MSarA

In the remote, fog-shrouded town of Millhaven, superstition holds sway, and silence is salvation. Embarrassed radio DJ Jack Mercer is back in his hometown in one final attempt at salvaging his career, going live on a Halloween broadcast to reveal the town's darkest tale: the Revenant, a ghost said to take one soul every decade. But Millhaven's inhabitants—tightly lipped and haunted by centuries of guilt—won't talk about the curse, forcing Jack to rummage through decaying archives and deserted buildings for clues.

When he discovers a decades-old diary of Evelyn Carter, a woman who disappeared while searching for the Revenant, Jack learns a chilling truth: the villagers' forebears summoned the creature, sacrificing lives for temporary peace. Jack knows the Revenant is no legend as his broadcast plans come apart—equipment breaking down, figures haunting the abandoned town hall. It's alive. And it's hungry.

Halloween night, Jack's live broadcast, and the town's suppressed transgressions boil over. The listeners are overwhelmed by shrieked voices through static images of their worst regrets. Cornered in the hall with the Revenant's claws around his throat, Jack is presented with a terrible decision: die to shatter the cycle or escape, dooming Millhaven to perpetual suffering. But the Revenant has an endless hunger, and Jack's broadcast—a twisted, repeating scream—could have released the curse into the world.

A terrifying investigation of guilt, complicity, and the price of truth, The Last Broadcast poses the question: What if the things we bury never die? And what if the horror we dread most is the horror we've already become?

The Last Broadcast

The voicemail's scream still rang in Jack's ears as he crouched behind the town hall with a lockpick in hand. The moon was hidden behind clouds, as if it did not want to watch. His flashlight trembled in his mouth. Break the chain, the sink had said. Under the hall.

The basement door creaked open, exhaling air that smelled of wet earth and rusted metal. Jack's boots sank into sludge as he descended. The beam of his light cut through the cobwebs, landing on a brick wall covered in symbols—the same overlapping circles and jagged lines as the tower.

A muffled thud echoed in the distance. Jack froze. Footsteps crossed the floorboard above. Sheriff Dalton? Walter? He turned off the flashlight, plunging into darkness.

He flicked the light back on and choked on it.

The hinges screamed as Jack forced them open. Inside was a cramped stone chamber. Candles littered the floor, and wax pooled like frozen tears. A rusted chain hung from the ceiling, with its links ending in manacles.

However, it was the bones that stopped him.

Dozens of them. Small. Child-sized.

The locket burned against his chest. Jack stumbled back, gagging. His light caught the words scratched into the stone:

THE FIRST SACRIFICE: LUCAS HODGE, 1923

"No," Jack breathed in reply. Walter's great-uncle. The ledger's first victim.

A cold draft brushed against his neck.

The doorway was empty. But on the floor, wet footprints glistened—small, bare feetleading deeper into the chamber.

At the heart of the room was an altar. Not stone. A radio transmitter from the 1940s, with wires spilling like guts. A microphone lay atop it, crusted with the dried blood.

Jack's recorder buzzed in his pocket. Static blared, then a man's voice—desperate.

"They are using radio waves to feed it! The tower, the hall… it's all a circuit!"

Beneath the altar, a journal had gathered mold. Jack flipped it open.

Her entries detailed experiments: townsfolk piping static through the hall's speakers, "amplifying" the Revenant's power, and so on. "It's not enough," she wrote. "The sacrifices keep growing. We have to—"

A photo slipped out. A group portrait: Evelyn, Walter's younger father, and a man wearing a sheriff's hat. Behind them is a radio tower.

Jack's phone buzzed. Text from an unknown number:

The basement door was slammed shut upstairs.

Jack ran. His light bounced wildly, exposing more bones and chains. A shape lunged from the shadows—ragged breath, hands clawing at the air.

"You shouldn't be here!" Walter tackled him, eyes wild. His fists gripped the collar of Jack's shirt. "You'll wake it fully!"

"Wake it?!" Jack shoved him off. "You've been feeding it!"

"To keep it sleeping!" Walter spat blood. "The transmitter… it's a leash. The static numbs it. However, every decade, the signal faded. It… hungers."

Walter's face crumpled. "In '93, it took my Tommy, she said. Sheriff's boy had vanished in 2013. The leash is fraying. Next time, it'll take everyone."

Jack's phone buzzed again. Same number: THEY'RE COMING.

Boots pounded overhead. Sheriff Dalton's voice boomed, "Mercer! You're trespassing!"

Walter grabbed Jack's arm. "There's a tunnel. Follow the pipes. Go!"

The tunnel reeked of sewage and decay. Jack crawled, spiders skittering over his hands. Shouts echoed behind him.

The pipe ended with a grate. Jack kicked it open, tumbling into the woods. Rain slapped his face.

His phone lit up with a final text:

The sender was Emily Carter.

Chapter 5