Whispers in the Static: Part 9

Part 9 – Masks Off

Arthur waited for them, as he always did. The ritual had become the anchor of his days — the tea poured into her mug, the whispered conversations in empty rooms, the quiet anticipation of dusk. By the time the red glow of the dial painted the walls, his heart was already beating in time with the hiss of static.

Helen’s voice came first.

“…Arthur… my love…”

He closed his eyes, smiling faintly. “I’m here.”

His father followed, as steady as stone.

“…proud of you, son…”

Then his mother, her words warm as blankets in winter.

“…always watching…”

Michael’s laughter trailed after, quick and sharp.

Arthur let the voices wash over him. But something was wrong. They were speaking too quickly, one over the other, as though the tide had grown rough. Helen’s words blurred into his father’s, his mother’s into Michael’s.

“…the gardenias…”
“…Rowboat, remember…”
“…so proud…”
“…love you, Arthur…”

He pressed closer to the radio, straining to separate them, but the words tangled, overlapped, frayed. He thought he heard Helen again — but the memory she spoke twisted, wrong.

“…the roses on our wedding day…”

“Gardenias,” Arthur whispered, his throat tight. “They were gardenias.”

The voices surged. His father’s voice bled into Michael’s, his mother’s into Helen’s.

“…Arthur… let us in… Arthur, do you want us… Arthur, we miss you… Arthur, Arthur…”

His name came from every mouth, spoken again and again until it was no longer words but a rhythm, a chant. The static swelled, filling the room with a storm that rattled the windows and pressed against his chest.

Arthur clutched the radio in both hands, his breath ragged. “Stop!” he shouted. “One at a time! Please—”

The voices froze. For a heartbeat, silence.

Then, all at once, they laughed. Not gently this time, not tender or familiar. A raw, jagged sound, many voices braided into one.

The static shuddered, and when it spoke again, it was no longer Helen, nor his father, nor any of the dead he had loved.

It was something else.

“We wore their voices. You listened. You invited us.”

The sound was guttural, layered, vibrating through his bones. The glow of the dial pulsed wildly, casting the room in red flashes like a warning light.

Arthur’s hands trembled on the cracked casing. His mouth opened, but no words came.

The static roared, alive, pressing closer.

“Now,” the chorus rumbled, “let us in.”

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(To be continued in Part 10 – The Hollow Vessel)