The Signal in the Static

The Signal in the Static

The rain had been falling for three days straight, a relentless grey curtain that turned the cobblestoned alleys of the old neighborhood Nachlaot in Jerusalem into rivers of mud. It hardly ever rains in Jerusalem.

Inside the cluttered basement of the old house, Aviva hunched over an ancient radio, its dials glowing faintly in the dim light of a single bulb. She twisted the knob, her fingers trembling with a mix of exhaustion and hope. Static hissed through the speakers, a white noise that had become her companion over the past week. She was searching for something, anything that could explain the voice she’d heard the night her brother disappeared.

Moshe had always been the reckless one, the dreamer who chased conspiracies and half-baked theories about secret signals hidden in the airwaves. At twenty-three, he was two years younger than Aviva, but he’d always acted like he knew more about the world. Last Tuesday, he’d burst into her apartment, eyes wild, clutching a notebook filled with scribbled frequencies and cryptic phrases like “The Tower speaks” and “They’re watching.” He’d begged her to listen to the radio with him, claiming he’d intercepted a message that wasn’t meant for human ears. She’d laughed it off, told him to get some sleep. The next morning, he was gone, his phone silent on the kitchen counter, its battery drained.

Now, Aviva sat in the basement of their childhood home, a small stone building built by Jewish immigrants in the 1870s during the Ottoman Empire, the only place she could think to look for answers. Moshe had spent hours down here as a teenager, tinkering with gadgets and talking about “breaking the code.” The radio she was using was one of his relics, a hulking thing with vacuum tubes and a cracked wooden case. She’d found it under a tarp, along with a note in his handwriting: “145.7 MHz. 23:59. Don’t tell anyone.”

The clock on the wall ticked toward 23:59. Aviva adjusted the dial to 145.7 MHz, her breath catching as the static shifted, almost like it was breathing. Then, faintly, a voice broke through. A low, guttural murmur that didn’t sound human. It spoke in bursts, words overlapping in a language she couldn’t place. She grabbed a pencil and scratched down what she could make out: “Cycle… ends… tower… awake…” The voice grew louder, insistent, until it cut off abruptly at the stroke of midnight. Silence filled the basement, heavy and unnatural.

Aviva’s heart pounded. She didn’t know what she’d expected. Maybe Moshe’s voice, calling out for help. But this was something else. Something that made her skin crawl. She was about to turn off the radio when a new sound emerged: a rhythmic tapping, faint but deliberate, like Morse code. She scribbled it down, her hands shaking. After a minute, it stopped. She stared at the dots and dashes, her army training as a Human Intelligence operator flickering back to life. She translated it painstakingly: A-V-I-V-A. Her name. Someone or something knew she was listening.

Tower. Tower. There was only one tower that came to her mind: the Tower of David which was built by the Byzantine Christians in the 5th century CE as a lookout on the fortifications of the Citadel, the site where archeological finds have shown the palace of King David was built.

The next morning, Aviva walked to the tower, located near the Jaffa Gate entrance to Jerusalem’s walled Old City, less than a kilometer away. The tower loomed high like a skeletal giant against the storm clouds. The deciphered message burning a hole in her pocket. Moshe had been obsessed with the Tower of David, claiming it wasn’t just a relic from the short wave broadcasting days but something more. A conduit. A beacon. She’d always dismissed it as another of his wild ideas, but now she wasn’t so sure.

She walked around the base of the tower and climbed on the ramparts of the walled city. She noticed that where the tower sat against the ramparts, the wall was overgrown with the most indomitable weed in Jerusalem, the Judean pillory which grows at the base and in the cracks of the walls of traditional stone houses and constructions that are built with limestone, as are the walls of Jerusalem. She found a steel door, hidden behind a thick layer of pillory overgrowth. Pushing it aside, the door was unlocked, swinging open with a creak. Aviva hesitated, then stepped inside. The air felt charged, like the prelude to a lightning strike. As she moved further inside, she noticed something odd: a hatch in the ground, half-hidden by more overgrown weeds. It was metal, rusted but sturdy, with a padlock that hung loose, as if someone had left it open on purpose.

She knelt and pulled the hatch up, revealing a ladder descending into darkness. A cold draft wafted up, carrying the smell of damp stone and something metallic. Aviva’s rational mind screamed at her to turn back, to call the police, but the thought of Moshe down there, trapped, waiting, pushed her forward. She grabbed the flashlight she had taken just in case and started climbing down.

The ladder ended in a narrow tunnel, its walls lined with more pillory and streaked with mold. The beam of her flashlight danced across the floor, illuminating cables that snaked along the ground, leading deeper inside. She followed them, her footsteps echoing in the tight space. After what felt like an eternity, the tunnel opened into a chamber, a circular room with a low ceiling, dominated by a strange machine. It was a tangle of wires and blinking lights, connected to a console that hummed with a low, steady pulse. In the center of the room stood a chair, and strapped to it was Moshe.

“Moshe!” Aviva rushed forward, her voice cracking. He was slumped over, his wrists bound with leather straps, his face pale but alive. His eyes fluttered open at the sound of her voice, and he managed a weak smile.

“Aviva… you heard it,” he rasped. “I knew you’d come.”

She fumbled with the straps, tears stinging her eyes. “What is this place? What happened to you?”

“They took me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “After I found the signal. It’s not just noise, Aviva. It’s them. They’ve been here all along.”

“Who?” she demanded, freeing his left arm. “Who did this?”

Before he could answer, the machine behind them whirred to life, its lights flashing red, blue and green. A voice boomed from hidden speakers, the same guttural tone she’d heard on the radio. “Intruder detected. Cycle must complete.”

Moshe grabbed her arm, his grip surprisingly strong. “We must shut it down. The console. There’s a key. Find it!”

Aviva spun around, her flashlight sweeping the room. On the console, amid the blinking lights, she spotted a small metal key, slotted into a panel. She yanked it free and turned back to Moshe. “What do I do with it?”

“There’s a lock. Under the chair. Hurry!”

She dropped to her knees, searching frantically. Sure enough, beneath the chair was a small, recessed lock, barely visible in the shadows. She jammed the key in and twisted it. The machine let out a piercing screech, its lights flickering wildly before going dark. The voice from the speakers fell silent.

Moshe slumped back, breathing hard. “You did it. It’s over.”

Aviva helped him to his feet, supporting his weight as they stumbled toward the tunnel. “What was that thing? What did it want?”

“It’s old,” he said, his voice steadier now. “Older than us. It’s been broadcasting for centuries, waking up every few decades to… to feed, I think. I got too close, and it pulled me in.”

She didn’t press him further. Not yet. They climbed the ladder, emerging into the rain-soaked air just as the first hints of dawn touched the horizon. The tower loomed behind them. Aviva helped Moshe struggle home, her mind racing with questions she wasn’t sure she wanted answered.

Soaking wet, they made it back to the house. Moshe sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, sipping strong, sweet Bedouin coffee Aviva had forced into his hands. He looked gaunt, shadows under his eyes, but alive. She sat across from him, the radio on the table between them like a silent witness.

“You should’ve told me, “ she said finally. “I could’ve helped you.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t want you involved. It’s dangerous, Aviva. You don’t know what it’s capable of.”

“I do now,” she snapped. “And I’m not letting you chase this alone again. Whatever ‘they’ are, we figure it out together.”

He nodded, a flicker of relief in his eyes. “Okay. Together.”

The next few days were quiet. Moshe recovered slowly, sleeping most of the time while Aviva pored over his notebooks, trying to piece together the puzzle. The signal, the tower, the machine. It all pointed to something ancient, something that didn’t belong in their world. She searched online, cross-referencing Moshe’s notes with obscure forums and conspiracy threads. Most of it was noise, but one post on X caught her eye: a grainy photo of the Tower of David, captioned, “Heard it again last night. It knows my name.” The user hadn’t posted since.

On the fourth night, Aviva woke to the sound of static. It was coming from the basement. She crept downstairs, her heart sinking as she saw the radio on, its dials glowing. Moshe stood beside it, his back to her, twisting the knob.

“Moshe?” she whispered.

He didn’t turn. “It’s not over,” he said, his voice flat. “I turned it off, but it’s still here. It’s in me.”

She stepped closer, dread pooling in her stomach. “What are you talking about?”

He faced her then, and she froze. His eyes were wrong, too wide, too dark, like something else was looking through them. “The cycle didn’t end. It just changed. It needs a new voice.”

The radio crackled, and that guttural tone filled the room again, speaking her name: “Aviva… Aviva…”

She stumbled back, her hand reaching for the door. “Moshe, fight it! Whatever it is, you’re stronger!”

He took a step toward her, his movements jerky, unnatural. “I tried. It’s too late for me. But you, you can still run.”

“No!” she shouted, tears streaming down her face. “I’m not leaving you!”

The radio screeched, and Moshe lunged, his hands closing around her arms. She fought, kicking and twisting, but his grip was iron. He dragged her toward the radio, his voice a hollow echo. “It wants you now. It needs you.”

In a surge of panic, Aviva grabbed the radio’s cord and yanked it from the wall. The static cut off, and Moshe froze, his eyes flickering back to normal for a split second. “Aviva… I’m sorry,” he gasped, before collapsing.

She caught him, sobbing as she held him on the cold basement floor. The room was silent, the air heavy with the weight of what had just happened. She didn’t know if it was truly over, if the thing in the tower had let him go, or if it was waiting, biding its time. All she knew was that she couldn’t lose him again.

As his breathing steadied, she whispered, “We’ll fix this. I promise.”

He looked up at her, his eyes his own again, and murmured, “I didn’t mean that.”