Whispers in the Static

The old radio in my grandfather's attic picked up more than just music. At first, I thought the voices were interference from another station. Then they started calling my name and describing things only I could know.

I found the radio while cleaning out Grandpa's house after his funeral. A beautiful vintage Philco from the 1940s, its wooden cabinet still gleaming despite decades of dust. When I plugged it in, expecting nothing, the tubes glowed to life and static filled the room.

I turned the dial slowly, searching for a station. Between frequencies, in the white noise, I heard what sounded like whispers. Dismissing it as interference, I continued until I found a classical music station and left it playing while I sorted through boxes.

That night, I brought the radio down to the guest room where I was staying. As I drifted off to sleep, the music faded to static, and through it came a voice—clear but distant.

"Daniel," it said. My name.