The Voice on The Emergency Broadcast Knew My Name
The emergency alert interrupted every screen in the state at exactly 1:17 AM.
Televisions.
Phones.
Tablets.
Even car radios.
Most people heard the same thing.
A loud tone.
A warning message.
A robotic voice instructing citizens to remain indoors until further notice.
Nobody knew what had happened.
Nobody knew what the emergency was.
The alert lasted thirty-seven seconds.
Then it ended.
By morning, government officials claimed it had been a technical malfunction.
An accidental activation.
Nothing more.
Most people accepted the explanation.
I didn’t.
Because I heard something nobody else did.
At the very end of the broadcast, after the official message finished, the voice said my name.
Clearly.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
“Daniel Harper.”
Then silence.
I replayed the recording dozens of times.
The name wasn’t there.
Only the warning message.
No matter how many times I listened, the extra words had vanished.
I convinced myself I’d imagined it.
Lack of sleep.
Stress.
A dream that had blended into reality.
Then it happened again.
Three nights later.
1:17 AM.
Every screen in my apartment lit up.
The same emergency tone.
The same robotic voice.
The same warning.
And at the end:
“Daniel Harper.”
This time I wasn’t alone.
My girlfriend heard it too.
The color drained from her face.
“What was that?”
I couldn’t answer.
By sunrise, the alert had disappeared from every official record.
State agencies denied issuing it.
News stations denied receiving it.
Nobody could explain where it came from.
That should have terrified me.
What terrified me more was what happened next.
The third broadcast included an address.
My address.
The fourth included my apartment number.
The fifth described the shirt I was wearing.
Every alert arrived at exactly 1:17 AM.
Every alert ended with information nobody should have known.
By then, I had contacted police.
Federal agencies.
Telecommunications companies.
Nobody found anything.
No trace of the broadcasts.
No source.
No transmission origin.
No evidence.
Except for recordings made by witnesses.
The recordings contained the official warning.
But never the final message.
Only those present during the broadcast heard it.
And only when I was nearby.
That’s when people started avoiding me.
Friends stopped answering calls.
My girlfriend moved out.
Coworkers whispered.
Everyone assumed I was somehow causing it.
Maybe I started believing it too.
Then the sixth alert arrived.
For the first time, it contained a date.
A future date.
Exactly two weeks away.
No explanation.
Just a date.
And my name.
The internet became obsessed.
Forums exploded with theories.
Government experiments.
Artificial intelligence.
Psychological warfare.
Paranormal phenomena.
Nobody knew.
Everyone guessed.
The date approached.
The broadcasts continued.
Each one revealing something new.
My childhood address.
My elementary school.
The name of my first dog.
Private details I’d never shared online.
Then the final alert arrived.
The night before the date.
At exactly 1:17 AM.
The emergency tone sounded.
The familiar robotic voice spoke.
Then came a message unlike any before.
“Evacuation successful.”
I froze.
The voice continued.
“One remaining.”
Silence.
Then:
“Daniel Harper.”
The screens went black.
The next morning, the date arrived.
Nothing happened.
No disaster.
No attack.
No emergency.
By evening, I started believing the nightmare was finally over.
At 11:42 PM, my doorbell rang.
I opened the door.
Nobody was there.
Just a package.
Inside was an old portable television.
The kind people owned decades ago.
No brand name.
No markings.
Only a note.
Three words.
PLAY CHANNEL 13
Against every instinct, I plugged it in.
The screen flickered.
Static filled the room.
Then an image appeared.
A live camera feed.
My apartment building.
Viewed from above.
I stared in confusion.
Then I noticed something.
The timestamp on the screen wasn’t current.
It was tomorrow’s date.
The camera showed people leaving the building.
Cars pulling away.
The street gradually emptying.
Hour by hour.
Until nobody remained.
Except one person.
Standing alone outside the entrance.
Looking directly into the camera.
Me.
Then the voice returned.
Not robotic this time.
Human.
Calm.
Almost sympathetic.
And it spoke the last words I ever wanted to hear.
“Now you know why the broadcasts were looking for you.”