The copper tang of a nosebleed hit Elias's tongue before he even heard the noise.
He sat in the dark of his studio, the only light coming from the amber glow of the radio's vacuum tubes. He turned the dial. Skritch. Hiss. Pop.
Then, it settled. A low, vibrating hum that made his teeth ache. It sounded like a thousand bees trapped in a lead box. Beneath the hum, a voice whispered. It wasn't using words; it was using the sound of a fingernail scratching against a chalkboard to mimic human speech.
"...Elias..."
He froze. His hand stayed clamped on the dial. The air in the basement dropped ten degrees, and the smell of ozone and wet earth filled the room.
"Who is this?" he croaked, leaning toward the mic. "This is a private frequency."
The static shifted. The heartbeat rhythm intensified—thump-thump, thump-thump. Suddenly, the radio didn't just emit sound; it emitted a shadow. The static on the dial began to bleed out of the speakers like black sand, pooling on his desk.
In the reflection of his monitor, Elias saw a tall, thin shape standing directly behind his chair. It had no face, only a horizontal slit that pulsed with a flickering, grey light.
It reached out a hand made of flickering lines and television snow.
"Don't turn the dial, Elias," the radio shrieked in his own mother's voice. "We're just getting to the good part."