Dead Air Choir

This is the kind of story that creeps up on you. At first it's dusty control rooms and a daughter doing estate work, then—bam—the air is alive and your hair stands up. I laughed out loud at Mara's "three days" plan because who hasn't promised that to themselves before getting sucked into something bigger? The five-note motif is genius: simple, haunting, and it turns static into a character. The Chorus is teeth and velvet at the same time. Loved the little line about the river yanking a knot in her chest—so visceral. If you like ghosts that sound as much as they scare, give this a listen (figuratively). 😬📻

Technically savvy and emotionally precise. The story balances the mechanics of radio work (faders, capacitors, transmitter racks) with the intangible weight of loss. The author nails the archivist mindset—Mara's mantra of neutrality is believable and then slowly erodes as the five-note pattern and the Chorus hijack the space. I appreciated how specific moments—flipping breakers, the ON AIR light dulled by dust, the tactile memory in the fader caps—are used to make the supernatural elements feel inevitable rather than arbitrary. Pacing is measured: the build-up of dread is methodical rather than frantic, which suits the premise. Only minor quibble: a few transitional beats could be tightened around the middle, but overall it's an immersive, well-crafted supernatural piece with an original auditory hook.

Dead Air Choir stuck with me for days. The prose is tactile—bricks leaning into a pasture sky, a coffee mug fossilized beside a board—so when the supernatural element arrives it feels like an escalation of things already deeply felt, not an intrusion. The five-note pattern is a smart device: it's economical (just five notes) but works as a throughline that both resurrects memory and amplifies the station's hunger. I admired how the story explores inheritance beyond property—the archive of a life, the frequency of a voice, the ethical rust that can form when grief and technology meet. The Chorus as a force pressing for 'a wider reach' reads as a clear metaphor for how loss can demand more than we can give. There are lines that haunt—Mara laying her palm on the warm metal, telling herself 'Faulty switch'—that perfectly capture denial when confronted with the inexplicable. The ending left me wanting more, in the best way: not because things were unresolved, but because the world created feels big enough to return to. One of the stronger supernatural shorts I've read lately.

I finished this feeling like I'd been sitting in a cold studio with the ON AIR light glowing faintly and my heart pressed up against a speaker. Dead Air Choir is gorgeously sad—Mara's attempts at neutrality ("describe, date, box") are a heartbreaking contrast to the moments when the five-note pattern threads her brother's voice through static. That scene where she lays her palm on the transmitter rack and feels the capacitors breathe had me bracing as if for a ghost to speak. I loved the small domestic details—the fossilized coffee mug, the worn fader caps—which make the supernatural intrusions land harder. The Chorus is scary and oddly sympathetic, and the way the pasture and the braided river intrude on the technical world of the station is quietly brilliant. This felt like a slow, careful unpeeling of grief, sound, and inheritance. Highly recommend if you like hauntings that feel like they could wake you at 3 a.m.

I wanted to love this more than I did. The setup is strong—the shuttered rural station, Mara's 'three days' promise, the tactile details like the ON AIR light and coffee mug—but the plot leans on familiar tropes without fully earning its central mystery. The Chorus as a hungry force has potential, but I found its motivations thin and the escalation predictable: old place creaks, technology wakes, voice from the past, then pressure to 'reach wider.' There are also a couple of pacing issues—the middle drags a bit while the story waits for more obvious supernatural beats to occur. I appreciated the imagery (the river braided through cottonwoods is lovely), but I wanted deeper exploration of Mara's relationship with her father and brother; their histories are hinted at rather than explored, which weakens the emotional payoff when the ghostly element intensifies. Competent and atmospheric but not as memorable as it could be.

Concise, eerie, and unusually lyrical for a ghost story that centers on gear. I liked how technical details—rack lights, breakers, fader caps—are used to convey memory and presence. The moment the transmitter breathes under her palm is simple but chilling; the five-note pattern threading her brother's voice into the static was a clever, economical way of making the supernatural intimate. The story resists sensationalism; instead it builds a steady atmosphere of dread tied to grief and obligation. A solid read for anyone who appreciates mood-driven horror and smart, character-focused supernatural fiction.