Speaker 1: Calaruga Shark Media.
Speaker 2: Welcome to Midnight Frequencies, a special romance weekly in Ghost
Scary Stories crossover event. This is episode one Signal Interference.
Speaker 1: The steam from the coffee shop below my window rises
past the fire escape like ghosts, and I wonder if
that's an omen. It's one forty seven am on a
Tuesday in November, and I'm three minutes out from going live.
The city hums beneath me, Subway trains rattling through tunnels,
taxis honking their way through Soho's narrow streets, the electric
buzz of eight million people who never really sleep. My
name is Lyrah Morgan, and for the last two years,
I've been the voice that cuts through New York's electromagnetic
chaos every night from two to six AM. My show
is called Midnight Frequencies, and I broadcast from a converted
warehouse studio that WKNT rents on the cheap because the
rent controlled building hasn't been updated since nineteen seventy three.
The equipment is a mix of vintage analog gear I
inherited from my grandmother and whatever modern tech we could
afford on an indie radio station's budget. Tonight feels different though.
The air in the studio is charged like right before
a thunderstorm, and my skin keeps prickling with static electricity.
I've had to adjust the gain on my microphone three
times because the signal keeps distorting, adding this weird harmonic
undertone that makes my voice sound richer, deeper, more compelling
than usual. Good Morning, night wanderers. I begin settling into
the rhythm that's become as natural as breathing my slight
British accent, adding warmth to the words that so many
listeners have told me they find soothing. This is Lyra
with Midnight Frequencies on WKNT ninety one point seven FM.
It's two am exactly, and if you're listening, it means
you're one of us, the ones who find peace in
the dark hours, who know that the real city comes
alive when everyone else goes to sleep. The phone lines
are already lighting up. That's unusual. Typically it takes until
two thirty or three before the regulars start calling in.
But tonight line one is blinking red, then line two,
then three, all at once, like they've been waiting. Let's
go to line one. You're on Midnight Frequencies. Lyra The
voice is male, rough around the edges, with an accent
I can't place. I've been listening to you for god
months now. Every night I can't sleep unless I hear
your voice. Something about the way he says it makes
my chest tighten, not creepy. I get plenty of those
calls and know how to handle them. This is different, desperate, raw,
what's keeping you up tonight? I ask, my voice, automatically
dropping into the warm, intimate tone that seems to work
magic on my listeners. Everything he says, and I can
hear him breathing heavily, like he's been running. The city's
too loud but also too quiet. Does that make sense?
Like there are frequencies I can hear that other people
people can't, and they're all screaming at once. I feel
a chill run down my spine. For as long as
I can remember, I've heard things others don't. Electrical hums
that seem to have patterns, radio static that sounds almost
like whispers. I always assumed it was just sensitivity to
electromagnetic fields, maybe something to do with growing up around
my grandmother's old radio equipment. Tell me about the frequencies,
I say, leaning closer to the microphone. What do they
sound like? Like someone calling for help, but from very
far away, and lately they've been getting stronger, especially when
you're on the air. His voice drops to a whisper. Maya,
I think something's happening to the city to people who
listen to you. The line goes dead. I stare at
the phone for a moment, glance at the call log.
The number shows as blocked, which is normal, but something
about the call has left me unsettled. I shake it
off and move to line too. You're on midnight frequencies, Lyra.
Thank god. This voice is female, young, probably early twenties.
She's crying. I did something terrible tonight. I can't stop
thinking about your show last week when you talked about
confession being good for the soul, and I just I
turned myself in. My stomach drops turned yourself in for
what I've been stealing from the restaurant where I work.
Small amounts, nothing anyone would notice, but it's been eating
at me for months. Tonight I couldn't take it anymore.
I called my manager, woke him up, told him everything.
I'm probably going to jail. But she takes a shaky breath.
But when I heard your voice in my head telling
me to be honest, to choose truth over comfort, I
had to do it. I never said anything about But
she's already hung up. Line three is already blinking, then
line four. By two thirty, all six lines are constantly busy,
and the calls are getting stranger. A man who says
he confessed an affair to his wife after listening to
yesterday's rerun. A woman who quit her job because my
voice told her life was too short for misery. A
teenager who says he turned in his best friend for
dealing drugs because he couldn't get my words about moral
courage out of his head. The problem is I never
said any of those things, at least not directly. By
three am, I'm starting to panic. The calls keep coming,
but they're not normal listener interactions anymore. People are telling
me secrets, deep dangerous secrets, like they can't help themselves.
A city councilman admits to taking bribes. A teacher confesses
to having inappropriate thoughts about students. A mother reveals she
sometimes wishes she'd never had children. And with each call,
I feel something growing stronger inside me, like my voice
as a tuning fork that's found its perfect frequency, resonating
through the radio waves and into the minds of everyone listening.
The sensation is intoxicating and terrifying at the same time.
This is lyra on midnight frequencies, I say during a break,
and I can hear the power in my own voice now,
my British accent lending an almost hypnotic quality to the
words as they vibrate through the speakers with something that
definitely wasn't there two hours ago. If you're feeling compelled
to do anything drastic based on tonight's show, please please
think carefully before you act. But even as I say it,
I know it won't help whatever's happening. It's beyond my control.
Now that's when I notice him. There's a man standing
on the fire escape outside my window, perfectly still in
the November cold. He's tall, dark haired, wearing a long
coat that looks expensive even in the dim light from
the street below. His face is turned toward my window,
and even though I can't see his features clearly, I
know he's watching me. I should be afraid. It's nearly
four a m. I'm alone in a converted warehouse, and
there's a stranger on my fire escape. But instead I
feel drawn to him, like a magnetic pull that starts
in my chest and spreads through my entire body. I
gesture for him to wait, finish the song I'd queued up,
and walk to the window. Up close, he's even more compelling,
sharp cheek bones, eyes so dark they look black in
the street light, and something about his posture that suggests
coiled strength. He looks like he could be anywhere from
twenty eight to forty, one of those ageless faces that
could belong to any decade. I crack the window open,
and immediately the November air cuts through the studio's warmth.
Can I help you, I ask, though my voice comes
out breathier than I intended. I need to talk to you,
he says, And his voice is the one from the
first call, the one who said he'd been listening for
months about what's happening to your listeners. I don't know
what you mean. His smile is sad, almost apologetic, Maya.
In the last two hours, seven people have killed themselves
in Manhattan. Three more have confessed to crimes that will
destroy their lives. Two have abandoned their families, and all
of them called your show first. The words hit me
like a physical blow. That's not I would never I
know you wouldn't, not intentionally. He steps closer to the window,
and I catch his scent, something like cedar and rain,
with an undertone of electricity. But you're not just a
radio DJ. Meyer, and this isn't just happening by accident.
Who are you? My name is Ky Thorne, and I'm
here because your voice is doing something that shouldn't be possible,
something that's very, very dangerous. He pauses, studying my face.
Tell me, have you ever heard of sirens? The word
hits me like a lightning strike. Suddenly I'm seven years
old again, sitting in my grandmother's kitchen while she brushes
my hair and tells me stories about women whose voices
could compel the truth from anyone, whose songs could drive
men to madness or salvation. Stories I thought were just folklore.
That's impossible. I whisper is it? Kai asks? Think about tonight,
About how your voice felt different, About how every person
who called couldn't seem to stop themselves from telling you
their deepest secrets. I want to deny it, but I
can't because He's right. I felt it, the moment my
voice found its frequency, the way the words seemed to
carry more weight than they should, the strange satisfaction I
got from hearing people confess their truths to me. What
am I? I ask, though I'm not sure I want
to know the answer. You're a siren, Kai says, simply,
one of the last of your bloodline, and your power
is awakening. He glances back toward the city, where sirens
the literal kind are wailing in the distance. The question
is are you going to learn to control it? Or
are you going to let it destroy you and everyone
who hears your voice. Before I can answer, my phone rings,
not the studio line, my personal cell, which almost nobody
has the number two. I glance at the screen and
the number is blocked. But somehow I know I have
to answer it Lyrah Morgan, I say, my voice automatically
shifting into that compelling frequency, the British accent making the
compulsion sound almost like a gentle suggestion. We know what
you are, says a voice like grinding stone. It's neither
male nor female, and it seems to come from very
far away. The order has been watching you. Your time
is running out, the line goes dead. Kai's face has
gone pale. We need to get you out of here, now,
what order? Who was that? People who have very definite
ideas about what to do with sirens, he says grimly,
And none of those ideas involve letting you live. Through
the window, I can see black SUVs turning onto my street,
three of them, moving slowly, scanning the buildings. They're still
two blocks away, but they're clearly looking for something or someone. Lyra,
Kai says urgently, I need you to trust me. I
know this is insane. I know you have no reason
to believe anything I'm saying, But right now I'm the
only thing standing between you and people who will kill
you for what you are. I look at him, this
stranger who somehow knows my deepest secrets, who appeared on
my fire escape in the middle of the night, like
something out of a dream. Every rational part of my
brain is screaming that this is crazy, that I should
call the police, that I should run. But there's something
in his eyes, something desperate and protective and real, and
underneath it all, I can feel the truth of what
he's saying resonating in my bones. I am a siren.
My voice can compel truth, drive people to confession, maybe
even to madness. And somewhere out there people are dying
because of what I am. Okay, I say, surprising myself
with how steady my voice sounds. What do we do?
Kai's relief is visible. First, we turn off your equipment.
No more broadcasts until you learn control. Then we get
you somewhere safe while I explain exactly what you're dealing with.
I nod and move to the control board, shutting down
the transmitter with hands that are steadier than they have
any right to be. The red on air light goes
dark for the first time in two years during my shift,
and then I ask. Kai's smile is grim as he
helps me gather my jacket and keys. Then you learn
what it really means to be one of the last
sirens in the world, and why there are people who
would rather see you dead than let you discover the
full extent of your power. The black SUVs are one
block away now, and I can see figures in dark
clothing getting out of the vehicles. They move with military precision,
and even from this distance, I can tell they're armed.
This way, Kai says, opening the window wider and stepping
onto the fire escape, and lyra, Yeah, whatever happens next,
don't use your voice unless I tell you to. Your
power is still raw, uncontrolled right now. You're as dangerous
to me as I am protective of you. I follow
him onto the fire escape, leaving behind the studio that's
been my sanctuary for two years, the life I thought
I understood, and any illusion that I was just an
ordinary woman with an unusual job. As we climb down
into the alley behind the building, I can hear boots
on the stairs inside the warehouse. They've found my studio,
but we're already gone, disappearing into the maze of Soho's
backstreets like ghosts. My grandmother used to say that every
woman has a frequency that's uniquely hers, a note that
resonates with the universe in a way that can change
everything around her. Tonight I discovered mine. I just hope
it doesn't destroy me before I learn how to use it.