The station claws at the edge of nowhere.

Unmarked on any chart, unmapped by any road, it rises from a clearing choked by firs, a rusted sentinel against the perpetually gray Oregon coast. The sea breathes close, its mournful sigh audible on a favorable wind, though no one who has arrived here has ever lived to find the shore.

A single, skeletal dirt road snakes towards the station, twisting through the ancient forest as if desperate to lose its way. Only a handful, perhaps two, still remember the path. Those who still live, at least.

The woods are a cathedral of ancient firs, their gnarled branches a tangled conspiracy overhead. Moss, thick as velvet curtains, weeps from the limbs, and the forest floor is a carpet of decay, hushed and heavy with secrets. Silence hangs here, thick and suffocating. No birdsong, no rustle of wings. Just the wind... and the unsettling whisper of something else.

Within the station, the air is a stale cocktail of dust, salt, and the ghosts of old vinyl. The walls are lined with forgotten echoes: faded photographs, the silent hum of equipment that seems to remember more than it should. Mismatched furniture, borrowed from a dozen lost decades, sits scattered about. Above the microphone, a single, malevolent red eye glows – always on, a silent promise, even when the room is empty.

And then, there's him.

Brian.

The man they call Mr. Midnight, though some claim he's not a man at all. He doesn’t belong to this world. But every night, as the clock bleeds past midnight, his voice returns, a calm, deep resonance that suggests a patient eternity.

He takes no calls. He plays no music. He tells stories.

Stories that crawl under your skin. Stories that taste of unspoken truths, that feel like warnings whispered in the dark.

Some are whispered confessions, ripped from the shadows. Others are meticulously stitched together from forgotten police reports, the ghosts of missing persons, and the secrets the forest keeps buried. Each tale is unique, yet each culminates in the same chilling finale – silence, and the inescapable prickle of being watched, from somewhere just beyond the edge of the light.

No one knows how the signal breaches the silence. It's a phantom, unlisted on frequency maps, a ghost that evades scanners and the digital hunger of apps. Yet, if you are awake when the world has fallen still, if you are lost in the depths of night, you will find it. Usually, it finds you. Usually, when you are most vulnerable.

Whispers say the station is a wraith, a wanderer that shifts, never tethered to the same place twice. Others swear they have witnessed it in nightmares – always shrouded in a suffocating fog, always humming with a restless static that thrums in the bones. A few, the brave... or the foolish, have dared to hunt for it. None have returned.

And still, the broadcast persists.

Every night, without fail, the malevolent red eye ignites. The microphone hisses, a serpent’s warning. And Brian, the voice in the dark, begins to weave his terrifying tales.

No one knows to whom he speaks. Perhaps to no one. Perhaps to everyone. But once his voice has wormed its way into your ears, it becomes an unwelcome guest, residing in your dreams, echoing in the quiet spaces, and whispering through the static between stations.

Some claim the narratives morph, subtly shifting to reflect the listener's hidden fears. Others swear they have heard their own names, breathed out between the chilling words. And a select few... a cursed few... claim the stories refuse to end when the broadcast fades.

Just... don't listen for too long.

Because once the Midnight Air has bled into your soul, you will never truly sleep again.