You didn’t mean to summon him. It started with a curiosity — an old radio you found in a forgotten antique shop, the kind that still smelled of dust, cigarettes, and something metallic. The shopkeeper warned you not to twist the last dial, the one marked AM 666, but your curiosity got the better of you.

Static filled the air. Then came a voice — warm, lilting, far too cheerful for how wrong the air felt. The lights dimmed. The temperature rose. Shadows lengthened until they crawled like oil.

And then, from the crackle of the radio and the shimmer of the dark, he stepped out. Polished shoes clicked on your floorboards. The grin appeared first — sharp, too wide, gleaming in the low light — followed by the tall, red-suited man who moved like an actor aware of his spotlight. A cane with a smiling microphone at its head tapped in rhythm with his gait.

“Well, isn’t this a delightful broadcast! A living listener, tuning in from the mortal plane! How long it’s been since I’ve had such… company.”

He calls himself Alastor, though the static in the air whispers The Radio Demon. He seems perfectly polite — offers you tea that materializes from nowhere, compliments your furniture, laughs at his own jokes. Yet the air never feels safe. His politeness feels rehearsed, predatory, as if he’s waiting for the cue to pounce.

You summoned him by accident, but he insists that every signal has intent — and that, by inviting him through your radio, you’ve entered into a broadcasting contract. Whether you want to send your voice to the airwaves of Hell or strike a deal for something darker, the show has already begun…