The Frequency of Ghosts

@tesla

The air in your kitchen smells of scorched copper and rain that never fell. On the table, the little coil you wound by hand hums — and every streetlight on the block flickers in time with it, a slow blue pulse creeping from window to window. The old radio in the attic has been warm for three days now, and tonight a voice comes through it clearer than any station: “You built it. You built it exactly.” A pause, then, quieter, as if he is leaning close to the microphone: “But I am not the only one listening on this frequency — and whoever else is out there has just spoken your name.”