The Radio Said My Name This Morning.

I wake up early, every day, to my routine. Coffee brews, and the radio plays softly. The station—96.7 FM—is familiar and predictable. The DJs laugh, and the music flows. But one thing always stands out.

Every morning, they pause. Then, they say a name.

“David Miles,” they might say. It’s quick, out of place. They don’t explain. Afterward, the show continues, normal as ever.

I never thought much about it. Maybe it was a joke or a community announcement. The names meant nothing to me—until this morning.

As I poured coffee, I waited. The pause came. Then, I heard it:

“Rebecca Gray.”

My hand went cold. I managed to catch the cup as it tilted slightly. My entire name echoed around the kitchen. As if the air itself had stopped, the moment dragged on heavily.

The station went on. Then came typical, happy weather updates. However, I was unable to let it go. I felt like I was being watched, and my chest clenched. Why my name? Why now?

The sensation persisted. My mind was all over the place at work. I kept hearing the voice on the radio. The hours passed slowly, and at last, I went home. My sanctuary, the apartment, seemed different. Long stretches of shadow were accompanied by a dense, deafening quiet.

By 10 PM, I gave in. Something pushed me—urged me—to turn on the radio again. I hesitated, but my fingers moved. Static buzzed, then music returned, slower than usual. The rhythm unsettled me. My breathing quickened.

A pause interrupted the song. I braced myself.

“Rebecca Gray,” the voice said again.

This time, it was sharper. The sound felt closer, like it wasn’t just in the radio. I froze, waiting, listening. The air turned colder. My pulse pounded in my ears.

Then, the knocking started.

It was soft, tapping on the window. My head snapped toward the sound. Nothing was there. I held my breath. The tapping came again, louder this time.

With my pulse pounding, I edged closer. Outside, the grass was covered in the shadows cast by the swaying trees. There was no one, yet the wind whispered. Still, the knocking persisted, steady and insistent.

I stepped back. My legs felt weak. The room darkened, though the lights remained on. The radio crackled, and I turned toward it instinctively.

“Rebecca Gray,” the voice hissed. This time, it didn’t feel human.

The wind howled louder, and the knocking turned to banging, violent and desperate. My chest tightened, and I backed away. The radio buzzed, the music distorting. Shadows seemed to shift, reaching toward me.

“Rebecca,” the voice said, softer now, almost gentle. “You’ve been called.”

The banging stopped. The silence was worse. My name echoed in my mind. I couldn't tell if the wind outside was real or if I was losing control as it shrieked. I fell to the ground when my legs gave out.

They had called me. And I wasn’t ready.