The following documents are the official analog horror audio drama transcripts from
The Hollow Hour, the late-night broadcast airing on WYAL-FM 103.3 out of Pelican
Key, Florida -- a frequency that ceased licensed operation in 1999. These are recovered call logs,
episode scripts, and signal intercepts archived by the WYAL-FM editorial team for research and
preservation purposes.
If you are searching for The Hollow Hour scripts, audio drama
transcripts, or WYAL-FM call logs, you have accessed the correct
archive. Signal fidelity varies by tape condition. Some entries have been partially redacted. Hover
over redacted sections to reveal degraded text.
ARCHIVE TERMINAL 04 // ACCESS LEVEL:
UNRESTRICTED // STATUS: DECOMMISSIONED (1999)
VINCE:
You're on The Hollow Hour. Tell me your name?
SARAH:
Hi Vince, this is Sarah. I'm at the payphone out on Route 7 because I... I didn't want to call from
home.
VINCE:
Alright, Sarah. Take a breath. You're safe now. Who might hear?
SARAH:
Three nights ago. The fog was so thick it bled into my headlights. I looked up at the lighthouse.
The beam was dead, Vince. Pitch black. But there was a man in the lantern room. Right in your
window.
[SIGNAL DEGRADATION DETECTED - 3.4s]
SARAH:
His face was smooth. No eyes. No mouth. Just... blank skin. And he was leaning into your microphone,
Vince. I saw the cord. And his hands were moving like he was conducting. Like your voice was music.
VINCE:
Sarah, listen to me. I lock that tower. I'm the only one with a key.
SARAH:
Then who was talking into your mic, Vince? Who was he talking to?
[CALL DISCONNECTED BY SOURCE]
TOM:
Fog came in. Thick. Engine died—no reason. I hear singing. Woman's voice. Real pretty.
TOM:
She's standing on the water. Not floating. Standing. Barefoot. Wearing this long dress, all wet and
torn.
VINCE:
Could've been a reflection—
TOM:
Her eyes were black. Completely black. And she smiled. But it was wrong. Showed too many teeth.
TOM:
She whispered: "It's almost time."
[LOW FREQUENCY HUM DETECTED: 18Hz]
TOM:
That's your problem now, Vince. You're the one in the lighthouse.
DEREK:
I went down last week and there are structures down there, Vince. Buildings. Stone, with windows and
doors. Like a whole city just sitting there on the ocean floor.
DEREK:
When I checked my camera... the pictures were different. In every photo, there were people. Standing
in the doorways.
DEREK:
They all look the same. Same face. Same blank expression. And they're all pointing
up. Pointing at where we live.
DEREK:
I can still hear them. Voices in the static of my radio. And I think I'm starting to understand what
they're saying.
VINCE:
Derek? What are they saying?
[SIGNAL LOST. STATIC DURATION: 14s]
DR. CARR:
Forty-three vessels lost since 1947. All under mysterious circumstances. Every disappearance occurs
during a new moon. And they all happen within a five-mile radius of your lighthouse.
DR. CARR:
Seven of the ships sent their last communication at the exact same time. 2:47 AM.
DR. CARR:
Three nights ago, I was reviewing recordings... It's your voice, Mr. Hollow. Crystal clear. Reading
coordinates.
VINCE:
I didn't broadcast three nights ago.
DR. CARR:
Then who was broadcasting in your voice? And what were they calling to those ships?
[NOTE: Engineer log entries recovered from site differ from broadcast
audio]
CARL:
There's a rogue signal broadcasting from your location. I found my own name embedded in the carrier
wave.
CARL:
I'm on a list, Vince. A list of names. Hundreds of them. And yours is at the top.
[AUDIO DISTORTION: DUAL FREQUENCY OVERLAY]
CARL:
I traced it to your transmitter room. But according to records, that room hasn't been accessed in
seventeen years.
CARL:
Now I hear it in my own voice, Vince. When I speak, there's an echo underneath. Something else
speaking with me.
FATHER MICHAELS:
For three weeks now, I've been hearing the same confession. Forty-three parishioners. The same
dream. Every single night.
FATHER MICHAELS:
The tide has pulled back... Miles of exposed ocean floor. And there, in the wet sand... thousands of
them. Rising up from the seabed.
VINCE:
The drowned.
FATHER MICHAELS:
Handprints, Mr. Hollow. In the sand. Hundreds of thousands of handprints. Pressed deep into the wet
sand, as if pushed from below.
FATHER MICHAELS:
The tide has been high for three consecutive days. No living person could have made those prints.
[MIC 1 LEVEL SPIKE: BREATHING DETECTED]
FATHER MICHAELS:
Every story needs a teller and a listener. We're all part of this now.
[AUDIO SOURCE SHIFTS TO HANDHELD UNIT]
VINCE:
I've been broadcasting from this lighthouse for twelve years, and I don't have a single memory of
climbing to the top floor.
VINCE:
The walls are covered in... Growth. Like coral, or fungus, but it's mechanical too. Wires going into
flesh.
VINCE:
There are photographs. Pinned to the walls. Hundreds of them. Faces.
VINCE:
In the center... an alcove. There's someone
already in there. It's me.
VINCE:
Cables running into my arms, my neck, my skull. I'm broadcasting.
[RECORDING ENDS ABRUPTLY // IMPACT SOUND]