When I moved into my new apartment, I found an old, abandoned radio in the basement. Its retro design sparked my curiosity. Plugging it in, I discovered it still worked. It picked up only static at first, but late at night, between the white noise, came faint sounds.
The first night, the sounds were almost unnoticeable, like whispers on the wind. By the third night, they had grown louder, a cacophony of distant voices overlapping, their words unintelligible. What began as a peculiar oddity became increasingly unsettling.
On the seventh night, a clear voice cut through the static. A woman, sounding panic-stricken, pleading for help. She described being trapped in a place of absolute darkness and paralyzing cold. Her voice carried such raw terror that it sent icy chills down my spine.
Over the next few nights, her desperate pleas continued, each time her terror deepening. I didn’t know how to help, or even if what I was hearing was real. The police thought I was a prankster when I tried to report it.
Then one night, the woman’s voice was replaced by something much darker. A deep, grating voice that filled the room with a heavy dread. It spoke in a language I didn’t recognize, its tone malicious and taunting.
Soon after, strange phenomena began occurring around my apartment. Objects moved on their own, lights flickered, and chilling draughts appeared from nowhere. The woman’s voice returned intermittently, now interspersed with bone-chilling screams and pleas for mercy.
At the peak of my terror, the deep voice spoke in English for the first time. It whispered my name. I froze. How did it know my name? The voice continued with a menacing chuckle, promising to come for me. That night, I was too terrified to sleep.
As promised, each night brought escalating horrors. My dreams were filled with nightmarish visions of a dark, icy abyss filled with lost souls. I would wake up with unexplained scratches and strange symbols etched on my skin. The voice from the radio grew more triumphant with each passing night, relishing my growing fear.
In my desperation, I tried to destroy the radio, to get rid of the source of my torment. But no matter how I tried - smashing it, burning it, throwing it away - the radio always returned, its static-filled whispers growing louder.
Now, I’m living in constant terror, waiting for the fulfillment of the voice’s promise. I’m its plaything, trapped in this waking nightmare. The woman’s pleas have turned into maddening laughter, joining the dark voice in its torment.
My every moment is filled with dread. The static haunts me, even when the radio is off. I hear the whispers, the screams, the chilling laughter in my head, a constant reminder of the inescapable horror that my life has become. The presence is growing stronger, feeding off my fear, my sanity slipping away.
I can feel it now, an imminent darkness creeping closer, its icy touch just a breath away. My story is a desperate plea, a warning of the terror that came from the static, from the voices that knew my name. The horror I’m living is so bone-chilling, so paralyzing that it’s turned my existence into a never-ending nightmare.