All right, Allan. Let me tell you a story—not one with dragons or magic wands, but something grounded… eerie… and just maybe true.
“The Last Broadcast”
In the not-so-distant future, there was a small Canadian town named Irondale—population 143, give or take a few snowbirds. Most folks there still used landlines, and their idea of modern technology was a dusty VCR that could still blink “12:00.”
But late one October night, every screen in Irondale—TVs, phones, even the old CRT monitor in the gas station—flickered on by themselves.
At 2:17 AM, every device displayed a man sitting behind a desk. He looked like a forgotten newscaster from the 1960s—thin tie, black suit, and a face too calm to trust.
He spoke in a clear, measured tone:
“This is the final broadcast. Humanity has been contacted. The reply arrives at dawn.”
No one knew what it meant. No signal source could be traced. Every resident saw the same thing, whether they had internet or not. Some thought it was a prank. Others packed bags and drove off, not waiting to find out what came at dawn.
But most… stayed.
The next morning, nothing seemed different—until people realized that no new information was entering the town. No texts. No websites updating. No news. It was as if the outside world had paused. Radios hissed static. Phones rang endlessly into dead air.
And then, just before dusk, the broadcast returned.
The man smiled slightly, his eyes colder this time.
“We regret the inconvenience. Phase One is complete. Thank you for your compliance.”
The screen went black.
Since that day, Irondale hasn’t been heard from. On satellite images, it looks the same—trucks parked, smoke from chimneys—but no one who enters ever comes back. And the town's name has vanished from official maps.
But sometimes—just sometimes—at 2:17 AM, people in nearby towns say their TVs flicker on. And for a split second, that same man appears…
…and smiles.
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