The station felt older at night. The walls hummed with leftover heat from the day, and the smell of burnt coffee lingered under the vents. Kaila sat in front of the mic, half-listening to the buzz in her headphones. Sometimes she wondered if anyone was even out there. She thought about what would happen if she just stopped talking.
“You’re listening to Slasher Season on WZRD-FM,” she said. “Halloween night in Northern Illinois. I’m Kaila. Failed grad student. Part-time radio host. Tonight’s question: what’s the best kill in horror history?”
The red ON AIR light flickered like it wanted to go home too.
Caller 1: “Jason Voorhees. Machete through the face. Simple. Beautiful.”
“A working-class hero,” Kaila said. “The proletariat with a blade. Thank you for your service.”
Caller 2: “Yo, it’s gotta be Drew Barrymore in Scream. It’s perfect. Meta before meta. She’s the bait. She’s the warning.”
“Excellent choice,” she said. “The celebrity cameo as sacrificial lamb. What Plato would call representation of representation, if Plato had ever watched cable.”
She took another sip of cold coffee. It tasted like rust and time. A low hum crawled under the signal, like someone dragging a finger across the mic.
Caller 3: “The best kill,” the next voice said slowly, “is the one the camera doesn’t cut from.”
She smiled, because silence on air meant death, and death was bad for ratings.
“Okay,” she said. “You sound like someone who writes manifestos. Go on.”
“Where the blood keeps going. Where the host keeps talking like nothing’s wrong.”
Kaila looked at the board. Every level glowed steady green.
“Performance art,” she said. “I respect the bit.”
He didn’t respond. Just breathing. Long and even. It filled the booth like fog.
She reached for the cough button. The line clicked first.
The hum deepened, settling into her ribs. She waited for the next call. Nothing.
“Still live,” she whispered. “Still fine.”
Her own voice came through the monitors again, faint and distorted, whispering a line she didn’t remember saying.
The host keeps talking like nothing’s wrong.
She froze. “No,” she said softly. “That’s not me.”
The headset clung to her ears, hot and sticky. She thought about pulling it off. She didn’t.
The hallway light outside the booth flickered once.
“For the loyal listeners,” she said, barely above a breath. “Slashers are America’s love language.”
The doorknob turned slow, like whoever was on the other side had all the time in the world.
She backed up until the chair hit her knees. Her mouth stayed open, but she didn’t say anything this time.
The door opened.
Thud.
The mic fell sideways. Feedback screamed. Then breathing, closer now.
A man’s voice pressed against the mic.
“Seen.”
A choking sound followed, then a scrape of chair legs. The station’s automation cut in.
WZRD-FM. The voice of Northern Illinois.
It looped twice, cheerful and wrong, before the sound cut out for good.