Radio host Jake Morrison took the midnight shift because nobody else wanted it. Because the pay was triple. Because he needed money more than he needed sleep.

Station WXYZ. Abandoned since 1987. Scheduled for demolition in the morning.

“Just do one show,” the owner said. “Say goodbye to the station. Then leave.”

Jake agreed. Sat at the console. Checked the equipment. Found it still worked after forty years.

He went on air at midnight. “This is Jake Morrison. WXYZ last broadcast. Thank you for forty years of loyalty.”

The phone lines lit up. Calls from people who remembered. Calls from people who mourned. Calls from people who shouldn’t be alive.

“Jake,” a voice said. “I listened to you every night. Forty years ago. Before I died.”

Jake laughed. Nervous. Uncomfortable. “That’s impossible. This is the last broadcast.”

“I know. That’s why I’m calling. To say goodbye. To say thank you. To say I’m waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“For you. For the last broadcast. For the station to end.”

More calls came. More voices. More dead people. More goodbyes.

“Jake, you shouldn’t have come,” one said. “The station doesn’t end. It just changes hosts.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’ll find out. At dawn. When the demolition comes. When you realize you’re part of the building now.”

Jake tried to leave. Found the doors locked. Found the windows sealed. Found himself trapped in a building that refused to release its host.

The demolition crew arrived at dawn. Found the console still on. Found the microphone still hot. Found Jake’s voice still broadcasting.

But Jake was gone. Vanished. Absorbed. Became part of WXYZ forever.

The demolition was cancelled. The station was preserved. The broadcasts continued.

Every night at midnight, a new host took the shift. Every night, they did one show. Every night, they became part of the building.

Jake was the first. But not the last. Not even the hundredth.

Some radio stations broadcast music. Some broadcast news. Some broadcast souls.

WXYZ broadcast all three. And it still does. Every night. Forever.

If you’re ever driving late at night. If you ever catch a signal from an abandoned station. If you ever hear a host saying goodbye.

Don’t listen. Don’t call. Don’t become part of the broadcast.

Because some broadcasts never end. They just find new hosts. New voices. New souls to trap in the static.

Jake learned that too late. And so will you.