Creepy - Day 29 - Madame Sybill & Dead Air

Episode Date: October 29, 2025

Madame Sybill***Written by: Michelle C-E Keeley and Narrated by: Rissa Montanez***Dead Air***https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/***Support the show at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound design by: Pacific Obadiah***Title music by: Alex Aldea Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Creepy presents the 31 Days of Horror. Day 29. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastures and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or our simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories make me. 19 graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

I had a really bad edge to it's keeping me awake in my I don't know. Has anybody heard from John? Good afternoon, all. How have you all been doing? Ready to leave? Any progress? Right to the point today. I see. Completely understandable. Believe me, we've been looking into, just about anything possible, no matter how unlikely it could be. What do you mean unlikely?

It's the cornerstone of diagnostic reasoning. We start with a list of possible conditions or causes and eliminate them one by one through testing and observation until only one remains. Or, as might sound more familiar as per Sherlock Holmes, when you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, Must be the truth. How improbable. Trust me, we are exhausting all possibilities.

But this isn't about the... Boo! Stop being boring and share fun stuff. Yeah, my dreams are weird. Yeah, they probably mean that I have a lot of unresolved issues. Yeah, I might secretly wish that I'd been born a teenage mutant Ninja Turtle. Blah, blah, blah. Share something cool.

What's the weirdest thing you all considered? I really don't think this... Weirdest. Weirdest. Weirdest. Weirdest. I didn't expect you all to start chanting so quickly. But clearly, this is something that interests you all. So, okay, I suppose I can share some research. Please mind you, this is just... Weirits.

We're just... Fine. We've been looking into aspects of the subconscious across many, many, many, many cultures. We've looked into how Native American tribes like the Lakota and Ojibwe tribes see dreams as potentially another mode of reality no less real than waking life. We've looked into how the Zulu tribes in Africa interpret dreams from ancestors signaling approval, warnings, or advice. And we've even gone more, let's say, fringe. But that's not...

French, French, French! I love Joshua Jackson. Pacey forever! We've even looked into Tibetan Buddhism. I don't know if you're familiar with the term Tulpah, but... Yeah, it's like... The being rocked into three and meditation... ...custraising. Uh, duh.

How do you all... No? We read creepy pastas for a living, remember? Plus, it was in that movie The Empty Man. Stephen Root is the man. I'm sorry, I'm... Not familiar, but essentially, yes. We've even considered that your own dreams have manifested into something beyond our normal understanding,

and even transcended concepts of being asleep or awake. Unfortunately, we still don't have a solid answer for you, but I think we are close. Which is why I'd like to continue our conversation about your boss. Why do you want to keep talking about John? Just call him up or post something weird on Instagram. He's bound to notice. Because asking him questions about your relationship with him wouldn't help us to understand potential underlying causes that are affecting all of you. Maybe you should just call him to ask him if he's having weird dreams.

I have a question. Where is everyone? What do you mean, Nicole? It's just that, like, the last few days, this place went from being full of people and patients to being like a ghost town. I don't think I've seen another patient here the last couple of days. Yeah, there's really... That's right. It's weird.

I think they were actually people. Ah, yes, that. Well... Sadly, we have been having to deal with some funding cuts, so our staff numbers have decreased. Generally, we try not to point these things out as much as possible. possible so as not to upset anyone. What about the other patients? That's not really a surprise. Part of it, yes, is due to budget cuts, so we aren't able to maintain the same number of rooms as we have been. But even without that, we see a lot of ebbs and flows as far as our intake numbers.

Almost all of our patients are on an outpatient basis so they can leave whenever they would like. And this time of year can't be hit or miss. with people starting to experience seasonal effective disorder or other pressures that pop up around this time of year. They could have at least said goodbye. And without trying to sound too congratulatory, we have been having a lot of success with our new therapies. Oh, well, isn't that just super? A few dozen people are just sleeping like babies in the time that we've been here. Meanwhile, I'm still having dreams about stuff like Madam Sybil.

Miss Sybil Grady, or Madame Sibyl, as she prefers to be called, sits across from me at my desk, with her hands clasped together, and a look on her face that makes it impossible for me to meet her gaze. I dart my eyes around the room as I run through the agenda for the evening and explain the forms that I've asked her to sign. I find that my words stumble into one another, that my hands are slightly trembling. I look at the ceiling. The wedding photograph on my desk, my bookshelves, the red silk scarf she has tied around her dark hair. The ink-black lipstick bleeding into the fine lines around her mouth. Anywhere.

Anywhere but her eyes. From the second she walked into my office, I felt like an intruder, and that somehow this is her space now. Her domain. She fills the roof. with her presence, overwhelming the senses. I wonder how long it will take me to get the smell of incense that seems to seep from every one of her pores out of the room.

I rationalize it. It's just nerves. There's a lot writing on this. Tonight, I could make history. I could be the one to disprove, once and for all, the existence of the psychic ability. The woman sitting across from me is the final. peace, the unsolvable puzzle, the world's most famous medium, who has fooled thousands, if not tens of thousands of innocent people into believing her lies.

Not one of my predecessors were able to come up with any solid scientific theory as to how she does it. Not even Dr. Bell. My muscles tense, and I think about the last time I saw him, how he cried out, tears streaming down his face. How he gripped my hand, told me to be careful not to look past the veil. How he lay there, muttering and sobbing as the nurses rushed in and administered a sedative, sending him back into his dreams. How I hoped then that sleep was more of a comfort than the new reality that plagued his every waking moment. Madame Siebel's voice pulled me from memory.

How is Dr. Bell? If you'd just... Don't mind me asking. She's reading my mind. I push the thawd away as quickly as it arrives. Allow the rational brain to take over once more. He's doing much better. Thank you, I say, and hand her another form to sign. Her eyes meet mine, deep, green,

the flecks of amber seeming to swim around me inside of the iris. There is a horrible stillness. As though every atom in my body has ceased to exist, replaced instead by Madame Sible, crawling around inside of me, wafting incense into the dark spaces within that should be left untouched. She smiles, raises a brow, the way one might, if they learned something that surprises them, and then looks down at the form. I try to put my finger on the feeling, noting the fine hairs on the back of my arm, that have stood tall, the slight damp feeling at the nape of my neck.

This isn't just nerves. This is fear. Harder to control, but not impossible. I sit back in my chair and collect myself. Focus on my breathing, carefully, so that she doesn't notice the unsteady rise and fall of my chest. She adds a final signature and pushes the paper across the table. her gold bangles chiming together. I think, Dr. Crouch, she says, leaning forward,

that you could not have chosen a better day in the calendar to ask me to join you for your little study. And if I may, quite the brave choice. I look down at the form, at the date she has penned in a sprawling, intricate hand next to her signature. It's October 31st, Halloween. I've always hated this time of year, even as a child. The dumb costumes, the kids begging for candy,

the gullible nature of humans is at its peak as they toy with Ouija boards and try to contact the other side. People like Madame Siebel feed this insanity. People like her say that the veil is thinnest, at Halloween. Tonight, I intend to rip it clean away. I take Madame Siebel out of my office, down a long corridor, and unlock the door to a small, plain meeting room.

Inside, there are two chairs, some restraints, and my insurance policy, a camcorder and a small digital camera. I explained for the second time this evening, just to cover my back, that the camcorder is there to film the session, but that I'll also be taking some photographs, and that during the second part of the session,

I will restrain her hands and feet, but that at any time she can instruct me to untie her. She smiles and sits down in the chair facing the camcorder and gets herself comfy. I press the record button on the camcorder and sit down opposite of her. Starting things off with an easy question. Madam Sibyl, I say, I'd like for you to tell me what your guide has told you about me.

I can tell you, she says, that the man and the photograph on your desk is not your husband, and that indeed you are not married at all. The wedding ring, though, Dr. Crouch, is a nice touch. I can tell you that you don't normally wear gray and not just because it doesn't suit your pallor. And I can tell you that the usual books on your shelves were swapped out before my arrival. Clever, Dr. Crouch. But it doesn't take a psychic to figure these things out. Psychology, attention to detail, the ability to analyze the small things,

like the lack of dust on the bookshelves, which is wholly inconsistent with the rest of your office, if you don't mind me saying so. She sits back in the chair, smug, crosses her legs. I smile, politely, and make notes. There's a part of me that's disappointed she didn't take the bait, that she didn't invent some bullshit story about a message from the spirit realm telling her

my imaginary husband is unfaithful, or that my great, great-aunt reporting on my interest in reading about ancient history from the other side. But she's done this before. There's no psychology about it. She's simply a fake, a fraud who knows every trick in the book. I open my mouth to ask the next question on my list, but she interrupts me, yawns loudly and tells me I'm a bore. I expect this. Dr. Bell wasn't the only scholar to note down Madam Sibbles' attempts to derail the interviews, to get the ball firmly over in her side of the court.

But I'm prepared. I've spent years trawling over the notes from her sessions. I know her, I know her techniques, the way she works, how she worms her way in. She got inside their heads, really screwed them up one after another. Dr. Stanton, Dr. Shiner, Dr. Bell. And tonight, I'll figure out how she does it. How she tricks people into thinking that any of this is real. How she fooled the very people working to prove her wrong.

I am sad for Dr. Bell. I am sad for all of them. But it won't happen to me. I smile. and urge her to continue. You know, Dr. Crouch, she says, tapping her long nails on the arm of her chair, I've done this so many times that I'd much rather we skip ahead to the interesting part. Why don't I start by giving you a little piece of information that spirit has provided me with?

I wonder where to begin. Oh, now. Yes, that's a good one. So, Ruth, did you ever tell Dr. Bell that story about Lily Hayes? I stop, my pen hovering over my notebook and feel as though I am pinned to my seat. I look up at her, sat, grinning at me like she's won a prize at the county fair. And I have a sudden urge to reach my arm out. and grip her tightly around the neck.

There was always a risk that this could happen, that someone who had the will to search long and hard enough could find out. Twist it. But I've slept at night knowing I haven't given anyone cause to go digging, knowing that I didn't do anything wrong, that accidents like that happen every day all over the world. Madam Sibyl has the least known, reason of all to dig around at my past.

To unsettle me, to try and make me submit to belief. My mind races. I wonder how she did it. I want to ask her, who she hired to find out, who they spoke to, what they said. But the flashing red light appears in the corner of my vision. And I am reminded that we are on tape. I stand, feel the blood rushing through my body and reach for the camcorder. I can delete the recording, start again, but my hand falters at the button.

To stop the recording now, to restart the interview, it would sacrifice the integrity of the study. I'd be back to square one. She knows this, and she smiles, the black of her lipstick giving her teeth a dull yellow appearance. Instead, I take the digital camera from the table and snap a photograph, watching as she squints her eyes against the bright flash, and turn to the camcorder, regaining my composure. For the record, I say, clearly, loudly, Madam Sibyl is attempting to use false information to derail the study

and delay the next part of the interview. I will now proceed to the next stage. I ask Madame Sybil if she is ready for me to restrain her hands and feet. She agrees. I am polite, careful, and I ask if she is comfortable. I tell her again that at any point she can ask and I will untie her. There's a creeping thought, as I tie the restraints, that perhaps, despite my research, I do not know this woman and her motives as well as I think.

I wonder why she does this, why she subjects herself to these studies over and over again. Why? When eventually the truth will come out. I look up at her and force a smile, avoiding her eyes, trying to ignore the feeling that she can somehow see right inside of my head. Logic, I remind myself.

Always return to logic. I sit back, clear my throat, and we begin. Madam Sibble, I say, my voice controlled, confident. This is a fourth time now that you have sat and showcased your abilities as part of a controlled study, so I am sure that you are familiar with what comes next. I am now going to ask you here in this room to show me what you consider to be proof. Of the other side, Madame Sibyl leans forward in her chair as far as her restraints will allow and asks me with a sly smile, if I'm sure I want to do this. The veil is thin tonight, she says.

There's no telling what will come out to play. And once they're out, they won't go back in. I lean back in my chair, cross my legs, tap my pen on my notepad. She's stalling for time, trying to frighten me. She sits, very still for a few minutes, and I am about to lose my patience when she then begins to heave. Her head rolling around on her neck round and round as she makes guttural noises in the back of her throat. I flit my eyes between the notebook and her, scrolling my notes, thinking that there is only a slim chance that I'll be able to even read my own handwriting when it comes to typing of the report. tomorrow. And then she stops. Suddenly. And then there is a stillness in the room, dead silence.

I realize I am holding my breath. And then I let go of the air trapped on my lungs and watch as it spills out in front of me in a dense fog. It is now freezing cold in here. I stand and check the room. There's nothing that can be causing such an extreme drop in temperature. The air conditioning unit is turned off at all the mains. The windows lock shut. My hands are stiff as I pick up the camera. I take photographs of the room for the record. I turn as Madame Sibyl starts to cough and growl. She laughs, and the cold chill in the room wraps itself up around my spine in an icy grip. Take a look at the photograph, Dr. Crouch, she says. I click the preview button and the photograph that should show the locked window flashes up on the screen, but there's nothing there.

Only a white, swirling mist. I flick back and, again, nothing. I snap another and another, each one the same as the last. I checked the camcorder and it's the same. A sea of mist. I don't know how she's done it, how she had time to tamper with the equipment, but she must have. She must have someone here on the inside, helping her.

I walk over to her, untie her hands and wrists from their restraints, and tell her that I'm ending this study, that I believe she is working with someone here at the university to frighten people. and that, quite frankly, her fraudulent behavior has gone too far. I think of Dr. Bell and tell her that she has caused too much damage already. She just sits there, looking at me, that stupid smirk on her face and stands, slowly, pointing to the floor. I look down beneath our feet. Seeing a thick layer of mist is now carpeting the entire room.

I wave my arms around, kick at it, looking for the source. I am desperate to find it, some sort of smoke machine hidden somewhere in the room. I jump a little as the lights flicker go out, now plunging us into darkness. I feel my way around the room, trying to control my breathing, gripping the door handle, trying to push it down. I bang on the door and I shout for help. I let my fear loose. I have to. It's good for self-preservation, and I am trapped in a room with a mad woman who drove my predecessors to insanity.

God knows what she'll do to me if I can't get out. I open my mouth to scream again and hear my name being called out very softly as though it were from a great distance, and I stop dead. Ruth, it calls. Louder now. It is a voice I have. I have heard before. I turn around, trying to adjust my eyes to the dark and can just about make out the outline of Madame Sibyl, arms outstretched as a white glow appears, illuminating the room from below.

Stretching upward, twisting out from the mist, the shape of a person forms. I then feel sick. Too sick to think straight to be rational. There is only something primal and desperate inside. I need to get out, but something unseen pins my back against the door, forcing me to watch as the details take shape into something solid, something your hand couldn't pass through. And then there she is, before me.

Little Lily Hayes. It's impossible. I choked back a sob. I try to move my body, but I can't. She moves towards me, silently, quickly, her head bent at an odd angle, skipping through the mist in her ballerina costume from all those years ago. She swings her plastic pumpkin back and forth, the candy long gone. She's so close now that I can see that the blood splatters on the shoulders of her costume look fresh,

so close I can smell the stench of her. I gag, and I heave, trying to look away from the vise. things undulating over each other in the space where her eyes used to be. Madam Sibble's voice sounds far away, dreamlike, as she asks me. Don't you have anything to say to Lily, Dr. Crouch? Aren't you sorry? You'll need to make friends again. She won't be going anywhere.

Will you, Lily? Sweetheart, Lily shakes her head and grins at me. Blacken teeth bared. But I didn't do anything. I start to speak, but my mouth dries up. I want to scream, to tell her it was an accident. I didn't mean for it to happen. She slipped.

She slipped and I couldn't have saved her. I look at Lily Hayes and shut my eyes tightly, but it's no good. She is in my head trying to force me to find the memory. I pushed it down so many times over the ears to some deep and accessible place inside of me, and now here she is. Lily Hayes, rotted and foul, trying to drag it back up. I see it now. Me and Lily, in the treehouse and my parents' backyard.

Her spilling her candy over the wooden floor and mixing it with mine. the stupid argument we got into about it. Me calling her a baby, a loser, telling her that her costume was dumb, her pulling on my hair in the sudden rage that came over me. I don't remember pushing her. I can't. Lily can't make me see that. But she shows me the way she flew through the gap.

and how time slowed down. The thud as she hit the earth, the crack of her neck. She shows me the way my parents looked at me from that night on. The knowing look they exchanged whenever I entered a room, almost fearful of me, of what I might do next, of anyone finding out what Ruth Crouch did. to that poor, sweet Lily Hayes.

Lily releases me from the memory, and I break apart. I weep. I tell her I'm sorry that I didn't mean it. And she strokes my face, climbs on me, pulling me into the embrace of her awful smell. I try to push her off. She's just a child. But she's strong, too strong.

She pulls on my hair hard and shows me again and again and again and again until I am writhing on the floor screaming, trying to escape my own mind. She lets me free for just long enough so that she can wave goodbye to Madame Sible. I lie still, gasping for air. I call out to Madame Sibyl to help, but she steps right past me. In the doorway, Madam Sibble stops and turns to me, shaking her head, I warned you, she says. Just like I warned the others, once they've made their way through the veil, they can't go back. Happy Halloween, Dr. Crouch.

Dr. Hall, it's getting worse, isn't it? I can't even tell the difference between my dreams and memories anymore. Rissa, listen to me. What you dreamt was not a memory, but a mask worn by a memory's shadow. The mind invents crimes we've never committed to give shape to guilt we cannot name. But it felt undeniable, like something buried was clawing its way out. That's how the unconscious speaks. It doesn't deal in facts, but in theater, Madam Sybil is no woman of flesh.

She is the interrogator in your psyche, the one who tears down your defenses and insists you face the unspeakable. So I'm just doing this to myself? I don't like to assign blame, but yes. The dream is not testimony. It's a mirror. It says, you carry a guilt with no origin, and it festers when ignored. Madam Civil forces you to witness it, the mist, the cold, the restraints. These are all illusions crafted to hold your gaze until you see.

See what? Sometimes the nightmare is not punishment. It's an invitation. It doesn't accuse. It demands that you reclaim the part of yourself you left behind. Thank you so much for sharing. I really do think that you are all making amazing progress. and I have no doubt that before you all know it, you'll be sleeping soundly again.

I look forward to talking with you all again tomorrow. We can discuss John a bit more as well. I mean, after we get a chance to call him ourselves. Anyone else think it's weird that she's asking so much about John? Kind of. And why didn't it occur to her to talk to him sooner? What do you call the person who graduates last in their class in medical school? Wait, I know this one.

Oh, God, I swear this was in one of our stories. Doctor. You call them Doctor. Maybe you call them Dr. Hall? I'd rather not think Dr. Hall is the worst at what she does. What if she is, though? What if we're here? Because she's really bad at her job, and that's why it's taking this long.

Maybe we've been here so long for other reasons? What reasons? I don't know. But between how empty it is in here and all of it. of us still having messed up sleep and now all this stuff about wanting to talk about John? I don't know, but something isn't right. Maybe we shouldn't be talking about this. You never know who's listening.

Yeah, maybe we should talk more about this outside of prying ears. They know something's wrong. It doesn't matter. Not when we're this close. But it would be ill-advised to take any unnecessary chances. Maybe it's time we let them get some sleep tonight. Really? All of them? No, not all of them.

Hmm, who should it be? How about Megan? She's been quiet for a while. Yes, everyone but Megan. I'll handle the rest. Meanwhile, has he had any change? No, doctor, nothing. Maybe he just needs some motivation.

Coma or not, he's in there somewhere. And I think he's closer than we give him credit for. Perhaps something more basic is what we need. Can you hear me? I think you can. I wish you could understand what a prize you really are. Admittedly, this hasn't exactly gone the way I had anticipated, but all things considered, I'm quite content. But I'd like to be more than content. I'd like to be happy.

I'd like to be grinning, ear to ear, ecstatic. And for that, I need your help. I need you to tell me what you say. see right now behind the curtain of your islands what are you experiencing maybe you need to understand how close your friends are to you right now and they don't even know it maybe you need to know how close to being free you all are a freedom you'll never know again maybe i need to take hope away from you Unfortunately, though, they are getting restless, asking questions. Kudos to you on that, by the way. They certainly trust that people won't lead them astray.

Despite what sounds like a very strange employment environment, one might say they even love you in a way. They really do care about you. so I wonder if any part of you will know and feel the pain I'm going to put them through. Is that where you are right now, living somewhere in the unconscious? Can you see them in your dreams? Can you see their dreams? Can you see the pain they are in not being able to sleep? Do you understand that it's actually because of you?

Not us. That any of this is happening. There you are. Well, if you don't want to tell me what I want to hear, then maybe I just need to get it out of one of them. I was thinking Megan. I've heard some of her music. She's so talented. It would be sad if she had to switch places with you, wouldn't it? Trapped in her body, never able to sing again, or I will tear her mind apart.

D... Yes. D... Dead... ...air. I never believed in ghosts, curses, or any of that nonsense. For most of my life, I've trusted in a tangible. Wires, circuits, signals.

I'm a radio technician. The kind of guy who spends nights chasing static, fixing broken transmitters, adjusting antennas. To me, the world was straightforward. Frequencies that obeyed math. Machines that followed logic. Nothing supernatural. No hauntings, no spirits, just signals and the silence between them. Until October.

That's when everything I knew came crashing down. It began with a call from a dying AM radio station at the edge of town. WKRD, 1340 on the dial where I live. The place had been having issues for months, and they were worried they'd have to go off the air for good. Their owner told me their transmitter kept cutting out, fading to dead silence. Except sometimes, late at night, when it should have been quiet,

a strange noise came through. A whispering, crying, buried beneath the static. and wanted me to check it out, find the cause. I figured with some faulty wiring or interference. I never expected to walk into a nightmare. Pulling into the radio station after they'd gone off the air for the night, I could see that WKRD's building was a relic from another era. Crumbling brick, cracked mortar, windows boarded haphazardly.

The faded sign outside had lost half its letters, and the parking lot was cracked, swallowed by weeds. The kind of place where dust collected, It makes like a thick blanket, and memories decay in the silence. It made me kind of sad to see another example of terrestrial radio dying. I wanted so badly to save it, to preserve it, even if most of the new generations out there didn't even know what AM radio was. I pushed the rusted door open and stepped inside.

The smell hit me immediately. Stale coffee, mold, and that sharp electric ozone scent, you only find in rooms stuffed with old electronics. The transmitter room was a ghost of its former self. Equipment racks stood half empty, wires dangling like dead vines. A single dim red light blinked on a transmitter humming quietly, a low, almost soothing vibration in the silence. According to the station's logs, it was supposed to go off the air 10 p.m. every night.

I set up in the old studio, pulling out a thermos of coffee and a sandwich. preparing for the long night and boring part of the job. I stayed watching the frequency monitor, my headphones pressed on tight. At precisely 2.17 a.m., the static changed. It warped and shifted as of breathing, and beneath it surfaced a thin, wavering voice, a woman's voice. Soft, sobbing, whispered pleas, desperate gasps. I sat up so quickly the room spun for just a moment.

The signal was weak, barely there, but unmistakable. The voice wasn't speaking words at first, just sounds. Broken sobs, panicked whispers, a breathless plea. Lasted maybe 20 seconds, then vanished. I rewound the recording, played it again at slower speeds, isolating the signal. At first it just sounded like random crying. But then, a pattern emerged. The sobs and whispers pulsed at long and short bursts, like Morse code.

I'm no code breaker, but in my line of work, Morse code can be a helpful thing to know. I pulled out a notebook and started to write out the dits and daws. Letter by letter, the message began to form. Help me. Underground. I drove itself into my mind like a splinter. Help me underground. What could I mean?

Was someone trapped beneath the station? Buried alive? I got up, made sure I was still recording the signal, and grabbed my phone to go explore the station. It didn't take me long to find the stairs to the storage basement. It was cramped, damp, and smelled like any other disused basement. I kept getting the feeling that I had stray strands of cobblank. webb tickling the back of my neck.

In the back corner of the basement, behind Stacks' old recording devices, I saw a heavy steel door, sealed shut by rusted chains and old welds. Maybe you can imagine the sort of unease and just plain ick that I felt in that moment. The thing was old. In my old high school, we actually had a similar door where a cold war nuclear fallout bunker had been built. As freshmen, we made up stories about the door that teachers claimed could. wouldn't be open anymore. By our senior year, no one really noticed it anymore, leaving the

silliness to the underclassman. I shown my camera light on the chains. They were loose. The welds cracked by years of corrosion. I found a crowbar in a utility closet upstairs and used it to force the door open. A rush of stale air escaped from the darkness below. Just beyond the doorway, a narrow stairwell descended into blackness. I never saw a narrow stairwell descended into blackness. I never thought of myself as any kind of hero, the kind of person who would run toward a fire. But if you heard the cries in that audio like I did, I don't think the fear would have stopped you either.

The pain, the sadness. If someone really was trapped down there, so I stepped down. The air grew colder and heavier with each step, like breathing through wet cloth. The walls were slick with moisture, lined with rough bricks that seemed to close in. But it might just have been a trick of my eyes as I corkscrewed down lower and lower into the earth. Till I finally got to the bottom and saw a tunnel directly ahead of me, caught out a solid rock. A faint dripping echoed somewhere in the dark.

Then from the shadows I heard it again. The whisper, soft, fragile, desperate. Help me. Please. My heart slammed into my chest. I swallowed hard, but my resolve felt renewed. I followed the voice. He led me deeper, twisting through tunnels that seemed endless.

Finally, the narrow passage opened into a vast underground chamber. My phone light beam flickered, revealing rows of rusted radio equipment, tangled wires, and broken speakers. Dust coated every surface, undisturbed for you. years. It didn't make sense. Why would anyone go through this much trouble to store old broken equipment they could have just tossed out or even resold to a collector? And then I saw it, in the center. Blocked out by more equipment, was a large cage made a thick metal bars. Inside, a woman crouched on the concrete floor. Her skin was pale, practically translucent. Her clothes were

torn and filthy. She shivered violently, eyes wide and wild with fear. Her lips moved in silent desperation. I stepped closer, voice shaking, I asked stupidly, Are you okay? Can I help you? She didn't answer. I raised my light higher, sweeping across the chamber.

That's when I realized my mistake. The shadows I thought were racks of dead equipment weren't machines at all. The boxes were stacks of bones wired together. Skulls drilled clean through with antenna rods. Ribs and femurs lashed with copper wire, jaws braced open with coiled cabling. Radios were built into them like tumors, dials, fused sockets. Tubes glowing faintly within hollow chests. Dozens of them.

Hundreds. A graveyard soldered into circuitry. The woman rattled the bars of her cage, her whispers spilling out like static. I staggered backward, while burning my throat. She wasn't trapped, just waiting to be saved. No, it was so much worse. She was waiting her turn. A final piece in this grotesque transmitter. Before I could move,

wires stirred across the floor. They slithered like snakes curling around my boots, tugging tight. The glow from the bone radios brightened, a chorus of whispers rising. The sound layered into words and dozens of broken voices. I heard us. You came. Now you stay. I clawed at the wires, tearing at them, but more slid up my legs,

cold as veins of ice, sharp as teeth when they've been in my skin. My phone slipped from my hand and cracked on the stone. It screamed flickering. The woman reached through the bars, eyes wide, mouth open as she screamed static. Her skin quivered, buzzing faintly, like a sheet of paper held over a speaker. She was vibrating with a signal. The skulls in the wall all turned toward me at once, sockets glowing faintly blue. The whispering rose into a shriek of static, and I understood.

The signal wasn't being transmitted. It was being fed. The last thing I remember before the dark closed in was the weight of wires pulling me down. The hot stink of ozone and the sound of a hundred dead throats whispering in unison. A cage. I will have to remember that.

And you would do well to remember that as well. Amazing. And they're almost here. It's like watching a baby chick trying to push itself out of a shell. You can do it. I'm here. For more information on this podcast, including how to submit your own story for consideration, please visit creepypod.com.

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