The Midnight Station

 

Alex Mercer took the night-security job at the Hartmere cannery because the pay was decent and the building was mostly empty, and empty buildings don't ask questions. His shift ran from ten at night to six in the morning. His duties: walk the floors every two hours, check the locks, and stay awake. The cannery had closed in 1987. The company kept a guard because of the insurance.

The break room on the ground floor had a valve radio — one of the old wooden ones, with a dial like a ship's wheel. Alex found it under a dust sheet on his third night. He plugged it in on a whim. It crackled, warmed up, and — to his surprise — worked.

He tuned it idly during the long hours. Static, a shipping forecast, a late-night phone-in show. Normal things. Then, on the Friday night, at exactly 3:33 a.m., the dial seemed to move by itself.

The static cleared. A piano played three slow notes. And a woman's voice, calm and precise, said: "This is the midnight station, broadcasting for the vessels lost off Hartmere Point. Tonight we remember the trawler Evening Star, lost with all hands, November 1962."

Alex frowned. He'd never heard of the station. The voice continued reading names — slow, like a roll call. Fishermen's names. Then she said: "And a passenger, booked but never boarded: Thomas Mercer."

Alex's hand froze on the dial. Mercer was his surname. Thomas Mercer had been his grandfather — a fisherman who had died before Alex was born. He told himself it was coincidence. These coastal towns, the same names repeated for generations.

He unplugged the radio and finished his shift with the lights on.

The next night, he didn't plug it in. At 3:33 a.m., it switched on by itself.

The piano. Three notes. The woman's voice: "This is the midnight station, broadcasting for the vessels lost off Hartmere Point." A pause — longer this time. "We have a new passenger. Booked, and expected. Alex Mercer."

Alex stood up so fast his chair hit the wall. The radio's dial glowed faintly, though the plug lay on the floor, disconnected. The voice continued, gentle as a lullaby: "The tide is coming in, Alex. The boat is waiting. We saved you a seat."

He ran. He ran the length of the cannery floor, through the loading bay, out into the car park, and he didn't stop until he reached his car. He drove home with the heater on full and every light in his flat burning until morning.

On Monday, Alex quit the job. He told the agency he'd found something better. He never went back to the Hartmere cannery.

He still wakes at 3:33 every night — and somewhere in the dark, a piano plays three slow notes, waiting for his answer.