Darkness Falls by Jeremy Bishop, Daniel S. Boucher

is where he sits, huh? DJ Stan and the Saturday Morning Countdown,” Sam mocked into the mic. “You ever met him?”
    “Once,” Cash said. “And that was enough for me. Kind of a prick.”
    “So, you know how to run this thing?”
    Cash stepped up next to Sam and pointed to a slider with the word mic in small print below it. “That’s your volume. Slide it up for sound and all the way down to mute.” Cash pointed to a red-lighted button. “Push that when you want to talk, and it’ll turn green. Green to talk; red to stop. Tech’s in the other room. I should be able to patch the ham’s feed right through the station for some extra push. You good here?”
    “Green means go. Got it,” Sam said.
    Cash left for the adjacent room, and Sam turned his attention back to the soundboard. He ran a finger over a series of sliders, careful not to move any.
    Wyatt would get a real kick outta this.
    Wyatt had always been a tinkerer, even from an early age. He was always taking things apart and putting them back together again, out of curiosity. God, he missed that kid.
    Cash knocked on the glass between the two rooms.
    “We’re up,” Cash said, his voice muffled. He leaned over and spoke into a little microphone. “You ready?” Cash’s voice boomed through the speakers.
    Sam gave a nod. “As I’ll ever be.”
    Cash looked down and pressed a button, illuminating a red ON AIR sign above the window. He spoke into the mic again. “You’re live.”
    Sam turned back to the soundboard and re-adjusted the mic. He cleared his throat and stared at the volume slide, wondering what to say. He’d spent all his time thinking about getting to the station, but never about what he’d say once they made it.
    He pressed the red button and it lit green, as Cash had said it should. Then he slid the volume up and leaned in to the mic. He still wasn’t sure what to say, so he just started speaking. “My name is Sam...Sam Lake of Refuge, New Hampshire. I’m trying to reach someone—anyone—who can hear this broadcast. We need help. We have an emergency situation and require immediate assistance. If anyone can hear this, we are set up to receive on frequency 34.90,” And then, for added measure, “Over.”
    Sam counted to sixty in his head and repeated the message. He looked to Cash, who simply shook his head. Nothing.
    “I repeat, Refuge, New Hampshire is in—”
    Static and feedback suddenly blasted from the speakers. Sam cupped his hands over his ears. A horrific shrieking filled the room from every corner, as if it was no longer confined to the speakers, and then it ended as quickly as it had started.
    Sam removed his hands from his ears and listened to the silence. His heart pounded as he scoured the room with his eyes. Despite the empty room, he no longer felt alone. He’d watched—and mocked—countless TV shows where paranormal investigators claimed they felt a presence in a room. Real or not, he had a new respect for anyone actively seeking an experience like this.
    The static picked up again, shifting in and out. After a series of sharp crackles and a jittering squeak that sounded like a voice, Sam said, “Hello? I can hear you! I can—”
    “Saaaaaam,” came a long, slow whisper from the speakers.
    Sam went rigid while every hair on his body sprang up as though he’d been inserted into a static filled tube.
    “Saaaaaam,” the voice said again, but more faintly, lost in a burst of static, which was suddenly replaced by a second voice. “Dad?”
    Sam’s fear fell away. He jumped to his feet. “Wyatt?”
    “Daaaaadyyyyy.” The voice was now half Wyatt, half...not. It was never really Wyatt , Sam told himself. It’s just fucking with you .
    “Daaaadeeeee!” The E sound became a high pitched squeal that forced Sam’s hands back to his ears. It was so loud he could feel it in his body. His vision blurred. A scream erupted from Sam’s lips, as a sinister laugh filled the air around him, merging with the