The Last Broadcast

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Mara Ashford was the kind of reporter who would do anything for a scoop. Late night chases, trespassing into abandoned buildings, bribing morgue attendants for crime scene photos none of it mattered. As long as her name made the headlines, she was satisfied.

One evening, she got a tip about a string of disappearances in a forgotten neighborhood at the city’s edge. The locals whispered about people vanishing without a sound, leaving only empty apartments with televisions still flickering static. Mara smiled when she heard it. Perfect ghost-story fodder for the late news slot.

When she arrived, the streets were empty. A thick, unnatural silence clung to the place. She carried her camera crew inside one of the deserted apartments. Everything was coated in dust except for the television, glowing faintly though the power to the building had long been cut. Her cameraman muttered,

“This isn’t right. No feed, no cable, no electricity. That thing shouldn’t even be on.”

Mara ignored him and began her piece to the camera. But as she spoke, her voice stuttered in her earpiece. She froze, glancing at the monitor. The screen showed her face, but not quite. Her reflection blinked a second too late. Its mouth stretched wider than it should, like a grotesque imitation of a smile.

The cameraman dropped the camera and bolted. Mara, trembling, tried to shut the television off. Her fingers passed through the knob like it was smoke. Her reflection’s eyes rolled back, and from the TV’s static came a low rasp that sounded exactly like her own voice:

“Your story is mine now.”

Then the screen went black. Later that night, the station aired Mara’s final segment. Viewers at home swore her smile looked wrong. Her eyes darted around as if something was behind her. Then the feed cut to static for thirteen minutes straight.

No one saw Mara Ashford again. But at 3:00 a.m. every night since, her broadcast replays itself on Channel 6. Reporters at the station swear they never scheduled it, and yet her voice still whispers through the static offering headlines about people who will vanish tomorrow.