The station sits on the edge of nowhere.

Not on any map. Not on any road. Just a rusted tower rising from a clearing in the firs, somewhere along the fog-choked coast of Oregon. The sea is close—you can hear it if the wind is right—but no one’s ever found the shoreline from here.

There’s a single dirt road that leads to the station. It twists through the forest like it’s trying to forget where it goes. Only one, maybe two people still know the way. That is… people who are still living.

The forest around it is ancient. The firs grow tall and tight, their branches tangled like they’re holding secrets. Moss drapes from the limbs like old curtains, and the ground is soft with decay. It’s quiet here—too quiet. No birds, no insects. Just the wind, and sometimes… something else.

Inside the station, the air smells of dust, salt, and old vinyl. The walls are lined with forgotten records, faded photographs, and equipment that hums like it remembers something. The furniture is mismatched and worn, like it was borrowed from a dozen different decades. A single red light glows above the mic—always on, even when no one’s speaking.

And then, there’s him.

Brian.

The man they call Mr. Midnight.

He doesn’t live in the town. Some say he doesn’t live at all. But every night, when the clock slips past twelve, his voice returns. Calm. Deep. Like it’s been waiting.

He doesn’t take calls. He doesn’t play music. He tells stories.

Stories that feel too real. Stories that feel like warnings.

Some are whispered confessions. Others are stitched together from old police reports, missing persons flyers, and things found buried in the woods. Each tale is different. But they all end the same way—with silence, and the feeling that someone is watching.

No one knows how the signal reaches so far. It’s not listed on any frequency maps. It doesn’t show up on scanners or apps. But if you’re up late enough, and the night is quiet enough, you’ll find it. Usually by accident. Usually, when you need it most.

Some say the station moves. That it’s never in the same place twice. Others claim they’ve seen it in dreams—always surrounded by fog, always humming with static. A few listeners have tried to find it. None has come back.

And still, the broadcast continues.

Every night, without fail, the red light flickers on. The mic crackles. And Brian begins to speak.

No one knows who he’s talking to. Maybe no one. Maybe everyone. But once you’ve heard his voice, it stays with you. In your dreams. In the quiet moments. In the static between stations.

Some listeners say the stories change depending on who’s listening. Others swear they’ve heard their own names whispered between words. And a few… a few say the stories don’t end when the broadcast does.

Just don’t listen too long.

Because once you’ve heard Midnight Air, you never sleep quite the same again.