Scary stories I wrote

Voices in the Static

Aiden was always drawn to strange, forgotten things. The kind of person who scoured flea markets for broken gadgets and dusty relics, he had a fascination with old technology. One Saturday afternoon, he found a weathered radio tucked away at a local yard sale, its wooden case cracked and its dials tarnished from years of neglect. It looked decades old, a relic of a different time. When he asked the seller about it, the old man hesitated.

"You sure you want this one?" he asked, squinting at Aiden. "It's... no ordinary radio."

Aiden shrugged it off, chalking the warning up to some sales tactic. "I'll take it," he replied, thinking about how cool it would look in his dorm room. But he couldn't shake the feeling that the man's gaze lingered on him a moment too long as he walked away.

Back in his dorm, Aiden spent hours tinkering with the radio, cleaning its insides and fixing the cracked speaker. When he finally turned it on, all he got was a steady hum of static. He twisted the dial, searching for any recognizable stations, but found nothing. Eventually, he gave up for the night, leaving it in the corner of his room.

Then, around midnight, the radio turned on by itself.

Aiden jolted awake to the soft hum, his eyes adjusting to the dim glow of the dials. He sat up, watching the radio warily. Through the crackling static, he heard faint voices-soft, almost like whispers. At first, he thought it was just interference or maybe some distant station he'd accidentally tuned into. But as he listened closer, the voices became clearer.

They were telling a story.

The voice was low and gravelly, recounting a tale of a man who disappeared while walking home late one night. The details were eerie, like something out of a horror novel. Aiden was transfixed, hanging on every word. The story ended abruptly, and the static returned.

The next night, at exactly the same time, the radio came on again. This time, it was a woman's voice. She spoke of a young girl who went missing from her small town, last seen near the woods by her house. Aiden shivered; the story felt real, as if he were listening to someone confess their deepest, darkest secrets.

Every night, the voices returned at midnight, each one telling a new story-stories of people who had disappeared or died under mysterious circumstances. Each voice was different, some whispering, others sobbing, but all of them shared the same haunted tone, as if they were trapped in the static.

After a few days, Aiden noticed the stories were starting to change. They weren't random anymore; they were becoming personal. A tale about a car crash mentioned the street where his best friend lived. Another story about a drowning took place near the lake where he'd spent his summer vacation. And then, one night, a voice described an incident at a local diner where he and his friends often hung out. The voice went on to describe an argument that had taken place there-a confrontation he remembered, word-for-word.

Panicked, he tried to shut the radio off. He unplugged it, but the static didn't stop. Even with the power cut, the dials still glowed faintly, and the whispers continued, as if the voices had found a way to linger in his room. He tossed a blanket over the radio, but it was no use; the voices seeped through, relentless and eerie.

The next day, Aiden noticed dark circles under his eyes and a growing sense of paranoia. He started keeping his distance from his friends, afraid that the radio's predictions would come true. He barely ate, barely slept, waiting every night for the voices to return.

One night, the whispers changed. Instead of recounting tales of strangers, the voice spoke directly to him. "Aiden," it whispered, his name slicing through the static. The voice was deep and raspy, sending chills down his spine. It described his room, the objects on his desk, even the clothes he was wearing. He glanced around, heart pounding, half-expecting to see someone there with him.

The voice continued, detailing things he'd done that very day, conversations he'd had, thoughts he'd barely acknowledged himself. It spoke of his childhood memories, his fears, things he'd never told anyone. The voice shifted, taking on a familiar tone, one that made his skin crawl.

It was his grandfather's voice-a man who had died years ago.

"See you soon," it whispered before fading back into static.

Terrified, Aiden unplugged the radio and shoved it in his closet, hoping to bury the voices in silence. But the next night, the static returned, louder this time, filling the room with a shrill, ear-piercing hiss that grew into a frenzy of overlapping voices, all crying out at once. They screamed his name, accusing him, pleading with him to listen.

Desperate, Aiden grabbed the radio and threw it out his window, shattering it into pieces on the pavement below. The room fell silent, and for the first time in days, he felt a glimmer of relief.

But that night, the static returned, faint at first, then growing louder. Except now, it wasn't coming from the radio. The sound was inside his head, a constant hum that followed him everywhere he went. He couldn't escape it-every reflective surface seemed to shimmer with faint images of faces, their mouths moving in silent screams, as if trapped behind glass.

In his final days, his friends noticed Aiden growing more distant, his eyes vacant and haunted. He would sit alone, staring blankly, listening to something only he could hear. His grades plummeted, and he rarely spoke, except to mutter strange warnings about "the voices."

One morning, Aiden disappeared. His dorm was empty, his belongings untouched, but he was gone. The only clue he left behind was the broken radio, somehow returned to his room, the dials eerily intact and glowing faintly.

When the police examined it, they could barely hear the whispers over the static, a low, gravelly voice saying, "See you soon."

The radio found a new home in a campus storage room, but late at night, students still swear they hear faint voices coming from the walls, telling stories of those who vanished, one voice adding a new tale each time someone gets too close.

(A/N): Tomorrow I will do a series about drama

Word count not including this: 1077