WEBVTT
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Calaruga Shark Media.
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Welcome to Midnight Frequencies, a special romance weekly in Ghost
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Scary Stories crossover event. This is episode one Signal Interference.
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The steam from the coffee shop below my window rises
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past the fire escape like ghosts, and I wonder if
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that's an omen. It's one forty seven am on a
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Tuesday in November, and I'm three minutes out from going live.
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The city hums beneath me, Subway trains rattling through tunnels,
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taxis honking their way through Soho's narrow streets, the electric
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buzz of eight million people who never really sleep. My
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name is Lyrah Morgan, and for the last two years,
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I've been the voice that cuts through New York's electromagnetic
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chaos every night from two to six AM. My show
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is called Midnight Frequencies, and I broadcast from a converted
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warehouse studio that WKNT rents on the cheap because the
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rent controlled building hasn't been updated since nineteen seventy three.
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The equipment is a mix of vintage analog gear I
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inherited from my grandmother and whatever modern tech we could
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afford on an indie radio station's budget. Tonight feels different though.
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The air in the studio is charged like right before
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a thunderstorm, and my skin keeps prickling with static electricity.
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I've had to adjust the gain on my microphone three
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times because the signal keeps distorting, adding this weird harmonic
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undertone that makes my voice sound richer, deeper, more compelling
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than usual. Good Morning, night wanderers. I begin settling into
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the rhythm that's become as natural as breathing my slight
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British accent, adding warmth to the words that so many
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listeners have told me they find soothing. This is Lyra
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with Midnight Frequencies on WKNT ninety one point seven FM.
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It's two am exactly, and if you're listening, it means
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you're one of us, the ones who find peace in
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the dark hours, who know that the real city comes
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alive when everyone else goes to sleep. The phone lines
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are already lighting up. That's unusual. Typically it takes until
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two thirty or three before the regulars start calling in.
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But tonight line one is blinking red, then line two,
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then three, all at once, like they've been waiting. Let's
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go to line one. You're on Midnight Frequencies. Lyra The
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voice is male, rough around the edges, with an accent
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I can't place. I've been listening to you for god
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months now. Every night I can't sleep unless I hear
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your voice. Something about the way he says it makes
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my chest tighten, not creepy. I get plenty of those
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calls and know how to handle them. This is different, desperate, raw,
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what's keeping you up tonight? I ask, my voice, automatically
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dropping into the warm, intimate tone that seems to work
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magic on my listeners. Everything he says, and I can
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hear him breathing heavily, like he's been running. The city's
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too loud but also too quiet. Does that make sense?
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Like there are frequencies I can hear that other people
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people can't, and they're all screaming at once. I feel
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a chill run down my spine. For as long as
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I can remember, I've heard things others don't. Electrical hums
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that seem to have patterns, radio static that sounds almost
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like whispers. I always assumed it was just sensitivity to
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electromagnetic fields, maybe something to do with growing up around
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my grandmother's old radio equipment. Tell me about the frequencies,
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I say, leaning closer to the microphone. What do they
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sound like? Like someone calling for help, but from very
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far away, and lately they've been getting stronger, especially when
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you're on the air. His voice drops to a whisper. Maya,
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I think something's happening to the city to people who
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listen to you. The line goes dead. I stare at
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the phone for a moment, glance at the call log.
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The number shows as blocked, which is normal, but something
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about the call has left me unsettled. I shake it
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off and move to line too. You're on midnight frequencies, Lyra.
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Thank god. This voice is female, young, probably early twenties.
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She's crying. I did something terrible tonight. I can't stop
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thinking about your show last week when you talked about
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confession being good for the soul, and I just I
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turned myself in. My stomach drops turned yourself in for
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what I've been stealing from the restaurant where I work.
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Small amounts, nothing anyone would notice, but it's been eating
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at me for months. Tonight I couldn't take it anymore.
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I called my manager, woke him up, told him everything.
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I'm probably going to jail. But she takes a shaky breath.
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But when I heard your voice in my head telling
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me to be honest, to choose truth over comfort, I
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had to do it. I never said anything about But
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she's already hung up. Line three is already blinking, then
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line four. By two thirty, all six lines are constantly busy,
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and the calls are getting stranger. A man who says
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he confessed an affair to his wife after listening to
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yesterday's rerun. A woman who quit her job because my
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voice told her life was too short for misery. A
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teenager who says he turned in his best friend for
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dealing drugs because he couldn't get my words about moral
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courage out of his head. The problem is I never
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said any of those things, at least not directly. By
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three am, I'm starting to panic. The calls keep coming,
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but they're not normal listener interactions anymore. People are telling
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me secrets, deep dangerous secrets, like they can't help themselves.
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A city councilman admits to taking bribes. A teacher confesses
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to having inappropriate thoughts about students. A mother reveals she
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sometimes wishes she'd never had children. And with each call,
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I feel something growing stronger inside me, like my voice
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as a tuning fork that's found its perfect frequency, resonating
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through the radio waves and into the minds of everyone listening.
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The sensation is intoxicating and terrifying at the same time.
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This is lyra on midnight frequencies, I say during a break,
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and I can hear the power in my own voice now,
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my British accent lending an almost hypnotic quality to the
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words as they vibrate through the speakers with something that
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definitely wasn't there two hours ago. If you're feeling compelled
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to do anything drastic based on tonight's show, please please
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think carefully before you act. But even as I say it,
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I know it won't help whatever's happening. It's beyond my control.
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Now that's when I notice him. There's a man standing
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on the fire escape outside my window, perfectly still in
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the November cold. He's tall, dark haired, wearing a long
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coat that looks expensive even in the dim light from
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the street below. His face is turned toward my window,
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and even though I can't see his features clearly, I
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know he's watching me. I should be afraid. It's nearly
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four a m. I'm alone in a converted warehouse, and
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there's a stranger on my fire escape. But instead I
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feel drawn to him, like a magnetic pull that starts
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in my chest and spreads through my entire body. I
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gesture for him to wait, finish the song I'd queued up,
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and walk to the window. Up close, he's even more compelling,
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sharp cheek bones, eyes so dark they look black in
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the street light, and something about his posture that suggests
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coiled strength. He looks like he could be anywhere from
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twenty eight to forty, one of those ageless faces that
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could belong to any decade. I crack the window open,
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and immediately the November air cuts through the studio's warmth.
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Can I help you, I ask, though my voice comes
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out breathier than I intended. I need to talk to you,
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he says, And his voice is the one from the
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first call, the one who said he'd been listening for
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months about what's happening to your listeners. I don't know
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what you mean. His smile is sad, almost apologetic, Maya.
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In the last two hours, seven people have killed themselves
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in Manhattan. Three more have confessed to crimes that will
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destroy their lives. Two have abandoned their families, and all
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of them called your show first. The words hit me
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like a physical blow. That's not I would never I
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know you wouldn't, not intentionally. He steps closer to the window,
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and I catch his scent, something like cedar and rain,
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with an undertone of electricity. But you're not just a
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radio DJ. Meyer, and this isn't just happening by accident.
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Who are you? My name is Ky Thorne, and I'm
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here because your voice is doing something that shouldn't be possible,
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something that's very, very dangerous. He pauses, studying my face.
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Tell me, have you ever heard of sirens? The word
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hits me like a lightning strike. Suddenly I'm seven years
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old again, sitting in my grandmother's kitchen while she brushes
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my hair and tells me stories about women whose voices
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could compel the truth from anyone, whose songs could drive
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men to madness or salvation. Stories I thought were just folklore.
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That's impossible. I whisper is it? Kai asks? Think about tonight,
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About how your voice felt different, About how every person
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who called couldn't seem to stop themselves from telling you
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their deepest secrets. I want to deny it, but I
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can't because He's right. I felt it, the moment my
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voice found its frequency, the way the words seemed to
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carry more weight than they should, the strange satisfaction I
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got from hearing people confess their truths to me. What
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am I? I ask, though I'm not sure I want
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to know the answer. You're a siren, Kai says, simply,
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one of the last of your bloodline, and your power
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is awakening. He glances back toward the city, where sirens
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the literal kind are wailing in the distance. The question
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is are you going to learn to control it? Or
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are you going to let it destroy you and everyone
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who hears your voice. Before I can answer, my phone rings,
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not the studio line, my personal cell, which almost nobody
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has the number two. I glance at the screen and
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the number is blocked. But somehow I know I have
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to answer it Lyrah Morgan, I say, my voice automatically
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shifting into that compelling frequency, the British accent making the
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compulsion sound almost like a gentle suggestion. We know what
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you are, says a voice like grinding stone. It's neither
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male nor female, and it seems to come from very
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far away. The order has been watching you. Your time
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is running out, the line goes dead. Kai's face has
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gone pale. We need to get you out of here, now,
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what order? Who was that? People who have very definite
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ideas about what to do with sirens, he says grimly,
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And none of those ideas involve letting you live. Through
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the window, I can see black SUVs turning onto my street,
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three of them, moving slowly, scanning the buildings. They're still
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two blocks away, but they're clearly looking for something or someone. Lyra,
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Kai says urgently, I need you to trust me. I
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know this is insane. I know you have no reason
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to believe anything I'm saying, But right now I'm the
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only thing standing between you and people who will kill
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you for what you are. I look at him, this
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stranger who somehow knows my deepest secrets, who appeared on
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my fire escape in the middle of the night, like
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something out of a dream. Every rational part of my
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brain is screaming that this is crazy, that I should
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call the police, that I should run. But there's something
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in his eyes, something desperate and protective and real, and
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underneath it all, I can feel the truth of what
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he's saying resonating in my bones. I am a siren.
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My voice can compel truth, drive people to confession, maybe
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even to madness. And somewhere out there people are dying
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because of what I am. Okay, I say, surprising myself
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with how steady my voice sounds. What do we do?
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Kai's relief is visible. First, we turn off your equipment.
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No more broadcasts until you learn control. Then we get
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you somewhere safe while I explain exactly what you're dealing with.
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I nod and move to the control board, shutting down
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the transmitter with hands that are steadier than they have
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any right to be. The red on air light goes
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dark for the first time in two years during my shift,
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and then I ask. Kai's smile is grim as he
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helps me gather my jacket and keys. Then you learn
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what it really means to be one of the last
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sirens in the world, and why there are people who
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would rather see you dead than let you discover the
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full extent of your power. The black SUVs are one
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block away now, and I can see figures in dark
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clothing getting out of the vehicles. They move with military precision,
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and even from this distance, I can tell they're armed.
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This way, Kai says, opening the window wider and stepping
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onto the fire escape, and lyra, Yeah, whatever happens next,
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don't use your voice unless I tell you to. Your
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power is still raw, uncontrolled right now. You're as dangerous
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to me as I am protective of you. I follow
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him onto the fire escape, leaving behind the studio that's
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been my sanctuary for two years, the life I thought
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I understood, and any illusion that I was just an
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ordinary woman with an unusual job. As we climb down
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into the alley behind the building, I can hear boots
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on the stairs inside the warehouse. They've found my studio,
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but we're already gone, disappearing into the maze of Soho's
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backstreets like ghosts. My grandmother used to say that every
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woman has a frequency that's uniquely hers, a note that
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resonates with the universe in a way that can change
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everything around her. Tonight I discovered mine. I just hope
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it doesn't destroy me before I learn how to use it.