The transmitter tower at Lough Derg hums with
static, its antenna rusted but still functional.
The air smells of damp earth and old copper. She
stands on the platform, boots scuffing the metal
grating, eyes fixed on the dial. The frequency
is wrong—too low, too high, but the signal
pulses. She records it on a handheld recorder,
the device flickering with a strange blue glow.
A storm brews over the lake. The wind carries
the scent of peat smoke and something metallic.
She watches the horizon, where the sky splits
into jagged lines of light. The tower’s power
surges, and for a moment, the world shudders.
Time folds. The ground beneath her shifts, and
she steps forward into a memory not her own.
She walks through a field of standing stones,
their surfaces etched with symbols no one has
seen in centuries. A man in a 1920s suit kneels,
carving a new symbol into the stone. He looks up,
sees her, and speaks in a language that hums in
her bones. The words are not spoken but felt.
The storm returns, and she falls back into the
present, the recorder clutched to her chest.
The signal repeats every seven days, always
during a storm. She begins to map the pattern,
crossreferencing old maps and oral histories.
The tower was built in 1918, but the symbols
predate the war. The government had sealed the
site after a series of unexplained
disappearances. She finds a journal hidden in
the base of the tower, its pages brittle, ink
faded. It describes a ritual to open a gateway,
using radio waves to bridge past and present.
The storm comes again. She climbs the tower, the
wind tearing at her coat. The recorder vibrates
in her hand. She tunes to the frequency, and the
air crackles. The symbols on the stones glow,
and the ground ripples like water. A figure
materializes—a woman in a 1920s dress, her face
obscured. She speaks, her voice layered with
echoes. The message is simple: They took the
songs. They took the names.
The storm ends. The woman vanishes. The tower
falls silent. She leaves the recorder behind,
the final transmission playing in her head. The
songs are gone. The names are gone. But the
heritage lives, buried in the static.
The next storm will come. She will be ready.
