FM 103.1 BROADCAST

A restless, stormy night. The rain lashed violently against rooftops, a relentless force as the city below flickered in intermittent bursts of pale light from dying streetlights. A crack of thunder echoed like a warning, shattering the eerie quiet.

The radio station sat at the edge of the city, its once-proud exterior now a decaying shell weighed down by years of neglect. The cracked, grimy windows stared out over an abandoned street, the streetlights flickering like fading stars in a forgotten sky. Inside, the air felt thick with history—silent whispers of a past long past, carried by the soft hum of the decaying machines, the faint odor of old coffee and dust, and the disembodied whispers of voices that seemed to linger, even in death.

It had been three years since Neel Khurana, the beloved late-night DJ, had vanished during his final broadcast. No one had ever found any answers. No body, no clues—only the eerie echo of his last broadcast, replayed on a loop, as if trapped in time.

"You’re listening to MIDNIGHT DELHI... WITH NEEL KHURANA."

Aarav, Neel’s former intern, returned to the station after all this time, his mind burdened by the trauma of that night. For years, he had tried to bury the memories, to lead a life that felt almost normal again. But his return, as twisted as it seemed, was inevitable. He had been the last to work alongside Neel.

He had heard the rumors. Everyone had. That after midnight, strange voices could still be heard broadcasting from the old 103.1 FM, even though it had been shut down for years. The last DJ, Neel Khurana, vanished during his shift. His chilling voice — You’re listening to MIDNIGHT DELHI... WITH NEEL KHURANA."

Aarav pushed open the heavy, dust-covered door to the old radio station. The moment he stepped inside, the air shifted—colder, heavier. The scent of mold, rusting wires, and stale coffee lingered like memories clinging to the walls. It was as if time had stopped the night Neel disappeared.

His footsteps echoed through the empty corridor, swallowed quickly by the silence. The walls were lined with peeling posters—old show schedules, faded pictures of smiling radio hosts, and a dusty frame still holding a photograph of Neel, smiling with a microphone in hand.

Aarav’s eyes lingered on it.
That smile—warm, charismatic—had once been the heartbeat of Delhi’s sleepless nights. Now it stared back at him like a ghost, frozen in time.

He made his way to Studio B, where Neel had hosted his final show. The door creaked open with a sound that scraped the air, like metal dragging across bone. Inside, the studio was untouched. The chair, the headphones, the mic—still there. Still waiting. A fine layer of dust covered everything, except...

The console.

It was clean. No dust. As if someone had used it... recently.

Aarav's chest tightened.

As Aarav stepped into the dimly lit studio, the red "ON AIR" sign flickered ominously above the doorway. The silence of the room felt unusually heavy, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. He slid the headphones over his ears, preparing to start the midnight broadcast.


But then—
A familiar voice crackled through the static.

“You’re listening to MIDNIGHT DELHI… WITH NEEL KHURANA.”

Aarav froze.

His heart skipped a beat.
That voice.
It was Neel.

Memories of that day—the last day Neel was ever seen—rushed back like a storm. The studio… the confusion… the silence that followed.

Snapping back to the present, Aarav ripped the headphones off and placed them on the console, his hands slightly trembling.

Just then, the door creaked open.

His boss stepped in, looking impatient.
"Why haven't you started the broadcast yet? The audience is waiting."

Aarav turned, eyes wide.

"Sir… Neel's sir voice track just played. I swear I heard it—live. On this frequency."

The boss frowned, stepping closer.

"That’s not possible. We had every one of Neel’s recordings deleted. And the 103.1 frequency was shut down after… everything."

Aarav : Sir, I heard it.

Mr. Taneja (Boss) : Come with me to archive room.

The fluorescent lights in the archive room flickered, casting erratic shadows on the cold, concrete floor.
Aarav followed Mr. Taneja down the narrow corridor, the silence between them louder than footsteps.

With a groan, the archive room door opened. The place smelled like old cables and forgotten memories. Computers lined the walls—machines that hadn't been touched in years, still humming faintly as if they, too, remembered what happened.

Mr. Taneja motioned to a terminal. "Search for Neel Khurana. Go on."


Aarav typed. The screen blinked.
NO RECORDS FOUND.

He tried again—this time, Neel’s show ID.
Nothing.
No metadata. No logs. Not even a timestamp.

Taneja crossed his arms. “I told you. Everything was scrubbed. After what happened… after he vanished… we shut it down. Wiped clean.”

Aarav stared at the blank screen. He could still hear the static in his ears.
Still hear Neel’s voice.

After returning home from work that night.

Aarav sat in his flat, staring at the USB drive he had stolen from the studio’s system before they wiped it clean. The storm outside rattled his windows like fingernails scratching glass.

He played the clip again. Static. Then…
“…you’re listening to Midnight Delhi…”
Neel’s voice. Calm. Confident. As if he never left.

Aarav's eyes watered. He remembered the man. The laughter in the corridors. The late-night cups of chai. The sudden disappearance.
Gone without a trace.


Aarav tries to shake off the incident, but the voice haunts him.

His curiosity becomes obsession. He remembers someone—Shivika, Neel’s last producer. He decided to meet her.

After Neel's disappearance, she too had quit radio, vanished into a quieter life. But when Aarav called, she didn’t sound surprised.

Next day in evening, they met in a silent café outside the city.

Aarav sat across from Shivika, Neel Khurana’s last producer. She looked tired. Not in a way that sleep could fix—but as if she'd been carrying something for too long.

Aarav voice low & shaken.

“Something’s wrong with Studio B. The room was untouched… except the console. No dust. Like someone had used it recently. And then… I heard him, Shivika. I heard Neel. Live. His voice, coming through the headphones.”

Shivika didn’t speak at first. Her expression didn’t change. Her hands holding the coffee cup, trembled slightly.

 “The ‘ON AIR’ light turned on by itself. The mic came alive. It was his voice. Same tone, same intro—like nothing had ever happened.”

She finally spoke.

Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a small USB drive and slid it across the table.

“This… is the last recording Neel ever sent me. It was never broadcast. He emailed it late at night, hours before he vanished. No subject. No sender info. Just the file.”

Aarav : What's in it ?


Shivika,

 “Voices,” she said. “Neel’s… and others. People whispering. A child laughing. Someone crying. It’s layered. Distorted. There’s something… wrong with it. And near the end—there’s a silence so heavy, it feels like something is watching you.”

Shivika met his eyes. Her voice dropped.

 “Aarav, don’t ever… ever listen to this again at the station.”

Aarav stepped out, hoodie pulled up, Shivika’s words echoing in his mind.

“Don’t ever listen to it at the station…”

The streetlights flickered as he walked toward the metro. Everything felt… off. A dog barked somewhere in the distance, then silence.

Inside the train, the compartment was empty. Cold.
He sat by the window, watching the city blur by—his own reflection faintly visible in the glass.

But for a split second, in the reflection—he thought he saw someone sitting behind him.

He turned.
Nothing.
Just an empty row of seats.

Radio Station – 12:43 AM

Aarav reached the station. The security guard nodded sleepily, unaware of the storm brewing beneath Aarav’s calm face.

As he walked through the silent halls, the USB pressed against his chest like a warning. He paused outside Studio B.

The door was closed.

He walked away.

Sat down at his cabin.

Logged in.


He was live.

 “Good evening, Delhi. You’re listening to Midnight Hour… with Aarav.”

Aarav finished a short segment. His voice was calm on the mic, but his eyes kept drifting to the USB in his pocket.

He leaned back, rubbed his temples.

 “Just one listen,” he whispered to himself. “Not from Studio B. I’m safe here.”

He inserted the USB into the console.

No file name. Just a blank audio track.

He played.

Then… the same static.
Then… Neel’s voice again. This time even more distorted.

 “You’re listening to… Midnight Delhi…”

The lights in the studio flickered. A strange humming filled the room, not from the headphones… but from the walls.


Then—a sound like breathing.

And another voice. Not Neel.

Something else. Hollow. Whispering.

 “Aarav…”

He snatched the headphones off.

He pulled the USB out, quickly.

But then - THUMP sound from Studio B.

Aarav froze.

Another THUMP.

And then… the red "ON AIR" light above Studio B blinked on.

But no one was inside. 

He stood slowly, moving toward the Studio B.

But he didn’t go in.

Aarav took a deep breath & then turned quickly and walked back to his cabin.

He shut the door. Locked it.

A small sense of safety returned.

Radio Station – 1:07 AM

He switched on his desk lamp. A warm orange glow pooled around him.

He plugged USB into his personal laptop.

Same blank file.


Static again.

But the ticking was louder this time.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Aarav leaned closer, holding his breath.

Then—Neel’s voice. More distorted now, like it was coming through a long tunnel.

“You moved it…”

Suddenly, Aarav’s webcam turned on—by itself.

His own face stared back from the screen.

Aarav was trying to close it.

But laptop froze. Then, from the speaker, a new voice emerged. This one deeper.

“They don’t want you to stop the broadcast."

His cabin door was now… unlocked. Slightly open.

But he had locked it.

Slowly, he stepped out into the corridor.

It was dark. Empty. Silent.

Only one light pulsed in the hallway—the blinking red “ON AIR” sign above Studio B.

Aarav reached the door…

It creaked open on its own.

No one inside. 

He stepped in.

And immediately stopped.

The air was cold. The smell—strange.

Dirt. Dust. Earth.

Aarav’s eyes widened as he scanned the room.

And then he heard it again.

Faint. Behind the static.

 “You opened it again…”

Then his eyes landed on the mirror fixed on the far wall.

Aarav took a slow step closer.

In the mirror—he could see himself. Yes.

But something was off.

The chair behind him… wasn't moving in real life.

But in the reflection, it was rocking.

Back & forth. Back & forth.

And then—
Another figure appeared in the mirror.

Standing just behind his reflection.

Not touching.

Its face was blurred.

As if the mirror itself refused to hold its image.


And across the glass, words began to form—written from the inside—as if a finger dragged through fog that wasn’t even there.

"Come In, We're waiting for you..."

He turned again—still nothing behind him.

Aarav’s throat was dry.

His voice came out barely above a whisper.

 “Who… who are you?”

No answer.

And then—

Neel appeared.

Standing inside the mirror… just like he had three years ago.

 “Aarav…”

Aarav stumbled back, heart racing.

“Neel?! How—what is this? How are you here?

Neel’s eyes were desperate.

 “They trapped me… inside the broadcast. Inside the frequency. I never left.”

Aarav stepped closer, his voice trembling.

 “But how? What happened to you that night?

Neel's expression darkened.

 “That night… I stayed after midnight when you leave the office. I was checking the old files. The one with no name. Static came first, then voices—not just mine. Others. So many others.”

"I thought I was alone in the office… and then when you—Aarav—came back, I tried to call out to you, to shout your name… but this mirror—"
"It pulled me in before I could."

Aarav eyes widened.

"But sir… what was in that audio file? What did you hear?"

His voice cracked.

 “And then… they came. From inside the signal. Whispers, faces, hands.

Studio B’s speakers screamed with feedback—like a thousand voices crying out at once.

In the mirror—Neel panicked.

 “Aarav, GO! Just go! Out of this room! Now!”

 “If you stay—they’ll trap you too!”


The mirror began to pulse. The walls shook. The red "ON AIR" sign above started blinking furiously.

"Suddenly, The door of Studio B kept opening and closing on its own."

"Aarav quickly left the room, not daring to look back." 

Aarav bolted out of the building, his breath sharp in the cold night air. The mirror, Studio B, everything felt like a nightmare closing in on him. 

He reached his car, fumbled for the keys with shaking hands, and started the engine.

Aarav sped down the empty streets, his eyes flicking nervously to the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see something in the reflection. But there was nothing. Nothing but the darkness.

After driving for what felt like an eternity, Aarav finally slowed down. The buildings thinned, the city became a distant hum behind him. He pulled into a desolate stretch of road, far from the station, and slammed the brakes.

The car jerked to a halt.

What was happening?
What was that voice?
Neel... the mirror... that strange call?

And then—he heard it.

A faint metallic chime. Distant, yet sharp. Like a temple bell, echoing in the silence.

He turned off the engine. The sound grew louder—rhythmic, inviting.

With hesitant hands, Aarav stepped out of the car. The cold night air bit at his skin, but the sound pulled him forward like a siren's call.

He followed it.

Aarav climbed the steps slowly, heart pounding, each footfall echoing like a countdown. He entered, hands trembling, and fell to his knees before the deity.

His voice quivered.

“Please... someone help me. What’s happening to me? What was that... place?”


An old yogi emerged from the shadows—robes heavy, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. Silent, he walked forward and raised a wrinkled hand toward Aarav’s head to bless him.

But just as his palm touched Aarav’s crown, he jerked his hand back—as if burned.

The yogi’s eyes widened. His voice dropped into a deep whisper laced with fear.

“You’ve seen it… haven’t you?”

Aarav stood, confused. “What? Seen what? Baba, what is happening to me?”

The yogi turned toward the darkened shrine. His voice carried the weight of years and unseen knowledge.

“You entered Studio B, didn’t you? The cursed frequency… the mirror that swallows the soul.”

Aarav, 

"How do you know about that?"

Yogi - Because others came before you. All vanished. All trapped. Screaming into the void where no one can hear. But you… you were spared. For now. 

Aarav’s voice cracked. “Then tell me what to do. How do I stop this?”

The yogi’s gaze darkened.

“There is a key. Hidden within the station. You must find it & break it.”

Aarav blinked. “A key? Where?”

The yogi’s voice became grave.

“In the heart of the forgotten archives. The room with no light. The place where voices go to die. It'll be golden in color & looks like spearhead. You must go back. Face them. Unlock what was sealed. Only then can Neel & others be freed.”

“But remember this—if you fail...You too will vanish. Just like the others. And the mirror will never let you go.”

Aarav turned to him, breath still ragged.

“Baba… what if I can’t do it? What if the mirror—takes me too?”

The yogi placed a weathered hand on Aarav’s shoulder.

“Fear will call them closer,” he said quietly. “But remember—only courage can break that . The mirror traps souls in echoes. You heard one.”


He stepped back, lifting his hands into the air.

“I’ve said too much.”

“Wait!” Aarav called out, “You didn’t tell me where to use the key!”

Yogi, I've already answered you.

The temple bells fell quiet.

Aarav gathered his courage and turned his car back toward the radio station.

His mind echoed with the yogi's words—
“You must find the key… or you'll be trapped like the others.”

The road ahead seemed darker now, as if the night itself had grown heavier.

Radio Station – 1:51 AM 

Aarav reached the radio station.

As he stepped out of the car and looked up, his eyes were drawn to the faint red glow flickering through the cracked windows.

Studio B.
The “ON AIR” light was on—again.

He kept his eyes low and began searching for the key—just as the yogi had told him.

He moved cautiously, scanning the dusty corners, old drawers, broken cabinets…

And then—the temperature dropped.

Suddenly, it felt like the air had turned to ice.
Freezing.

Aarav’s breath fogged up in front of him.
His fingers went numb.
His knees trembled.

But he didn’t stop.

Because in his mind, one voice kept repeating—
The yogi’s warning.

"If you don’t find the key… you’ll never leave."

A memory came rushing back—sharp and clear.

Neel’s reflection.

Back in Studio B… when Neel had appeared in the mirror…
There had been something behind him.
A glint.
A shape—golden, sharp… like a spearhead.

His heart pounded.

“The key…” he whispered.

*It was there in mirror itself.*


Aarav took a deep breath, his pulse thundering in his ears.

He stepped slowly into Studio B.

The air inside was colder than ever—sharp, biting, like it carried voices in the wind.

He stood before the mirror.

He reached out—gently—his fingertips brushing against the glass.

It felt wrong.
Too soft. Too cold. Too alive.

He didn’t rush.

Instead, he studied the surface, waiting… watching…
Then, with calculated focus, he moved his hand in the same way Neel had described...

Not pushing in… but letting the mirror pull.

Inside the mirror, everything was dark—too dark. The air was thick, like breathing through smoke. Aarav moved slowly, each step echoing like a scream.

Aarav slowly moved forward through the darkness.

It felt like many footsteps were following him… breathing down his neck.

But every time he turned around—no one was there.

After walking a little further, he saw it—
A key, floating in mid-air… right in the middle of a vast, black ocean.


Aarav took a deep breath, his heart pounding. The key hovered above the dark ocean, unreachable by any normal means. But then—he noticed something.

He looks around & saw a faint glimmers of light beneath the water… like invisible steps.

He hesitated, then placed a foot forward—onto thin air.

An invisible path.

With each careful step, the whispers behind him grew louder, angrier.

But Aarav didn’t stop.

He reached the key, hand trembling, and the moment his fingers touched it—

The invisible stairs were vanishing behind him.

And beneath the dark ocean, a violent storm was rising.

Waves crashing, wind howling, the air thick with static.


Aarav wasted no time—he quickly jumped down, clutching the key tightly, trying to escape before the sea swallowed everything whole.

Aarav recalls the key and starts thinking about how he can destroy it. Then he remembers Baba's words: 

"You can only face your fear and drive it away."

Aarav remembers that he's afraid of fire, but he realizes that if the key is melted in gold, it will melt, and the key will no longer exist.

He starts trying to ignite fire with stones, but each time, strong winds blow it out.

Finally, he manages to light the fire and begins to burn the key. As the key burns, the souls start to release, and a stir begins inside the mirror.

When Neel's soul is released, a bright light emerges from the mirror, showing Aarav the path to escape.

As soon as Aarav steps out, the mirror in Studio B shatters into pieces, destroying it completely.



Neel’s voice, now calm and distant, whispers one last time—“Thank you…”—before vanishing into silence.

DAYS Pass.

And then, one quiet midnight, the city tunes in again.

103.1 FM crackles softly to life.

A familiar voice returns—calm, deep, steady.


“You're listening to Midnight Delhi… with Aarav.”

The frequency lives on. But this time, it's not haunted. It's reborn.

(NOTE - Every Story Ends When Right Voice Come.)

THE END.....

Comments