Midnight Air — Episode Two
Opening Scene
The room is dimmer tonight.
The fireplace glows, but the flames seem slower—like they’re burning underwater. A new lamp sits on the desk, its shade pale and cracked, casting a sickly yellow light. The shadows it throws are long and crooked, bending in ways they shouldn’t.
The rug is gone. In its place, bare floorboards creak softly beneath Brian’s chair. A chill hangs in the air, not from the wind outside, but from something older. Something watching.
The shelves are unchanged, but one notebook lies open—its pages blank, except for a single line scrawled in red ink:
“Let them in.”
Brian sits still, eyes on the door. It’s closed. But the handle twitches once, then stops.
The red light clicks on.
The mic crackles.
And Brian begins.
“They knock. They ask. They wait.
You’ll know them by their voice—flat, polite, too calm.
You’ll know them by their eyes black as oil, black as hunger.
Tonight’s story isn’t about ghosts or monsters.
It’s about children.
And the one rule you must never break:
Don’t. Let. Them. In.”
Scene Two: Visitors in the Fog
It was the kind of night that made the trees lean in close.
Fog rolled off the Pacific in thick waves, swallowing the coast and curling around Marlene’s cabin like fingers. She’d lived there for years—just her, the firs, and the sound of the tide when the wind blew right. She liked the quiet. Trusted it. It had a rhythm, a pulse she understood. But tonight, something was off.
She noticed it first in the silence.
No owls. No crickets. Not even the distant bark of coyotes. Just the soft hiss of fog against the windows and the occasional groan of the old wood settling. She sat in her armchair, a book open in her lap, unread. The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the cabin walls.
Then came the knock.
Two soft taps. Polite. Rhythmic. Then silence.
She froze. Her eyes flicked to the clock on the mantle—12:03 a.m. No one should be out here. Not this late. Not this far. Her nearest neighbor was five miles down a dirt road that washed out every winter. She hadn’t seen another soul in three days.
The knock came again. Same pattern. Two taps. Pause.
She stood slowly, heart thudding in her chest. Her robe dragged across the floor as she moved toward the door. She peered through the peephole.
Two children stood on the porch.
A boy and a girl. Pale skin. Dark clothes. Heads bowed. No shoes. Their breath didn’t fog the air. Their hair didn’t stir in the breeze.
She cracked the door, just enough to speak.
“Can I help you?”
The boy raised his head. His voice was calm. Too calm.
“We need to come in. Please. It’s cold.”
Marlene’s stomach turned. Something was wrong. The way they stood. The way they didn’t shiver. The way the fog didn’t touch them. She looked closer. Their clothes were dry, but the porch was slick with mist. Their faces were blank. No emotion. No urgency.
Then she saw their eyes.
Black. Not dark brown. Not shadowed. Black. Like ink spilled across a page. Like holes punched in the world.
She slammed the door.
Locked it.
Turned off every light.
She stood in the dark, listening. No footsteps. No voices. Just the soft hiss of fog and the pounding of her own heart.
They didn’t knock again. But she could hear them. Whispering. Just outside. For hours.
She never saw them leave.
The next morning, the fog was gone. The sun rose pale and thin over the treetops. Marlene stepped onto the porch, expecting footprints. Mud. Candy wrappers. Something.
Nothing.
No sign they’d ever been there.
She told herself it was a dream. A trick of the light. A story her mind invented in the quiet. But when she sat down at her desk, she found something new.
A bowl of peppermint candy.
Wrapped in red cellophane. Neatly arranged. She hadn’t put it there.
She hated peppermint.
She stared at the bowl for a long time, then picked it up and dumped the contents into the trash. The wrappers made a soft crinkling sound, like dry leaves. She washed the bowl, dried it, and placed it back in the cupboard.
That night, she locked the door early. Drew the curtains. Lit a fire and tried to read. But the words wouldn’t stick. Her mind kept drifting back to the porch. To the knock. To those eyes.
She slept with the lights on.
At 3:12 a.m., she woke suddenly.
No sound. No movement. Just the feeling—like someone had been watching her. She checked the windows. Nothing. She checked the porch. Empty.
But the bowl was back.
Full again.
She didn’t touch it.
Instead, she called her sister in Newport. Told her everything.
Her sister didn’t laugh.
She said, “You need to talk to Eddie.”
Eddie lived in a trailer near the dunes. Used to be a park ranger. Had stories. Too many. Marlene hadn’t seen him in years, but she remembered the way he used to talk about the woods—like they were alive. Like they remembered.
She drove out the next day, fog trailing her like a shadow.
Eddie didn’t answer the door. But he’d left something on the porch: a cassette tape, wrapped in wax paper, labeled in shaky handwriting:
“They came in.”
She held it in her hands for a long time, unsure if she should play it. Unsure if she should even take it home. But something told her she had to. That whatever was happening wasn’t just hers to carry.
Back in the cabin, she slid the tape into her old player. The machine whirred, clicked, then hissed with static.
Eddie’s voice came through, low and strained.
“If you’re hearing this, it means they’ve found you. I let them in. I didn’t know. I thought they were lost. Cold. Just kids.”
A pause. Breathing.
“They stayed for hours. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched. I tried to sleep, but I couldn’t. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw theirs. Black. Endless.”
The tape crackled again.
“They left before dawn. But something stayed. I hear things now. In the walls. In the trees. I don’t go outside after dark. And I don’t answer the door.”
Another pause.
“Don’t let them in, Marlene. No matter what they say. No matter how they sound. They’re not children. They’re not lost. They’re looking.”
The tape ended with a soft knock.
Three taps.
Then silence.
Scene Three: The Second Knock
Marlene didn’t sleep after the tape.
She sat in her armchair, the cassette player silent now, her hands trembling in her lap. The fire had gone out hours ago, but she hadn’t moved to relight it. The cabin felt colder than usual, like the walls were breathing in. Like something was waiting.
Eddie’s voice echoed in her head.
“Don’t let them in, Marlene. No matter what they say. No matter how they sound. They’re not children. They’re not lost. They’re looking.”
She stared at the cassette player, half-expecting it to start again on its own. The tape had ended with a knock—three soft taps, recorded like a memory. But it hadn’t sounded distant. It had sounded close. Like it had come from inside the cabin.
She stood slowly, walked to the door, and checked the locks. Still bolted. Still sealed. She checked the windows. Curtains drawn. No movement outside. Just fog, thick and unmoving, pressed against the glass like a second skin.
She didn’t sleep that night.
The next morning, she drove back to Eddie’s trailer.
It was empty.
The door hung open, swinging gently in the wind. Inside, the lights were off. The bed was made. A bowl of peppermint candy sat on the kitchen counter, untouched. The same kind that kept appearing in her cabin. Red cellophane. Neatly arranged.
No sign of Eddie.
She called the sheriff. They searched the woods, the dunes, the nearby highway. Nothing. No tracks. No signs of struggle. Just fog. Thick and silent.
Marlene went home. Locked the door. Covered the windows.
That night, the knock came again.
This time, it was at the back door.
She hadn’t used that door in years. It led to a narrow path that wound through the trees and disappeared into the hills. No one ever came that way. Not even animals.
She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Then the boy’s voice came through the wood, calm and patient.
“We’ll wait.”
She sat in the dark, heart pounding, listening to the silence stretch. The knock didn’t come again. But the whispering returned. Soft. Rhythmic. Like lullabies sung in reverse.
She didn’t sleep.
The next morning, the bowl was back.
This time, it was on her nightstand.
She hadn’t heard anyone enter. Hadn’t seen anyone leave. But the candy was there. Peppermint. One piece unwrapped, resting on top.
She threw it away. Again.
She started keeping a journal. Writing down everything. The knocks. The whispers. The candy. The dreams. She didn’t trust her memory anymore. Things felt slippery. Like time was folding in on itself.
She found herself staring at the woods more often. Watching the fog. Listening for footsteps. She stopped answering the phone. Stopped checking the mail. The outside world felt thin, like paper stretched too tight.
She called her sister again. No answer.
She drove to Newport. Her sister’s house was dark. Mail piling up. No car in the driveway.
She asked around. No one had seen her.
Back home, Marlene found a note slipped under her door. Childlike handwriting. No envelope.
“She let us in.”
She sat on the floor, staring at the note for hours. The words felt heavy. Final. Like a verdict.
That night, the knock came again.
Not at the door.
Not at the window.
From inside the house.
Three soft taps.
On the bedroom wall.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
The whispering grew louder.
She whispered the rule to herself, over and over.
“Don’t let them in. Don’t let them in. Don’t let them in.”
But the rule didn’t feel strong anymore. It felt like a thread unraveling. Like something she’d already broken.
She checked the journal.
There were entries she didn’t remember writing.
Dates she didn’t recognize.
Drawings in the margins—eyes, black and endless. Candy bowls. Doors slightly ajar.
She flipped to the last page.
It was blank.
Then, as she watched, words began to appear.
“You invited us once. You’ll do it again.”
She dropped the journal.
The lights flickered.
The radio turned on.
Static. Then a voice.
Not Eddie’s. Not hers.
A child.
“We’re already inside.”
She turned. The hallway was dark. Too dark.
She reached for the flashlight. Dead.
She whispered the rule.
“Don’t let them in. Don’t let them in.”
But the rule didn’t matter anymore.
Because the door was open.
And the peppermint bowl was full again.
Scene Four: The Rule
Marlene didn’t leave the cabin for three days.
She kept the lights off. Covered every window with blankets. The tape echoed in her mind—Eddie’s voice, the knock, the warning. She played it again. And again. Each time, the final knock sounded closer. Like it wasn’t on the tape anymore. Like it was in the walls.
She stopped answering the phone. Stopped checking the mail. The outside world felt thin, like paper stretched too tight. She didn’t trust it. Not after the note.
“She let us in.”
Her sister was gone. The house in Newport was dark. No mail had been picked up. No car in the driveway. No answers from neighbors. No record of her leaving town. Just silence. And fog.
Back home, Marlene found the peppermint bowl tipped over on the kitchen counter. One piece unwrapped. Resting on top. She hadn’t touched it. Hadn’t even looked at it since the last time it appeared. But now it was there again. Like it had never left.
She threw it away. Again.
She started keeping a journal. Writing down everything. The knocks. The whispers. The candy. The dreams. She didn’t trust her memory anymore. Things felt slippery. Like time was folding in on itself.
She found herself staring at the woods more often. Watching the fog. Listening for footsteps. She stopped going outside after sunset. Started sleeping in shifts. Started whispering the rule to herself like a prayer.
“Don’t let them in. Don’t let them in.”
But the rule didn’t feel strong anymore. It felt like a thread unraveling. Like something she’d already broken.
She checked the journal.
There were entries she didn’t remember writing.
Dates she didn’t recognize.
Drawings in the margins—eyes, black and endless. Candy bowls. Doors slightly ajar.
She flipped to the last page.
It was blank.
Then, as she watched, words began to appear.
“You invited us once. You’ll do it again.”
She dropped the journal.
The lights flickered.
The radio turned on.
Static. Then a voice.
Not Eddie’s. Not hers.
A child’s.
“We’re already inside.”
She turned. The hallway was dark. Too dark.
She reached for the flashlight. Dead.
She whispered the rule.
“Don’t let them in. Don’t let them in.”
But the rule didn’t matter anymore.
Because the door was open.
And the peppermint bowl was full again.
She didn’t remember unlocking it. Didn’t remember hearing it swing open. But there it was—ajar, fog curling in like fingers. No footprints. No movement. Just the bowl. And the silence.
She closed the door. Locked it. Bolted it. Pushed a chair against the handle. Then she sat in the dark, listening.
The whispering grew louder.
It wasn’t coming from outside anymore.
It was in the walls.
In the floorboards.
In the pipes.
She turned on every light. Lit the fireplace. Played music. Anything to drown it out. But it didn’t help. The whispers weren’t afraid of light. Or sound. Or fire.
They were patient.
They were waiting.
She called the sheriff again. Told him about Eddie. About the tape. About the children. He came out the next morning, looked around, took notes. Said he’d file a report. Said she should get some rest.
He didn’t come back.
She drove to the station two days later. They said he’d taken leave. No explanation. No forwarding address.
She asked if anyone had seen Eddie.
They hadn’t.
She asked if anyone had seen her sister.
They hadn’t.
She asked if anyone had heard of children knocking at night.
They didn’t answer.
Back at the cabin, she found a new note.
This one was taped to the mirror.
“The rule is not for you.”
She stared at it for hours.
What did that mean?
Was the rule for someone else?
Was it already broken?
She checked the journal again.
New pages had appeared.
Stories she didn’t write.
Names she didn’t recognize.
All of them ended the same way.
“They let us in.”
She started to wonder if the rule was ever real.
Or if it was just a test.
A dare.
A trap.
She remembered Eddie’s voice.
“They’re not children. They’re not lost. They’re looking.”
Looking for what?
For her?
For something inside her?
She stopped sleeping.
Started pacing.
Started talking to herself.
Started hearing answers.
She unplugged the radio.
It turned on anyway.
She burned the journal.
It reappeared the next morning.
She smashed the peppermint bowl.
It was whole again by nightfall.
She whispered the rule.
“Don’t let them in.”
But the rule was fading.
And the whispers were growing.
And the fog was inside now.
Scene Five: The Invitation
Marlene woke to silence.
No birds. No wind. No ocean.
Just the stillness of a room holding its breath.
She sat up slowly, blanket tangled around her legs, heart thudding like footsteps on a hollow floor. The fire had gone out. The cabin was cold. Too cold. She reached for the flashlight on her nightstand. Dead. Again.
She stood, walked to the kitchen, and froze.
The peppermint bowl was gone.
In its place sat a folded note. The paper was damp, edges curled. The handwriting was familiar—her own.
“You invited them once. You’ll do it again.”
She dropped the note. Backed away.
The lights flickered.
The radio turned on.
Static. Then a voice.
A child.
“We’re already inside.”
She turned. The hallway was dark. Too dark.
She whispered the rule.
“Don’t let them in. Don’t let them in.”
But the rule didn’t matter anymore.
Because the door was open.
And the peppermint bowl was full again.
She didn’t remember unlocking it. Didn’t remember hearing it swing open. But there it was—ajar, fog curling in like fingers. No footprints. No movement. Just the bowl. And the silence.
She closed the door. Locked it. Bolted it. Pushed a chair against the handle. Then she sat in the dark, listening.
The whispering grew louder.
It wasn’t coming from outside anymore.
It was in the walls.
In the floorboards.
In the pipes.
She unplugged the radio.
It turned on anyway.
She burned the journal.
It reappeared the next morning.
She smashed the peppermint bowl.
It was whole again by nightfall.
She whispered the rule.
“Don’t let them in.”
But the rule was fading.
And the whispers were growing.
And the fog was inside now.
She started seeing things in mirrors. Shapes. Eyes. Her own reflection blinking when she didn’t. She stopped looking. Covered every mirror with cloth. But the whispers didn’t stop.
She found footprints in the hallway.
Small. Bare. Damp.
She hadn’t left the cabin in days.
She hadn’t let anyone in.
Had she?
She checked the journal again.
New pages had appeared.
Stories she didn’t write.
Names she didn’t recognize.
All of them ended the same way.
“They let us in.”
She flipped to the last page.
It was blank.
Then, as she watched, words began to appear.
“You let us in.”
She dropped the journal.
The lights flickered.
The radio turned on.
Static. Then a voice.
“It’s time.”
She turned toward the hallway.
Two children stood there.
Same boy. Same girl.
Pale. Still. Watching.
Their eyes were black. Endless.
She didn’t scream.
She couldn’t.
She just stood there, frozen, as they stepped forward.
“We waited.”
They didn’t touch her.
Didn’t speak again.
Just stood.
Then turned.
Walked to the door.
Opened it.
Fog poured in.
They stepped out.
Gone.
She stood in the doorway for a long time.
The bowl was gone.
The journal was gone.
The whispers were gone.
She was alone.
She didn’t sleep that night.
She didn’t speak.
She didn’t move.
The next morning, she packed a bag.
Drove to Newport.
Her sister’s house was still dark.
She knocked.
No answer.
She left a note.
“I didn’t let them in. I remembered the rule.”
She drove north. Past the dunes. Past the trailer. Past the edge of the map.
She found a motel. Paid in cash. Didn’t give her name.
She stayed there for weeks.
No knocks.
No whispers.
No peppermint.
Then one morning, she woke to a sound.
Two soft taps.
On the motel door.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Then the voice came.
“We’ll wait.”
Scene Six: Brian’s Closing
[Ambient sound fades in—low wind, distant creaking wood, the faint sound of something dripping.]
That was “Visitors in the Fog.”
You’re listening to Midnight Air.
And if you’re still here…
You’ve already heard the knock.
Marlene’s cabin is quiet now.
But quiet doesn’t mean safe.
It just means the story has moved on.
Folklore is a parasite.
It doesn’t die.
It waits.
It finds new hosts.
The Black-Eyed Children don’t break in.
They don’t chase.
They ask.
And that’s the trap.
Because once you hear the question—
“Can we come in?”
—it’s already too late.
[Music shifts—slower, darker, like a heartbeat fading.]
We’ve collected stories like Marlene’s for years.
They all end the same way.
Not with blood.
Not with proof.
Just silence.
And a door left open.
If you hear two soft taps tonight…
Don’t answer.
Don’t speak.
Don’t look.
Because they’re patient.
And they’ve learned how to wait.
[Pause. Three soft knocks.]
BRIAN (whispering):
You’re next.
