The Balcony Transmission¶
What’s the point of cleaning a place that’s just going to get dirty again?
Renzo sweeps the same cracked marble floor every Tuesday. The theater’s been closed since March, but the dust clings like it’s waiting for an audience. He hums off-key show tunes to keep the silence from getting smug.
The intercom crackles.
“Renzo,” crackles Linh, the tech who refuses to leave her booth. “It’s happening again.”
He drops the broom. “Define ‘it.’”
“The feed. From the balcony.”
Renzo trudges up the center aisle. The balcony’s been sealed for years, ever since the fire codes got religion. He peers through the glass. Dark. Empty.
Linh meets him at the door, holding a handheld recorder. Her eyes are bloodshot, hair frizzed from static or sleeplessness. “Hear that?”
He does. A rhythmic tapping, like Morse but lazier. Not from the speakers—through them. Like the air itself is Morse.
“Could be the pipes,” he says.
“Pipes don’t spell ‘SOS’ in four languages.”
Why do people always assume the problem’s with the equipment?
Linh adjusts the dials on her recorder, though she knows it’s pointless. The transmissions started three weeks ago, always midday, always the balcony. No source, no pattern except the words: help us help us help us. Different accents each time. A child, then an old man, then someone speaking what might be Hungarian.
Renzo hovers, broom in hand. “You’re not thinking it’s… ghosts?”
“Ghosts don’t exist. But something’s using the building’s old wiring as a antenna.”
He snorts. “You ever consider turning it off?”
“It is off. All of it. City cut the power months ago.”
The tapping stops. Both freeze.
Then a voice, clear as a bell: “Where are you?”
Linh lunges for her recorder. Renzo steps back. “Who’s asking?”
Silence.
What’s the point of answers if nobody listens?
Renzo sweeps the balcony stairs. Linh paces, arguing with the air. “They’re trapped somewhere. The signal’s bouncing off satellite dishes, old phone lines—”
“They’re not here.”
“Neither are you.”
He pauses. She’s right. He’s been a janitor for six years, waiting for the theater to reopen. She’s been a ghost in the booth, maintaining a system that doesn’t exist.
The tapping resumes.
Linh: “We need to broadcast back.”
Renzo: “We need to let it go.”
They stare. The air hums—not a sound, a pressure.
Then the lights flicker. A single bulb in the ceiling, brief as a sigh.
Linh whispers, “It’s responding.”
Renzo picks up his broom. “It’s a raccoon chewing wires. Or termites. Or the universe being a jerk.”
She grabs his arm. “You’re scared.”
“I’m tired. There’s a difference.”
Why do people always think fear is the only interesting emotion?
Linh sets up her equipment anyway. Renzo sweeps the stage, pretending not to watch. She patches into the old soundboard, types frantically. The tapping grows faster, urgent.
He clears his throat. “If you’re going to send a message, make it good.”
She types: WHO ARE YOU?
The lights flare. A voice booms, distorted but alive: “We are the ones who stayed.”
Silence.
Then the system dies.
Linh stares at the dark screen. Renzo leans on his broom.
Days later, the city condemns the building.
Renzo gets a new job at a cineplex. Linh vanishes, leaving behind a note: They’re still talking.
He sometimes hears the tapping in the mall’s ventilation shafts. Ignores it.
Some questions don’t want answers. They just want to be asked.