Dead Frequency: Vinyls of the Void

Sometimes, attention feeds more than the ego.

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Prologue

The studio was dark, its walls lined with lingering mildew. Faint static buzzed through its walls, a hungry sound.

Watching.

Eli Leong was within, speaking to and adoring female fan on an ending call line.

On the rotating console was an unmarked vinyl-- it had appeared almost casually.

Humming.

Ready.

Rotating.

Amid the smoke of Eli's cigarettes.

Waiting to spin.

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Eli Leong lived in the night--he was the silky voice millennals and Gen Zs turned to when they craved nocturnal addiction. His popularity gave him a cocky edge--his voice merged effortlessly with radiowaves. Few could resist their velvetine charm--even when it smothered like a too-warm blanket.

WRAE 103.3 FM squatted at the fringes of the town, an old relic with walls bathing in mildew. Its corridors bore the perturbing scent of formaldehyde under the musty cologne of cigarette smoke. The static emitted from its studios was silence waiting to scream.

August marked a time of rising unease in Singapore-- a time when the spirits of the Dead graced the walls with unresolved angst.

It was also a time when Silky Smooth Eli started having company in the studio.

And it wasn't wanted.

Whispers beneath music tracks. Self-looping playbacks. Barely audible, as if the static was breathing.

Then, an unmarked vinyl appeared on the turntable, playing deep breaths.

Not warm or comforting.

"Who's with you? You're my favourite DJ! In the studio?" A call from a jealous fan.

"Absolutely therapeutic. Please arrange for a return appearance."

Eli was shagged; he hadn't had a day off the night shift for months. He's been vinyls without viewing their labels.

Days of plying empty studio corridors in the dead of the night were forming Crow's Feet and laugh lines-- public relations boo boos for a famous personality.

The breathing had escalated-- in contrast to his show's ratings.

But he was not one to keep adoring fans on edge.

He spun the unmarked vinyl one evening, hoping to trigger a rash of emotion-- then, conversation.

The breathing transcended into urgent, overlapping breaths.

The phones rang off the hook-- some lines dead when he answered, others with distorted pleas at the end.

He got off his chair and stepped away from the console.

And it would have been fine-- except that he brought the grounded mike with him.

Seared firmly to his lips.

He had become part of their hunger-- their constant need for attention.

His voice resonated in unending, silky echoes.

Melding with the static.

Like him.

Eli was now part of the studio's insatiable appetite. His voice still flowed with radio waves, echoing with the static.

But there was uncanny--

Order. Amid the chaos.

Dead line calls began to drop off, and the relentless breathing quietened.

At least, for a short while.

His spirit trapped with the console, Eli came to a realisation-- the studio's spirits thrived on attention.

Not violence.

He was now its conduit-- and captive.

He stepped back from the console, the mic refusing to leave his mouth.

Always humming.

Waiting for his silky voice.

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Original horror microfiction by Michelle Liew. AI tags are coincidental.