6.1 / 10 Horrorthri... -

One rainy Tuesday, while scanning through the static for a signal, he heard it—a voice. It wasn't a broadcast; it was a rhythmic, wet clicking, followed by a whisper that sounded like his own name. "Elias..."

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Heart hammering, Elias grabbed a flashlight and headed to the basement, where the main chimney flue ran. He pressed his ear to the brickwork. Silence. He returned to the radio, but the static was gone. In its place was a clear, live feed of his own heavy breathing. Click. Click. Click. One rainy Tuesday, while scanning through the static

How to Write a Horror Story: Telling Tales of Terror - Now Novel He pressed his ear to the brickwork

He froze. The signal was strong, too strong for something coming from across the airwaves. He adjusted the dial, trying to sharpen the sound. The clicking grew louder, more frantic, like teeth tapping against glass. "I’m in the walls, Elias. It’s cold in the insulation."

Elias lived for silence, which was why he bought the house at the end of Blackwood Lane. It was a crumbling Victorian, miles from the nearest neighbor. His only companion was an antique shortwave radio he’d found in the attic, its mahogany casing thick with dust.