This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Stxaar on 2024-11-19 16:24:23+00:00.

For as long as I can remember, WLNK 97.3—The Link has been the local radio station in my town. It’s one of those stations that plays a little bit of everything: old rock, some pop hits, even a few talk shows when the ad money dries up. Everyone listens to it. You know, that kind of station that’s always on in the background at diners, garages, and grocery stores.

I’d been a casual listener my whole life. It was dependable. Familiar. Safe.

But all of that changed three months ago, the night I noticed something I can’t explain. Something no one else seems to believe, no matter how many times I try to tell them.

It started on a Monday night. I’d been driving home late from work, flipping between stations, when I landed on WLNK. I wasn’t paying much attention—just another evening commute. The DJ was wrapping up a song, probably something by Fleetwood Mac, when he cut to his usual banter.

“And now… the name of the night,” he said, his voice dropping into a strange, almost playful tone.

There was a pause, static buzzing faintly in the background. Then, with eerie clarity, the DJ said a single name:

“Jessica Browning.”

It felt odd. There was no context. No explanation. Just a name, dropped into the ether like a stone into still water.

I shrugged it off. Maybe it was part of a contest or some weird new segment. But I couldn’t shake the way it felt—the delivery was too strange, too deliberate.

I forgot about it until the following Monday. I was driving again, same time, same station, when the DJ did it again.

“And now… the name of the night.”

This time, the name was Robert Sanchez.

Another pause. Another song.

The pattern continued every Monday at exactly 11:05 PM. One name. No explanation. Just dropped into the void.

By the fifth week, curiosity had gotten the better of me. I started listening religiously, notebook in hand. Each Monday night, I’d jot down the name. And each week, I’d search social media, local news sites, anything that might explain what this segment was about.

At first, I found nothing. No contests. No winners. No mentions of the names anywhere.

But then something changed.

One week, the name was Caleb Howard. It stuck with me because Caleb worked at the gas station near my apartment. We weren’t friends or anything, but I’d chatted with him a few times while paying for coffee or snacks. He was a nice guy, always had a smile on his face.

I didn’t think much of it until a week later, when I stopped at the gas station and saw a “Help Find Caleb” poster taped to the door.

He’d gone missing.

The clerk behind the counter—a college kid with a nervous energy—told me Caleb had just disappeared after his shift. No one knew where he’d gone. His car was still in the parking lot.

I couldn’t believe it. Caleb’s name had been said on WLNK exactly a week before. I told myself it was a coincidence, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t.

I started digging.

I went through the names I’d written down in my notebook and searched for any trace of them. By now, I had six names, including Caleb’s. Three of them—Jessica Browning, Robert Sanchez, and Caleb Howard—were confirmed missing. Their faces stared back at me from articles and social media posts, plastered with desperate pleas from friends and family.

No one else seemed to see the pattern.

I tried asking people about the radio show, but everyone looked at me like I was crazy. A few people said they listened to WLNK, but none of them had noticed the “name of the night” segment. Some even insisted it didn’t exist.

I couldn’t explain it. How could a radio broadcast that I heard every week leave no trace?

By the time the eighth name was announced, I was obsessed. The name was Emily Carter.

I didn’t know her personally, but a quick search on social media turned up her profile. She was 28, lived on the other side of town, and worked as a veterinary assistant. Her posts were filled with photos of smiling dogs and cats, each caption brimming with positivity.

I couldn’t let her vanish like the others.

I sent her a message. It was awkward, clumsy:

“Hi, you don’t know me, but I heard your name mentioned on a radio station. It’s hard to explain, but I think something bad might happen to you soon. Please be careful.”

She didn’t reply.

Over the next week, I checked her profile obsessively. She posted like normal—pictures of her dog, updates from work, jokes about her favorite TV shows. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Then, exactly seven days later, her posts stopped.

I knew what that meant.

The next morning, I saw a news article: “Local Veterinary Assistant Reported Missing.”

She was gone.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed answers.

I started visiting WLNK’s building after hours, trying to figure out who was behind the segment. The station was housed in an old, nondescript building downtown. I watched it for hours, hoping to catch a glimpse of the DJ or anyone who might know about the names.

Nothing.

On a whim, I tried calling the station during the day. The receptionist who answered sounded confused when I asked about the 11:05 broadcast.

“We don’t have anything like that on our schedule,” she said. “Are you sure you’re listening to WLNK?”

“Yes,” I insisted. “It happens every Monday night.”

There was a long pause. Then, quietly, she said, “We don’t have live programming at that time.”

Last Monday, the name was Brandon Lewis.

I found him online—a local contractor with a wife and two kids. I didn’t bother messaging him this time. No one ever believed me.

Instead, I decided to confront the source.

At 10:30 PM, I parked outside WLNK. The building was dark except for a single light on the second floor. I waited, heart pounding, until 11:05.

When the time came, I heard it: the muffled sound of the broadcast through the building’s walls.

“And now… the name of the night.”

I burst through the door.

Inside, the station was eerily silent. The reception desk was empty, the hallways dark. I followed the faint sound of the DJ’s voice up a flight of creaky stairs to the second floor.

At the end of the hallway, a door was slightly ajar, warm light spilling into the corridor.

I pushed it open.

The room was empty—just an old desk, a microphone, and a tangle of outdated broadcasting equipment. The light on the “ON AIR” sign flickered weakly, and the static-filled voice of the DJ continued:

“Brandon Lewis.”

I stepped closer, and the equipment suddenly shut off. The room plunged into silence.

Then I saw it.

Taped to the wall behind the desk was a list of names, written in neat, looping handwriting. My heart stopped when I saw the last entry:

Ethan Grant.

That’s my name.

It’s been six days since that broadcast. I’ve locked myself in my apartment, every door and window sealed. The phone rings sometimes, but I don’t answer it.

Tomorrow is day seven.

If anyone hears this… if anyone knows what’s happening… please, don’t let them say another name.

Because no one ever comes back.