. It was during a call-in session, and a strange caller came on the line. The disembodied voice was deep, grating, and at times felt distant, as if it were far removed from the phone it was speaking from.

This voice always brought up something different each night, never discussing the same topic. Sometimes the call lasted a couple of minutes, other times the conversation would last twenty minutes or more. The first night had been about a previous caller’s weekend, the second night had been about a brutal attack that had transpired that morning and had been on the news, giving specific details about the incident, which had led to a call from the police hours later. That had freaked her out a little, but each night she continued the same, and at 3.33 AM, the caller would make themselves known.

Tonight, she wondered what the nameless voice would talk about. Yes, it had been good for the show’s ratings, and listeners had increased since the caller had started ringing in, but there was something about it that didn’t sit right with her.

‘Now, you may be wondering if we’ll be having that mystery caller tonight. Well, listeners, we will have to wait and see. Keep those ears open and eyes glued for 3.33 AM,’ she chuckled, and although she sounded warm and calm, with a hint of amusement to her tone, she was anything but. Her heart was already racing with anticipation or dread; she wasn’t sure which.

‘In the meantime, lines are open,’ she said, pressing a flashing button on the deck in front of her. ‘Welcome, caller, and what do you want to talk to me about tonight?’

‘Hi, Miranda. I’m Rosie, first-time caller, long-time listener. I just wanted to say, I love listening to your show, it helps me keep sane whilst I work,’ she chuckled sweetly.

‘Thank you, Rosie. I love to hear from all my listeners. What do you want to talk about tonight?’

‘Actually, I was calling about something going on in my life and wanted some advice.’

‘Really? Sounds intriguing. So, what do you need advice about?’ She sat back in her chair, relaxing into the conversation.

‘I was out the other night with some friends and met this guy… erm, well, he was great and sweet, and everything. We got on great, and we even swapped contact information. However, since that night, I’ve heard nothing from him, and I’m unsure if I should make the first move or not. Will I seem desperate if I message him first, and will he think I’m being pushy or something? My friends say I’m being stupid and should just message the guy, but what do you think?’ Her voice rose in nervousness as she spoke.

Miranda could hear how emotional the woman was about the whole thing. At one point, she thought there would be tears. They talked for a while and discussed what to do next, how, and why. All the while, Miranda couldn’t help glancing up at the clock to check the time.

‘Don’t forget to let me know how it goes, okay, Rosie?’

‘Okay, will do. Thanks again. Bye.’

‘Bye, Rosie, and I hope everything goes well.’ Miranda smiles, pushing the button to end the call. ‘Let’s keep our fingers crossed for Rosie, okay, listeners. Hopefully, we get good news.’

She played a sound bite from her laptop that played several female voices overlapping, saying the words ‘Oh My God’, as she turned her volume down so she could exhale loudly. Taking a second, she stopped the sound bite and turned her microphone volume back up.

‘Okay, well, here’s hoping that Rosie has a good day today. So-o, who’s out next caller?’ she says, noticing the time—3.33 AM.

All the lines that were flashing on her board suddenly stopped, leaving only one flashing line available. Here we go again.

‘Welcome, you’re live on Echoes After Dark, what’s your name, and what do you want to talk about?’ Miranda gritted her teeth, waiting for the nameless caller to respond, whilst clicking record on her laptop.

‘You’ve been dreaming again, Miranda.’

‘I’m sorry?’ she replied, though she knew exactly what the voice was talking about. She’s been having strange dreams on and off for the last few afternoons, but she’d told no one about them. How does he know?

‘They’ll come again today. Don’t forget.’

‘Who are you?

‘You already know me. You’ve just forgotten.’ There was a large amount of static and crackling, then the line went dead.

‘Looks like caller 333 has left the building. Short chat tonight, sorry listeners. Okay, how about we go to our next caller?’ She clicked on her laptop, stopping the recording, and proceeded to finish her session.

Several hours later, she emailed her friend from a previous studio, who was a sound engineer, attaching a copy of the audio recording, and asked them to review the audio file and get back to her.

She received a response within the hour; the message had her both confused and concerned. ‘The voice is real, or should I say, voices. There are multiple voices layered on top of each other. That’s why the audio sounds distorted.’ That’s what her friend had said.

The next night, the voices came again. And again, the time they came through was 3.33 AM.

‘Hello, caller, you’re live on air.’

‘There’s a man in the diner on 5th and Holloway,’ it said. ‘He’s going to die in twelve minutes.’

Miranda refused to speak, this time. She just listened.

‘Twelve minutes,’ the voice repeated. ‘You can stop it.’

The line crackled and then went silent.

She stared at the clock. 3:34 AM. ‘We’re going to take a short break and be back in a bit. Here are some songs for you.’ She began playing some music, and against her better judgment, she grabbed her coat and ran.

The diner was empty, except for a solitary man sitting at the reception, sipping on what looked to be coffee. watched from her car, unsure what she was even looking for.

Then the explosion happened. The fire department called it a freak accident, a gas leak, but Miranda knew better.

The following night, the caller returned, much to Miranda’s chagrin.

‘You saved no one,’ it said. ‘But now you believe.’

That had been all the voices had said, but it had set her mind racing. She needed to know what exactly was going on and why she was being contacted. The rest of the show carried on like normal, but she didn’t. Her interest had been piqued, and so had her thirst for the truth.

Before the next show, she’d spent hours researching. She dug deeper. Found blueprints of the radio tower. It had been built on the site of an orphanage that burned down in 1963. No survivors. No cause ever determined.

The frequency she broadcasted on—AM 333—wasn’t registered with the FCC. It wasn’t supposed to exist. She even confronted her station manager, who’d shrugged. ‘The tower’s old. The frequency’s grandfathered in. Nobody listens to AM anymore.’

But someone was listening. That thought gave her goosebumps.

Each night, the voice called, and each time, it gave her something new: a name, a place, a time. Each time, she’d check the information, or a new caller would ring in, corroborating the voice’s information.

One night, the call grew very personal.

‘Your sister,’ the voice said one night. ‘You still wonder what happened to her.’

Miranda’s blood ran cold at these words.

‘She vanished when you were ten,’ the voice continued. ‘You blamed yourself.’

Miranda slammed the button, cutting the call. Her hands shook as she covered her mouth, holding back screams. She hadn’t spoken of her sister in years. Not since the night she disappeared from their backyard. No leads. No suspects. Just gone.

The following night, the voice began, ‘She’s here, with us.’

‘Where?’ she whispered, her breath caught in her throat.

‘In the frequency.’

The dreams came again. The red coat. The fire. A girl’s voice calling her name.

She stopped broadcasting music, her show becoming more of a seance. Listeners called in, desperate to speak to the voice. Some begged for closure or forgiveness. And the voice answered them all.

A woman asked about her missing son. The voice told her where to find the body.

A man called about a past crime, and the voice gave him the name of someone who knew the truth.

With each call, the show’s ratings grew, but Miranda felt hollow. She wasn’t hosting a show anymore; she was the dead.

One night, before connecting a listener with a new question or demand, she asked, ‘Why me?’

There was a momentary pause. ‘Because you listen.’

That hadn’t been the answer she was expecting.

After that night, she’d started seeing strange things. At first, it was shadows in the studio, then faces in the glass. Lastly, there was her reflection, blinking when she hadn’t.

But she didn’t stop, she couldn’t. But why? She didn’t know.

Her whole life had begun to change. She no longer went home; she slept on the studio couch and ate from vending machines. The city outside was nothing to her now, just a blur of fog and neon.

Then, one night, the final call came in. The clock read 3:33 AM.

‘Tonight,’ the voice said, ‘you’ll join us.’

Miranda’s heart pounded in her throat. ‘What? What do you mean?’

‘You’ve heard us. Now you’ll become one of us.’

With that, the studio air suddenly grew cold, the lights flickered, and the equipment buzzed. Fear gripped her as she rushed to leave the room, but the door refused to open.

The voice whispered, ‘You’ve always been here.’

The static rose, deafeningly so. The whispers morphed into screams as the red ‘ON AIR’ sign exploded in a shower of sparks and glass.

Then… silence.

Hours later, the station manager rushed into the studio, finding nothing except a pair of warm headphones, shattered glass, and a mic still showing as live. There was no sign of Miranda.

A blinking light on the dashboard caught his eye.

One caller.