Bearridge

Twenty-six years old, and still no damn promotion. Seven years of smiling into this mic like it’s my best friend, pretending I’m thrilled to be the cohost and not just the afterthought. I could feel the frustration crawling up my spine every time I thought about it—like a splinter under the skin that won’t work its way out.

The studio hummed with that low, electrical buzz you don’t notice until the music stops. The last track faded, and I caught my own reflection in the black glass of the booth window—eyes tired, hair flat from the headset, lips pressed into a line that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Alright, guys! It’s been agreatday in the studio. I’m Corey, and I love you. Goodnight!” Corey’s voice bounced through the mic with practiced cheer, like a guy grinning too hard at a party he doesn’t want to be at.

I slapped the ‘ON’ button, leaning in. “I’m Halley, and you guysnever fail to make our day amazing! Mwah! Talk to you tomorrow!”

The OFF AIR sign clicked on with a metallic snap, the sudden silence almost heavy. We both exhaled like we’d been holding our breath for the entire segment. A quick high-five, fingers smacking.

“Terror Tuesday tomorrow,” I muttered, trying to sound casual, but my stomach always knotted when I thought about it.

Corey leaned back in his chair, twirling a pen between his fingers. “Yeah. Some of those listener stories... bone-chilling stuff. I don’t even know if people make this shit up or if...” His voice trailed off, and his eyes flicked toward the darkened sound booth window.

The thing about Bearridge is, it’s not a town thatlets goof its ghosts. Built on land stripped from Native tribes, this place feels like the dirt itself remembers every sin that’s ever soaked into it. Maybe it’s my imagination, but when night falls, the streets get too quiet, like the whole town is holding its breath.

“Yeah... a bit on edge,” Corey said softly, almost like he was talking to himself.

At least we were on the same page. “Mhm,” I mumbled, reaching for my cold coffee. The bitter taste burned my tongue.

The thing is, Terror Tuesday wasn’t our idea. Someone at corporate pitched it—some genius who thought spicing up our ratings meant we should start reading creepy emails from locals who probably had too much time and too much bourbon. Maybe they were right. The ratings were crawling upward. But ever since that first Tuesday, the station felt... different. The kind of different you feel in your teeth, like the shift in air pressure before a storm hits.

Bearridge is small enough that everyone knows everyone—or at least knows who’s sleeping with who. Most things are in walking distance, but I live out on the outskirts. Not far, but just far enough to feel like the ride home cuts me off from the rest of the world. I never minded the bike ride, though. It’s quiet.

Tonight, the town felt tucked in early. Streetlights hummed their weak orange glow, and the roads were empty—like a stage after the actors have left. My tires crunched over scattered gravel, the cold metal chain of my bike clicking like teeth. The smell of damp leaves mixed with the faint tang of rain still lingering on the pavement.

The trees along the road swayed gently, whispering to each other in the dark. Every now and then, a gust would rattle the branches just enough to sound like footsteps trailing behind me. The crickets chirped, loud and busy, but something about it felt... organized, like they were all in on some secret rhythm I wasn’t invited to.

I tilted my head back as I pedaled, letting the moonlight wash over me. The moon hung low and heavy tonight, swollen and pale, like it was pressing down on the town. There was something soothing about it all, though. The stillness, the cool air. It felt like the world had paused for just a second.

Somewhere, though, in the back of my mind, I couldn’t shake the thought of the emails we’d read earlier. The one about the shadow on Birch Lane—how it supposedly followed a guy home and tapped on his bedroom window all night. I hated how these stories stuck with me, even when I told myself they were just people spinning tales to get attention.

I rode on, my breath puffing small clouds in the cold night air. A house I passed every night—the red one with the peeling paint and the tilted mailbox—had its porch light flickering again, like it was trying to warn me about something I couldn’t see. The street behind me stretched into a dark silence that felt almost deliberate, like Bearridge was tucking itself in and leaving me out there with whatever prowled the edges.

A few minutes later, my little cottage appeared at the end of the narrow road, crouched under the trees like it had secrets to keep. The front light stuttered once as I leaned my bike against the bottom step of the southern-style porch. Usually, I loved this porch—the chipped white paint, the old swing that squeaked in even the slightest breeze. Tonight, though, the wood gave a slow groan when I stepped on it, a sound that made me freeze for a heartbeat, as if the house itself was sighing in warning.

“Stupid Terror Tuesday,” I muttered under my breath, shaking my head as if I could throw off the nervous chill clinging to me. Maybe it was just the leftover stories rattling around in my head, the ones about people hearing things in their own homes late at night. Funny how something you laugh at on air can crawl under your skin once you’re alone in the dark.

Inside, the cottage folded around me like a quilt, warm and familiar, smelling faintly of cedarwood and the lavender candle I’d forgotten to blow out earlier. The floorboards creaked under my weight, but that was normal—at least, I told myself it was.

Bed. Bed. Bed.My mind chanted it like a drumbeat as I kicked off my shoes and trudged toward the bathroom.

The mirror caught me off guard. My reflection looked rougher than I’d expected. I undid my braids, letting my strawberry-blonde waves fall in messy, uneven strands that clung to static. My green eyes looked dull, ringed with exhaustion, like someone had drained the brightness out of them with a straw. Even the freckles scattered across my nose couldn’t distract from the fact that I looked like I’d been awake for days. For a second, I thought my reflection blinked just a little slower than I did.