Live (eBook)

Coast to Coast

Keith Jarvis jr. (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025
441 Seiten
Publishdrive (Verlag)
979-8-232-66284-4 (ISBN)

Infos

Local radio dj monets before going on air is informed by his station manager that this is final show and the station is no longer interested in his services. Head spinning from the news and also the reminder his girlfriend was pregant, Larry has an on air breakdown causing a chain events that would alter the course of his life. In a dumb moment of weakness he mumbles out he would sell his soul to rid himself of these people. A harms phrase, but this time the next caller just so happens to have a bid for his soul.

Textauszug

Chapter 1: The Static and the Silence

The red ‘ON AIR’ light pulsed, a malevolent, blinking eye against the perpetual twilight of the studio. It cast a sickly, almost necrotic glow across Larry Johnson’s face, illuminating the deep-set lines of exhaustion etched around his eyes and the perpetual five-o’clock shadow that seemed to have taken permanent residence on his jaw. Outside, the city sprawled, a concrete behemoth exhaling a smoggy breath that clung to the grime-streaked windows of Station 107. Inside, the air was thick, a cloying miasma of stale cigarette smoke, cheap coffee, and something else… something akin to despair, perhaps. It clung to the threadbare carpet, seeped from the cracked faux leather of the soundboard, and saturated the very atmosphere Larry breathed.

His show, “Midnight Musings,” had once been a beacon, a place where the city’s lonely souls could find solace, a voice in the encroaching darkness. Now, it was a fading ember, its warmth barely registering against the chill of irrelevance. The phone lines, once a cacophony of earnest pleas and shared confessions, now offered only the mournful hum of silence, punctuated by the occasional, half-hearted buzz of a caller who couldn’t even muster the energy to stay on the line. Ratings were in freefall, a relentless downward spiral mirroring the trajectory of Larry’s own life. The station management, a pack of avaricious wolves perpetually circling their prey, had made their displeasure known in no uncertain terms. Cancellation loomed, a specter that haunted his waking hours and stalked his dreams.

 

Larry ran a hand over his stubbled chin, the rasp of his fingertips a familiar, grating sound in the otherwise quiet studio. He was adrift, a captain of a sinking ship, with no land in sight and the storm of obsolescence gathering on the horizon. The 1980s, a decade of brash ambition and glittering excess, felt like a cruel joke to a man clinging to the tattered remnants of his broadcast career. The neon glow of the city outside, once a symbol of promise, now seemed to mock him, its artificial luminescence a stark contrast to the dim, decaying reality of his world. He was trapped in this smoke-filled purgatory, his only companions the hum of the ancient tape machines and the incessant, gnawing fear that he was becoming a ghost in his own life, a spectral voice fading into the static.

 

He leaned closer to the microphone, the cool metal a stark contrast to the feverish heat that had begun to prickle at his skin. His voice, a low, resonant baritone that had once captivated thousands, now sounded strained, a fragile instrument on the verge of shattering. "Welcome back to 'Midnight Musings'," he rasped, the words feeling like stones in his mouth. "We're here, as always, wading through the quiet hours, where the silence is often louder than any sound." He paused, searching for words, for anything to fill the void. The silence stretched, vast and unforgiving. He could feel the ghost of an audience, a spectral presence that had long since abandoned him, but whose memory still haunted the airwaves.

 

He fumbled for a cigarette, the crumpled pack nestled in the overflowing ashtray beside him. The lighter, its flame sputtering defiantly, finally caught, illuminating his gaunt face in the dim light. He inhaled deeply, the acrid smoke a momentary comfort, a familiar anchor in the churning sea of his anxiety. The pressure was immense, a physical weight pressing down on his chest, making each breath a conscious effort. It wasn't just the looming threat of unemployment, the humiliating prospect of begging for scraps in an industry that had chewed him up and spat him out. It was more than that. It was the gnawing emptiness in his gut, the desperate yearning for something more, something… better.

 

He stared at the blinking ‘ON AIR’ light, its insistent pulse a maddening metronome counting down the seconds of his fading relevance. The studio, once his sanctuary, now felt like a gilded cage, its soundproof walls a testament to his isolation. He was broadcasting into the abyss, his words swallowed by the ether, his hopes dissolving into the static. The music, a mournful blues track that did little to lift the oppressive mood, faded out, leaving him once again in the suffocating silence. He could almost hear the whispers of the suits upstairs, their impatient sighs and damning pronouncements echoing in the cavernous space. "Johnson, you're losing them," they’d say, their voices dripping with disdain. "This show is costing us money. We need something new, something with teeth." Something with teeth. He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. He felt like he was being devoured, not by the industry, but by his own failures.

 

His gaze drifted to the stacks of LPs and reel-to-reel tapes, relics of a bygone era, now gathering dust, much like his own career. Each one represented hours of work, of passion, of a belief that he could connect with people, that he could offer them something meaningful. Now, they were just monuments to his own fading glory, silent witnesses to his slow, agonizing decline. The technology around him seemed to be aging, just as he was, the clunky consoles and flickering VU meters a stark contrast to the sleek, digital interfaces that were beginning to dominate the airwaves. He was a relic, a dinosaur in a rapidly evolving landscape, and the fear of extinction was a cold, hard knot in his stomach.

 

He picked up a crumpled piece of paper from the desk, a hastily scribbled note from the station manager. It was a thinly veiled ultimatum, a final warning couched in corporate jargon. "Ratings are unacceptable, Johnson. We need to see a significant improvement by the end of the month, or… well, you know." He knew. He knew exactly what ‘or’ meant. It meant the end of the line, the final curtain call for Larry Johnson, late-night radio host. It meant returning to the anonymity he had so desperately tried to escape, the suffocating sameness of a life he had always struggled to outrun.

 

He crushed the note in his fist, the paper rustling like dry leaves. He could feel the desperation building, a primal urge to lash out, to shatter the oppressive calm of the studio. But there was nowhere to direct that energy, no outlet for the rage that simmered just beneath the surface. He was trapped, not just by his career, but by his own limitations, his own perceived inadequacies. He was a man adrift in a sea of static, his ship slowly sinking, and the only sound was the relentless, mocking whisper of the waves of despair.

 

He glanced at the clock on the wall, its hands creeping with agonizing slowness. Another hour. Another hour of wading through the quiet hours, another hour of broadcasting to the void. He longed for a spark, a moment of inspiration, anything to break the monotony, to reignite the dying embers of his passion. But the well was dry, the muse had long since departed, leaving him with only the echoes of his former self. He closed his eyes, picturing the faces of the listeners, the ghosts of those who had once tuned in, their hopes and dreams woven into the fabric of his broadcast. Where had they gone? Had they, too, found solace elsewhere, in a brighter, more relevant signal?

 

He took another long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling upwards like a phantom limb. The studio felt smaller now, the walls closing in, the silence pressing down on him. He was a prisoner of his own making, bound by the chains of his ambition and the fear of his own inadequacy. The ‘ON AIR’ light continued its relentless pulse, a beacon in the darkness, but for Larry, it was no longer a symbol of hope. It was a warning, a harbinger of the end, a constant reminder that his time was running out, and the silence was slowly, inexorably, winning. The air crackled with more than just static; it was alive with his personal despair, a symphony of fading dreams played out in the suffocating anonymity of a late-night radio show, a sonic landscape mirroring his own dwindling hopes as he grappled with the gnawing fear of obsolescence in an unforgiving industry. The weight of it all was almost unbearable, a suffocating blanket woven from regret and the ever-present specter of failure. He was a man on the precipice, his voice echoing in a void that refused to answer, a lonely broadcast into the heart of the 1980s night.

 

The static on the radio wasn't just a technical glitch; it was a manifestation of the chaos churning within Larry. Each crackle and hiss seemed to amplify the gnawing emptiness in his gut, a hollow ache that had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with a life teetering on the brink of collapse. His dwindling bank account was a constant, cold reminder of his precarious position. The numbers on the statements seemed to mock him, shrinking with an unnerving regularity, a visual representation of his own slow, agonizing demise in the cutthroat world of broadcasting. He’d long ago learned to subsist on lukewarm coffee and the occasional guilt-ridden purchase of day-old donuts from the bakery down the street, a small act of self-indulgence that felt like a betrayal of his dwindling resources. But even those meager comforts were becoming a luxury he could no longer afford. The looming bills – rent, utilities, the never-ending cycle of car payments on a vehicle that sputtered and coughed more than it ran – felt like an insurmountable mountain, each one a stone added to the suffocating weight on his chest.

And then there was Sarah. The gentle curve of her belly, a secret he held close to his heart, was a source of both profound joy and agonizing dread. He loved her,...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 7.10.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Essays / Feuilleton
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror ► Horror
• Themenwelt: Geisteswissenschaften ► Sprach- / Literaturwissenschaft ► Literaturwissenschaft
• Schlagworte: cosmic horror • good vs evil • Lovecraft • Murder • Prices • Soul • Voids
• ISBN-13: 979-8-232-66284-4 / 9798232662844