Jack Mercer's rusty pickup truck tyres crunched gravel as he rolled into Millhaven. The mountains were covered in fog like dirty cobwebs, and they swallowed the road behind him. He turned the radio knob, but he heard only static. Figures, he thought. This town didn't even have decent Wi-Fi, much less a working station.
The door creaked as he entered. Dust floated in the dim light, filtering through broken windows. His boots kicked empty soda cans and crumpled flyers from the '90s. Welcome home, he muttered.
He set up his gear on a splintered wooden table. The recorder then blinked red. "Testing, testing," Jack said, as his voice bounced off the walls. "This is Jack Mercer, reporting live from the creepiest town you'll never visit—"
Crash!
Jack turned around. A book had toppled off a shelf and filtered through the room. He chuckled uneasily. "Alright, Millhaven. Real creative."
However, a folded piece of paper fell out when he opened the book. Yellowed and brittle. A child's sketch: a shadowy figure with bushy teeth standing beside a radio tower. Scrawled in crayon at the bottom: Don't let it hear you.
The lights flickered.
Jack's throat parched. The wind outside shrieked like an injured animal. He stuffed the drawing into his pocket and faced the microphone. "Just… just old wiring," he repeated to himself.
Then, the static began.
It hissed through the speakers, growing louder until it sounded like voices. Words were mangled in the noise: …get out…
Jack stood stock-still. The air had an acrid scent of charred metal. His breath misted before him, even though the room was no longer chilly.
A shadow was cast in the hallway.
Not a shadow. Something tall and stooping, with fiery cracks for eyes. It did not move while walking. It slid like oil over water.
Jack's heart was thundering. He clutched his recorder and fled; the creature's racking breath at his nape. He did not slow down until he reached his truck.
He played it in his motel room.
His own voice initially: "Testing, testing…"
Then, below—growing low and hungry– And one word, loud and distinct:
… Mine…
Jack stopped the recorder. His hands trembled incessantly.
Outside his window, the fog pressed against it. Somewhere, a radio turned on with a burst of static.