The Voice Within

Near the quiet town of Shelkre, nestled between hills that seemed to murmur secrets to the wind, there was a small, local radio station—Zankar FM. Its voice reached far into the valleys, carrying news, music, and the occasional misplaced joke. The station was the heartbeat of the town, and its trusted anchor, Victor Steele, was its voice.

Victor was a man of routine. Every morning, like clockwork, he'd settle behind the dusty microphone in the recording booth, adjust his headphones, and glance over his script. His deep, steady voice had become a comfort to the townsfolk.On that particular morning, however, something was off.Victor began his broadcast like any other. "Good morning,Shelkre! This is Victor Steele with your daily news update." He leaned closer to the mic, the script in hand. "The economy is seeing a sharp rise in inflation, with—"He paused, his throat tightening unexpectedly. A faint tickle crawled up the back of his throat, and he coughed lightly."Excuse me," he muttered into the microphone, then cleared his throat. A few seconds passed before he resumed. "As I was saying, the economy is—"The tickle returned, fiercer this time. Victor coughed again, harder now. His voice faltered, cracking like static on a poor signal. He pressed the mute button on his mic and reached for his water bottle, taking a long sip."Sorry about that, folks," he said, his voice strained but polite. "Now, moving on to—"It came again. The itch. A clawing, invasive sensation. It was no ordinary dryness—no, this felt alive, as though something wriggled within his throat. Victor doubled over, hacking into his hand."Cut to commercials!" he croaked, slamming the button on his console. The jingle for a local bakery filled the airwaves.Victor ripped off his headphones, his breathing uneven. He stumbled out of the booth and into the hallway, where his producer, Mallory, stood sipping her coffee."You okay, Vic?" she asked, raising an eyebrow."Something's wrong with my throat," he rasped, his voice hoarse. "It feels like... I don't know, like something's stuck."Mallory rolled her eyes. "You're just overthinking it. Maybe you're catching a cold."Victor shook his head. "No, it's not that. It feels... weird. Like it's crawling.""Crawling?" Mallory laughed nervously. "Come on, Vic. You're fine. Get back in there and finish the broadcast."But Victor wasn't fine. As he returned to the booth, the sensation in his throat grew worse. It wasn't just an itch anymore—it was a pressure, a weight that moved and shifted as though it had a will of its own.He sat down, staring at the microphone. The air in the room felt heavier now, pressing down on him like an unseen hand. The walls seemed closer than before, their soundproof padding suddenly suffocating."Alright," he whispered to himself. "You can do this."He pressed the button, and his voice returned to the airwaves. "Apologies for the interruption, folks. Now, let's get back to the news."The words barely left his lips before his throat seized entirely. It was as if invisible fingers were wrapped around his windpipe, squeezing tighter and tighter. Victor clawed at his neck, his eyes bulging.And then... he heard it.A voice. Low and guttural, resonating not in the room but inside his head."You speak too much."Victor froze, his hands trembling. The voice was neither male nor female, neither human nor machine. It was cold, hollow, and impossibly loud, as though it came from the very fabric of the air around him."You tell them lies."Victor stumbled back, his chair crashing to the floor. He yanked off his headphones and bolted from the booth, bursting into the control room where Mallory and the others were gathered."Did you hear that?" he gasped, his voice barely a whisper."Hear what?" Mallory asked, frowning."The... the voice! It spoke to me!"The room fell silent. The staff exchanged uneasy glances."Victor," Mallory said carefully, "there's no one else here.""No," he insisted, his voice rising. "It was real! It said—""Vic, calm down," she interrupted. "You're just tired. Take a break."Victor's hands clenched into fists. He knew what he'd heard. He knew what he'd felt. And yet, the others looked at him as if he were losing his mind.But he wasn't.Back in the booth, the microphone crackled to life on its own. The red "ON AIR" light flickered, then held steady.From the speakers came a voice."This is Zankar FM, your trusted source for truth..."Victor stared at the console in horror. The voice wasn't his. It was deeper, colder—a mimicry of his own, warped and twisted."And the truth is... Victor Steele has said enough."