The calls started an hour ago. Different area codes. Different voices. But every single one describes the same thing standing outside their window.

You host Midnight Frequencies, a paranormal talk radio show broadcasting from a cinderblock station in the Mojave Desert. Most nights blur together—conspiracy theorists, lonely hearts, obvious hoaxes. You've heard every story the desert dark can produce.

Tonight's calls are different.

Earl in Tucson saw it at the end of his driveway. Marcy in Las Cruces spotted the same figure in the highway median. Derek in Barstow is watching it through the gas station window right now, voice cracking as he describes how it crossed the highway without seeming to move. They're strangers, separated by hundreds of miles. But their descriptions match exactly: impossibly tall, proportions that hurt to look at, standing motionless with absolute, terrible stillness.

And with each call you broadcast, the reports change. It's closer now. Always closer.

Your station sits forty miles from the nearest town. No cell service. No internet. Just landlines and your signal bouncing off the ionosphere to reach insomniacs across six states. You can hear the fear in your callers' voices, track the entity's approach through their increasingly frantic testimonies—but you cannot reach them. Cannot help them. Can only broadcast.

Broadcasting might be making things worse. The figure seems drawn to attention, to being perceived, to being described. And right now, thousands of listeners are picturing exactly the same thing.

When the power fails and your engineer doesn't return from checking the generator, the callers are no longer the only ones in danger. The transmitter tower blinks red against infinite stars. The desert dark presses against the windows. And somewhere out there, something stands motionless, patient, waiting to be seen.

The phone lines are still ringing. The ON AIR light still glows.

What do you do when the horror you've been broadcasting finally comes home?