The mist came from the moors as quietly as if someone had poured milk all over the hill. Lena adjusted her hood and paused for a moment by the rusty sign "Private area. No trespassing." The letters were frayed, as if someone had scraped them with a fingernail out of boredom or fear. - 'Take a picture, it'll be the perfect lead,' whispered Iwo, switching on his headlamp so that the strip of light didn't reach too far. - "Urban legends don't lie, the radio station on the Heath is playing again after dark." Sound? - Sounds like a prize in a school competition," Lena replied and smiled briefly. Her right hand clenched on the leather strap of a small shortwave receiver; in her left she held a phone with the recording running. She was already composing paragraphs in her head, although her stomach clenched a little at the thought of what the elders were saying about this hill: that once upon a time, before lightning struck the antenna, someone here had heard numbers that seemingly arranged themselves into something that refused to fit any theory. Through a hole in the grid they entered the grounds. The grass was wet with mist and grew thicker here, as if no one had dared to cut it for years. At the top of the hill stood a broadcasting tower, tall, thin, held up by tangled metal cables. Below it, a low concrete building with windows boarded up with plywood and a door that remembered better times. There was a distant, stuttering rain over the hill, though it could not yet be smelt; the air was metallic, drenched with moisture and the smell of old electrics. - 23:05 - muttered Iwo, glancing at his watch. - 'We've got time. They said it starts at seventeen past. Exactly. Atomic clock or something. Lena didn't reply. She unfolded the telescopic antenna, put the headphones to one ear, left the other uncovered. She liked to hear the world and the noise of the waves at the same time; it taught anticipation. She turned the dial - a hum, a crackle, somewhere someone was broadcasting monotonous weather forecasts, some foreign voices exchanged pretend courtesy codes. Tongues mingled in the metallic aftertaste of ether. Next to him, like a shadow, stood Iwo, the light of his headlamp drawing irregular streaks on the concrete. - Iwo, can you hear? - She asked after a while, although nothing concrete had yet come through the earpiece. She had the impression that something was swimming beneath the surface of the noise, like a fish in shallow water. - Just the way you don't breathe,' he replied, clearly trying to make a joke. - 'Are those rumours about someone flying around here with a drone at night your sources too? - Not rumours, just reports,' she muttered. - And the drone is the most reasonable explanation. Then there's the other one. - Which you don't want to call before midnight,' he finished for her, theatrically rolling his eyes. She leaned her back against the concrete wall of the building. She thought of the editorial room at the high school - the chaos of the pages, the stained mug of tea and the sound of the stapler rhythmically finishing the last pages of the paper. She thought of how, if they could record it, she might finally show that her writing wasn't just a slick combination of quotes. that she could latch onto something real. The fog thickened like a veil. Somewhere below, the lights of a town flashed, golden specks under the eyelids of the hills. Someone rode a bike along the path beneath the woods - brakes creaked, a basket rattled, the sound spilled and died away. Here, on the mountain, time stood still for a moment. At 23:14 something sizzled from the tower, as if a wire was rubbing against metal. The receiver trembled in Lena's hands, as if a shudder had passed through it. She turned the knob gently, short movements, half a millimetre. The noise shifted to a flat, pulsing tone. Then it disappeared. - Another minute,' said Iwo. - 'It's that moment now when I ask, are you sure I can't hear anything? Lena raised a slow ear, feeling her breathing accelerate at will. 11:17 p.m. The red, long-dead light at the top of the tower flashed as if it had taken air. The receiver beeped thinly and suddenly a voice emerged among the noise. It didn't sound like a radio. It had that inhuman purity that no microphone gives, and at the same time there was something rough about it, like a recording from the underworld. The words came slowly, with a strange diction, like someone learning to speak again. - Seven... three... zero... nine... repeat... seven... three... zero... nine... - There was a swish in the pause, barely audible, as if someone was dragging their hand over the cutlery. - Attention. Iwo looked at Lena. She nodded, focused. She moved the knob again, as if it might change anything. Her heart thudded in her temples. The phone purred quietly, recording. - It could be coordinates,' she whispered. - Or dates. Or... - She broke off. The voice repeated: - Attention. Then, as if something had shifted, as if someone on the other side had decided that enough digits had been enough, two syllables fell, which, after all, she had known since she was born, and which, at that moment, sounded foreign and wrong. - Leno. The air fell from her lungs. She froze so violently that Iwo managed to raise his hand to touch her, and pulled it back because he wasn't sure if it was appropriate. - Did you hear? - She choked out through a clenched throat. - 'Yes,' he said, surprisingly calm. - 'Someone is trolling us. He knows your name. Or a coincidence. There are plenty of Len in Poland. Don't make big eyes. The receiver hummed. Lena turned slightly to keep her gaze on the building, on the door whose locks were being eaten away by rust. Fog had eaten away the path, the bushes, even the fence had become a soft line. Iwa's headlamp light was shorter now, as if the night had eaten the batteries. The voice rang out again, faster this time, as if someone had lost patience for a moment. - 'Come in,' it said. - Leno, come in. - It's not funny - whispered Iwo, but they were already both looking at the door. Just then something clicked there. A short sound of metal, like a latch, like an old light switch. Not movement, not wind. A decision. - Maybe... - began Lena, surprised at how her words were breaking. - Maybe someone is inside. Technicians. The fuses. Maybe it's coming back to life and broadcasting echoes from old recordings. After all, no... - She had heard herself how silly it sounded, but seventeen years of experience had taught her that reason sometimes works like a torch. You may not see everything, but at least you have a cone of light. They walked up to the door. Someone had once tied a chain around it, but the chain now lay on the ground, wet and cold, like a snake that someone had abandoned in a hurry. Iwo pressed his hand against the metal. It was icy cold. Lena counted to three in her mind and pressed the handle. The door gave way without resistance, opening into a darkness that smelled of dust, ozone and something sweet, a little like milk spilled on a warm plate. They stepped inside. The headlamp light cut the gloom with a stripe that ate away at the corners. The corridor was narrow, the walls covered with numbers and arrows faded by time. On the left - a door to a technical room, on the right - something that resembled a small storeroom with blue boxes. At the end - a staircase upwards, metal and openwork, leading towards the heart of the tower. Each step echoed back a second later, as if someone had followed them half a step behind. - 'I don't like that echo,' muttered Iwo, and he scowled himself, hearing himself sound like someone who was afraid of his own shadow. - 'It's just the acoustics,' Lena replied automatically, though her skin tightened into tiny, cold drops. They passed a corkboard, yellowed chart papers and a map of the county with one fresh pin stuck straight into the top of the hill they were standing on. The pin was red, shining with newness. On the wall, someone had written "23:17" in chalk and drawn an eye-like oval around it. Underneath, in a different character, was added: "Don't be late". - Well, we're not late,' said Iwo in a half-hearted voice. - That's a plus. As they stood by the stairs, the radio in Lena's hand vibrated again. The voice was back, closer, as if it no longer spoke only through the waves, but also through the metal steps, through the walls and through their own bones. - 'Come in,' it repeated. - One ... after... the other. - Did you hear the variety? - Asked Lena quietly. - "Come in." Now he's talking to both of us. - Let's not grind,' muttered Iwo, but his cheekbones were pale. They set off. Each step was a cold slap on the sole. The staircase was a spiral to remind them that there is no dizziness without a cause. On the first floor, they passed a window boarded up with plywood; somewhere behind it, a curtain of fog ruffled the wind. On the second - a row of old cupboards, one of which, closest to them, was ajar. Inside hung a jacket. Not one belonging to this place - not of yesteryear, but contemporary, black, with a reflective stripe on the sleeve. Someone had been here. Or is. - Hello? - cried Lena, surprising herself. - 'Hello, if you're here, we don't want any trouble. We just want to... record. The echo gave her back 'just.... record." In response there was another sound - quiet, mechanical, like a tape being moved. Then a buzz - short, glassy, as if a jar had broken in the distance. Third floor. A door marked with a faded "Transmitter" sign. A doorknob with handprints, fresh, damp as air; Iwo looked at them and raised an eyebrow. - 'I'm beginning to get the feeling that someone invited us here,' he said. - 'We've already come,' Lena replied, feeling that the words startled her because they sounded like someone else's. - We are not going to escape now. A quiet clatter came from inside them - rhythmic, like a pendulum. The radio beeped again, and the voice seemed to smile. If voices can smile. - Don't turn around,' he whispered. - Leno. Iwo, who was walking half a step behind her, froze. The corridor became a degree cooler. Lena felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She did not turn around. Instead, she put her hand on the door handle. - Who is this? - She asked, directing the question into the gap between the door and the doorframe. - Who are you? Murmur. For a split second the silence thickened so that she could hear it. And then, from the other side, something vibrated: first the lock, which rattled like a snare drum, then the chain, which rattled the way only things kept in the same place for years rattle. And - impossibly, but nevertheless - a deafening, low, emphatic "click", as if from inside someone had slowly turned the key. The door vibrated, swinging open two fingers wide. A chill gushed from inside, where there was both dampness and a hint of something that smelled like decomposed rain. The radio wailed thinly, then fell silent, as if someone had put a finger to its lips. At the same moment, somewhere below, on the ground floor, something heavy slammed. The echo went up in a wave, carrying with it a single, unfamiliar sound of a footstep that belonged to neither Lena nor Iwa. Someone was between them and the exit. Or was just entering. - Lena... - said a voice, no longer from the radio, no longer from the metal, but from the thin crack between the doors. - Finally. Lena tightened her fingers on the doorknob so hard that her white skin turned even paler. Iwo raised the torch. The light trembled, reflecting in the metal rants like a screeching echo. From inside the room, something moved just off the floor, casting a shadow that did not match the direction of their lamp. The door from the transmitter gave way another centimetre.