Jake Carson had hosted Midnight Echoes for five years, a late-night radio show where callers shared ghost stories. Most were fake, some were creepy, but none ever shook him.
Until that call.
It came in at exactly 3:03 AM—the witching hour. The line crackled with interference, but the voice came through clear.
“I’m in your studio.”
Jake smirked. “Yeah? Then why don’t I see you?”
“Look behind you.”
A prickle ran down his neck. The studio was soundproof, locked tight. No one could get in.
But when he turned, the glass reflection showed only his own pale face—until a shadow moved behind him.
His breath caught. The voice returned, this time inside the room.
“I’ve always been here.”
The lights flickered. His headphones filled with static, then a wet, choking sound—like someone gasping for air. The caller ID now read: CALLER: UNKNOWN | TIME: 3:03 AM | DURATION: 00:00.
Jake’s hands trembled. “Who the hell is this?”
The response wasn’t through the phone. It came from the empty chair beside him.
“You let me in.”
The broadcast cut to dead air.
When the engineers burst in, the studio was empty. No sign of Jake. Only his microphone remained, still recording—faint, ragged breathing echoing into the void.
Some say if you tune into a dead station at 3:03 AM, you’ll hear Jake’s final, shuddering words:
“He’s in the room with you now.”
