Red Jacket
It started with a radio signal no one else could hear.
Every night at exactly 1:13 a.m., if I tuned 97.3 FM just right, the voice would break through. Smooth. Steady. Like someone reading bedtime stories for insomniacs.
Tonight’s update: the next one will be found by the river.
Two nights later, they pulled Jason Cartwright’s body from the river.
The police called it a freak accident. Jason had been drinking. But I’d heard the warning before it happened. And when I told them? They looked at me like I’d just confessed to believing in ghosts.
I kept listening.
The broadcasts came every few nights. Always 1:13 a.m. Always naming someone and a location.
He won’t see the train coming.
The next day, Paul Dixon was hit by a train.
She’ll fall before she screams.
3 nights later, Marla Kent was found at the bottom of the quarry.
I thought I was slowly going insane. And then:
She’ll be wearing the red jacket.
Three days later, my sister Alice’s bike turned up by the river. She left home wearing a red jacket, but it was gone. So was she
I started recording the broadcasts on my phone. That’s when I noticed them, tiny, strange clicks buried under the voice. I ran them through a sound-editing app. They weren’t random. They were Morse code.
The messages were always coordinated.
Each set pointed to a public place in town: the train station, the school bleachers, the water tower.
And in each place, I found something small, almost insignificant: a button, a playing card, a plastic charm. Each had a number scratched into it.
I needed to find out where my sister was.
I made a list of people who might have taken her.
Mr. Clarke – My history teacher and head of “Media Club.” Knows more about broadcast equipment than anyone.
Ellen Graves – Works at the library; the last person seen speaking to Jason before his death.
Trevor Shaw – Local conspiracy nut with a ham radio in his basement.
Me? – If you believe the rumours in school, I “predict” deaths now. People cross the hall to avoid
The coordinates eventually formed a circle on a map, and at the centre was the abandoned Birch Street Community Radio Station.
Boarded-up windows. Rusted antenna. Supposedly shut down in 2009.
One night, I broke in with bolt cutters.
The air inside was stale, humming faintly. In the main studio, there was a desk, a microphone, and a dusty mixing board. A laptop sat open, its screen glowing.
There was a playlist of audio files. Dozens of them, each labelled with a date, name, and location.
Some were dated months ago.
Some… were scheduled for the future.
Tomorrow’s file had my name on it. “She’ll be wearing headphones. She’ll think she’s safe.”
I spun around — and there was Mr. Clarke in the doorway, hands in his coat pockets.
“You’re clever,” he said. “Clever enough to find the signal. That’s why I picked you.”
He explained it like it was a game — the broadcasts, the codes, the trinkets. He’d been testing me, seeing if I could keep up.
“But why the deaths?” I demanded.
“Not all of them were me,” he said. “Some were… inevitable. People make mistakes. I just broadcast the truth before it happens. And you…” He smiled. “You’ll be my successor.”
He hit record. The red light glowed.
“Tonight’s update is our final one,” he said into the mic. “Our girl is ready to take over.”
I didn’t run. I smiled back at him. Because what he didn’t know was that I’d been recording him.
When the police came, they found Clarke’s fingerprints all over the equipment. The files. The trinkets. The codes. Case closed.
Only… here’s the thing.
When I got home, my radio switched on by itself. 1:13 a.m.
And I heard my voice.
“Tonight’s update: He thought he was setting me up. But I set him up first.”
The file wasn’t on my phone. I hadn’t recorded it.
And in the background, under my voice, the Morse code clicked again.
Coordinates.
When I traced them, they pointed to my own house. My closet
I went to check, my phone shaking in my hand. In the back of my closet, Buried under a box of winter clothes was Alice’s red jacket.
It smelled faintly of river water.
I don’t remember putting it there.
I don’t remember touching it since the night she disappeared.
But lately… I’ve been dreaming of water.
Cold, dark water.
And in the dreams, I’m not trying to save her.
I’m pushing her under.