Chapter One: "Midnight Radio" (Part 1)

"The protagonist of our story is a young man named Lin Ye, who took over a late-night radio program..." The shop owner's voice, deep and steady, resonated throughout the candlelit courtyard. The ten listeners unconsciously leaned forward, drawn to the narrative with its subtle echo, like moths to a flame. The indecipherable whispers had now completely vanished, as if the invisible audience were holding their breath, waiting for the story to begin.

------

At eleven fifty-eight in the evening, most of the city had surrendered to slumber, with only sporadic lights dotting the darkness like stars fallen to earth. At the top floor of an aging broadcast building in the city center, the lights of "Urban Voice" radio station remained illuminated, appearing peculiarly lonely and persistent against the night sky.

Lin Ye sat in the meticulously soundproofed broadcasting studio, wearing professional headphones, facing a control panel where dozens of indicator lights flickered in different colors, creating an almost mystical atmosphere in the darkness. As the clock hands approached midnight, he cleared his throat, adjusted the microphone, and his face settled into a professional calm.

"Good evening, listeners. Welcome to 'Midnight Whispers' on Urban Voice Radio. This is your host, Lin Ye." He deliberately slowed his speech, allowing his voice to sound warm and intimate across the midnight airwaves. "It's exactly midnight now, and our three hours together are about to begin. Tonight, let's discuss those loneliness that cannot be spoken of..."

This was Lin Ye's seventeenth day hosting "Midnight Whispers." The previous host, Wang Hai, had resigned without warning, leaving behind a resignation letter so brief it bordered on rudeness: "I must leave this program. Please do not attempt to contact me." Unable to reach him personally, the station director had hurriedly sought a replacement, giving the recent broadcasting school graduate Lin Ye this rare opportunity.

Lin Ye quickly fell in love with the job. Midnight broadcasts possessed an intimacy that daytime programs lacked—listeners seemed more willing to share their secrets, and he could respond with greater sincerity. These three hours belonged to the city's marginal souls, a sanctuary for minds exhausted by daylight.

"Tonight we've received many letters about insomnia," Lin Ye said softly, his voice creating a peculiar resonance in the spacious studio. "It seems this city harbors too many souls unable to sleep. Let's begin with a lullaby that might bring everyone some tranquility..."

He pressed play, and gentle piano music flowed from the speakers. During this interlude, Lin Ye quickly browsed through the night's letters and playlist. Just then, the studio phone rang—a private line known only to station staff and select listeners.

"Midnight Whispers, this is Lin Ye," he answered, maintaining his professional tone.

No response came from the other end, only faint static noise, causing Lin Ye to furrow his brow. "Hello, listener?"

After several more seconds of silence, a strange voice emerged—not human, but a mechanical, emotionless synthesized sound: "4...7...9...1...8..."

The sound pierced deep into Lin Ye's ear canal, producing a sharp, stabbing pain as if someone had inserted an extremely fine needle directly into his eardrum. He was momentarily unable to speak through the pain, instinctively wanting to remove his headphones, but his fingers seemed frozen, unable to move.

"The door is about to open..." the voice continued, now more distorted, as if played through ancient recording equipment. "You will all see..."

The call suddenly disconnected, and Lin Ye realized he was drenched in sweat. He removed his headphones, took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. The music was ending; he needed to regain his professional composure.

"That piece, 'Moonlight Remembrance,' hopefully brought some peace to everyone's evening." Lin Ye put his headphones back on, forcing himself to resume his professional tone. "We just received a call that appears to be a prank. If you were that caller, please respect this late hour and those who genuinely need this program..."

He intended to end the topic there, but professional instinct told him this unexpected call might serve as interesting program material.

"However, I must admit, that mysterious sequence of numbers has aroused my curiosity. 4-7-9-1-8... Does any listener know if this numerical sequence holds special significance? Feel free to call our hotline to share..."

Over the next hour, the station received an abnormal volume of calls, nearly triple the usual number. Strangely, all callers reported having the same dream during the past week—dreaming of standing before a massive door inscribed with unrecognizable text. Even more bizarrely, many listeners mentioned hearing the "Midnight Whispers" theme music in their dreams, despite never having tuned into the program before.

"This is too strange," said a listener who identified himself as Mr. Liu, his voice carrying unmistakable unease. "I never listen to radio, but a friend told me you've been discussing topics about 'the door' this week, and I happened to have this dream... so I made a point to tune in."

"You say I've been discussing topics about 'the door' this week?" Lin Ye asked confusedly, his fingers unconsciously tapping the broadcast console in that familiar rhythm: 4-7-9-1-8. "But I haven't..."

"You have," Mr. Liu insisted, his voice growing more certain. "My friend listened to your program last night. You kept talking about 'the door,' saying it would soon open, that we would all see..."

Lin Ye's heartbeat suddenly accelerated. He absolutely had not discussed any topics related to "doors" on his program; this was the first time he'd even heard the term. But why would a listener insist he had already discussed this? More disturbingly, the content Mr. Liu described matched exactly what the mysterious caller had mentioned.

"Mr. Liu, could you share your friend's contact information? I'd like to understand exactly what he heard."

"Of course, his name is Wang Hai, he's..."

Lin Ye's blood instantly froze. Wang Hai—the name of the previous host. But according to the station director, Wang Hai had left no contact information after resigning, hadn't even collected his final month's salary, and had simply vanished.

"Mr. Liu, are you saying Wang Hai, the former host of Urban Voice Radio?"

Silence fell on the other end for a moment. "I don't know if he's a host... We just happened to meet at a café. He looked exhausted, his eyes unfocused, constantly mumbling about a 'door'... Then he told me that if I started having that dream too, I should listen to 'Midnight Whispers'..."

After the call ended, Lin Ye's professional façade finally cracked. His hands trembled slightly, sweat sliding from his forehead, forming tiny droplets on the metal surface of the console. All these strange occurrences—the mysterious call, the listeners' shared dreams, the former host's warning—seemed to point toward a possibility he was reluctant to face: something beyond his comprehension was happening with the "Midnight Whispers" program.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. As a rational media professional, he shouldn't be swayed by these absurd notions. There must be a reasonable explanation—perhaps a prankster was toying with him, maybe a group of online users organizing a collective action, or perhaps the station orchestrating a secret marketing campaign to boost ratings.

But deep down, a faint voice told him things weren't that simple.

At two-thirty in the morning, a harsh static suddenly came through Lin Ye's headphones, followed by that familiar mechanical voice: "4...7...9...1...8..."

This time, the pain was even more intense, like electrical current being injected directly into his brain. Lin Ye painfully removed his headphones, but was horrified to discover the headphone cable was disconnected—it couldn't possibly be transmitting any sound. More terrifying still, he could still hear that voice, as if it were resonating directly in his mind: "The door is about to open... You will all see..."

Lin Ye's rational mind refused to accept such supernatural explanations. Surely he was just too tired, or perhaps this old broadcasting studio had some technical issue. Yes, it must be equipment failure. He decided to report the problem to the technical department first thing in the morning.

After successfully concluding the program, Lin Ye quickly gathered his belongings, preparing to leave the station. The building at three in the morning was unnaturally quiet, with only his footsteps echoing down the hallway, sounding particularly distinct in the darkness. As he passed the archives room, a faint light seeping from beneath the door caught his attention—no one should be there at this hour.

Out of curiosity, Lin Ye gently pushed open the archives room door. The room was empty, but an old recorder was operating, emitting a faint humming sound. Strangely, the recorder wasn't connected to any power source.

Lin Ye approached to investigate and discovered the recorder was playing an old-style tape labeled "1979.4.18 - Midnight Whispers - FORBIDDEN TO PLAY." This stunned him—the "Midnight Whispers" program had only been broadcasting for five years; how could there be a recording from 1979?

Driven by curiosity, Lin Ye pressed pause, removed the tape, and placed it in his bag. Perhaps this tape could explain the strange phenomena he'd been experiencing.

Over the following week, the city began experiencing a series of inexplicable anomalies. Multiple areas reported hearing unidentified broadcast signals late at night, containing a repeating sequence of numbers: 47918. More disturbingly, these signals weren't only coming from radios but were reported emanating from other electronic devices—televisions, intercoms, even children's toys.

Meanwhile, "Midnight Whispers" listener ratings skyrocketed, breaking station records. Every night, more and more listeners called in, sharing their dreams of "the door" and other inexplicable experiences. Many claimed to hear Lin Ye's voice in their dreams, telling them "the door is about to open."

All this left Lin Ye feeling both excited and terrified. As a professional media person, he maintained skepticism toward supernatural phenomena, but as someone experiencing these events firsthand, he couldn't deny he was encountering something beyond common understanding. His psychological state began to split—the daytime Lin Ye remained the rational skeptic, but the nighttime Lin Ye broadcasting live became increasingly drawn to these supernatural narratives.

During broadcasts, he found it increasingly difficult to control the direction of conversation, as if another voice were guiding him to discuss "the door" and "47918," while listener responses only intensified this uneasy feeling. In every call, Lin Ye began noticing a strange rhythmic sound in the background, precisely tapping in the "4, 7, 9, 1, 8" pattern, present regardless of where the listener was calling from.

Even more bizarrely, Lin Ye began noticing the station's equipment emitted a faint humming sound whether powered on or not, its frequency gradually changing over time, like some energy brewing. The technical department inspected it multiple times but could find no issues.

On a late night during the second week, Lin Ye finally gathered his courage and brought the "FORBIDDEN TO PLAY" tape home. After ensuring his doors and windows were securely closed and his phone turned off, he opened his old recorder, took a deep breath, and pressed play.

Lin Ye attempted to press the recorder's play button for the third time, but his fingers trembled uncontrollably, sliding across the button's surface. Cold sweat had soaked through the back of his shirt, forming an irregular dark stain.

"There must be a rational explanation," he muttered to himself, knowing this was self-deception. The rational thinking cultivated through ten years in media was collapsing, like fine cracks in a building before collapse, spreading from the edges toward the center.

When the tape finally began playing and that voice filled the room again, his body reacted before his consciousness could—goosebumps cascaded from the nape of his neck across his entire back, every pore standing on end, as if his skin instinctively tried to flee from something.

Most terrifying of all, he clearly heard himself on the recording saying words he absolutely had never broadcast: "The door is about to open, you will all see..." The voice was undeniably his—the tone, rhythm, even his distinctive pausing style—but the content was completely foreign to him.

The tape began with harsh static, followed by a long silence. Just as Lin Ye thought it might be blank, a male voice suddenly spoke:

"This is my final broadcast. I've discovered something... something I shouldn't have. About the truth of 'Midnight Whispers,' about why this program must air at midnight, about why hosts are constantly replaced..."

The voice suddenly became muffled, mixed with strange background noise that sounded like countless whispers combined. Then the voice continued:

"We've been deceived. This program isn't for listeners but for 'them.' Whenever we broadcast, our voices become a key—a key that can open a door between two worlds. And that number sequence, 47918, is coordinates, it's..."

Another burst of harsh static; the tape seemed damaged, skipping a segment.

"...If you're listening to this recording, then you've already become 'their' target. Your voice, your existence, has been marked. I don't know who the next host will be, but I warn you: stop broadcasting 'Midnight Whispers,' or you'll suffer my fate. I can already feel them around me, waiting to take me away... Remember that number, 47918, it's the only clue..."

The recording ended there. Lin Ye pressed play again, wanting to listen once more, to ensure he hadn't missed any details. But horrifyingly, when the recording played again, the content had completely changed.

"We have found a door..." a deep voice said, carrying a rhythm not belonging to humans.

Just then, the recorder suddenly stopped working, and the room's lights instantly extinguished. In the darkness, Lin Ye felt a cold current of air pass behind him, like some unknown entity breathing. As he struggled to turn around, he saw a blurry figure in the doorway, its outline trembling in the darkness, like some unstable projection.

"Who... are you?" Lin Ye's voice had grown parched, each word seemingly forced from deep within his throat.

The figure didn't answer, but slowly raised one hand, pointing directly at Lin Ye...

------

"That's it?" Reporter Zhou couldn't help breaking the silence that had fallen over Chang'an Coffin Shop. "What happened next? Who was that figure?"

The proprietor smiled and closed his folding fan, pausing the narrative. The candlelight cast dancing shadows across his pale face, making his expression seem unfathomably mysterious. "The story isn't over, but the hour grows late." He surveyed the tense expressions of his audience. "Tomorrow night, we shall continue exploring Lin Ye's fate... and that mysterious door."

The ten listeners exchanged glances, their eyes revealing both dissatisfaction at the story's interruption and anticipation for the unknown developments to come. The night breeze carried fine rain into the courtyard from outside, making the candle flames flicker and casting enormous, distorted shadows on the walls, as if that "door" had already silently opened and was waiting for its visitors...