Caddo’s Murmur: The Lost Signal

Dana and Clara hunt Beatles tapes at KZMB’s tower, battling “The Shadow’s” wrath.

Caddo’s Murmur — Tapes Unearthed: The Lost Signal

Dana was sprawled across the faded couch in the family home in Mena, Arkansas. The Ouachita hills’ twilight was seeping through their lace curtains that were strung across the window, and her laptop was humming with a faint echo of Lunara's secrets. Clara was sitting in their creaky chair with her phone glowing, and her boots scuffing the oak floor of the living room. The sisters were chasing a ghost signal of a lost Hot Springs radio station, KZMB, rumored to have aired unreleased Beatles tracks tied to Lunara. They were thinking the station was now stalked by “The Shadow,” and the threat was pricking their skin like AM radio static over the airwaves. Dana’s heart throbbed over the memory of her mama, whose silence cut her heart like a dull blade. “Clara, you got anything on KZMB?” Dana asked. “Reddit’s buzzin’ ‘bout a ‘70s station playin’ George’s lost tapes. That sounds like Mama's kinda deal.” Dana smirked, scrolling through a forum. “She’d call us geeks for this internet stuff.” Clara grinned, humming I’ve Got a Feeling, Paul and John’s song from Lunara’s old cassette deck. “She’d be dancin’ to this, while hidin’ those reels.”

Clara swiped her phone, as her brow was furrowing. “This X post claims KZMB’s tower’s in Buckeye Hollow—says lights flicker there. ‘The Shadow’?” Dana leaned in, squinting at the blurry pics. “I remember somethin’ ‘bout lights flickerin’ when she played The Fool on the Hill—Paul’s eerie seer. Mama wore out that record.” Clara nodded. “She’d hum it, starin’ at nothin’.” Dana’s chest tightened, remembering Lunara’s distant eyes. “She was always holdin’ onto somethin’ heavy, Clara.” Clara’s fingers paused. “Remember, her guitar case was always locked. Prob’ly carryin’ George’s tapes in it?” Dana clicked a blog link. “It’s gotta be. Keep diggin’.”

The ceiling fan clicked on, stirring the muggy air. Dana found a Wayback Machine archive of a KZMB playlist from 1970. “Clara, check—Act Naturally, it aired late nights.” Clara’s eyes lit up. “Ringo’s twang? Mama loved that—remember? She’d twirl us to it.” Dana grinned, but her smile faded. “Why’d she keep it secret?” Clara leaned forward. “Maybe ‘The Shadow’ wasn’t just a story.” Dana scrolled more. “The blog says a woman ran KZMB’s midnight show. Think it was Lunara—momma?” Clara gasped. “Mama, a DJ?” Dana nodded. “That would explain her late nights.”

Clara tapped her phone. “YouTube clip—some dude recorded KZMB in ‘71, it mentions Taxman.” Dana snorted. “George’s jab at greed. Mama’d hum it when the bills piled up.” Clara’s eyes narrowed. “You think ‘The Shadow’ was after their money?” Dana shook her head, clicking a forum. “More likely the tapes, I’d think. KZMB shut down for awhile after those threats.” Clara leaned back. “Threats? Like I Me Mine—George’s soul-baring cry ‘bout his work bein’ ignored by the others, and threatenin' to walk?” Dana’s pulse raced. “Mama guarded that truth though.” Clara nodded. “We’re crackin’ this mystery, sister.”

The home’s windows rattled in a big wind gust, the Ouachita’s breath was pressing close. Dana found a dark web thread—KZMB’s signal still flickered, caught by ham radio nuts. “Clara, this says the station’s tower’s cursed.” Clara’s eyes widened. “Cursed? Like She’s Leaving Home—the curse of loss?” Dana nodded, Lunara’s hum of that song playing in her ears. “Mama's voice was like that, sad but strong.” Clara’s fingers flew. “This post says the tapes aired on KZMB’s last night—Come Together, it says.” Dana’s breath caught, John’s groove was a spark to her. “Mama played that loud.” Clara nodded. “Yeah, Sendin’ a message.”

Dana clicked a hacked Dropbox link—a scanned letter from George to “L.” “Clara, look—"Hide the reels, they’re comin’, Lunara.” Clara’s breath caught. “She was in it deep.” Dana’s eyes burned, while humming In My Life. “She sang this to us.” Clara nodded, while some tears were leaking from the corners of her eyes. “Every night. Why’d she face it alone?” Dana leaned forward. “To keep us safe from The Shadow, I bet.” Clara slammed her phone down. “We’re findin’ that tower.”

The home’s air grew heavy, like the Ouachita’s pulse inside. Clara scrolled X. “Buckeye Hollow’s tower’s off Highway 7—abandoned now.” Dana grabbed her keys. “We’re goin’ tonight.” Clara jumped up quickly “Like Norwegian Wood—John’s dreamy song of fire! Mama’d approve.” Dana grinned, hearing Lunara’s sitar hum. “She’d say we’re crazy.” Clara laughed. “Crazy like her.” The night was thick with the scent of pine, and the hills loomed like sentinels.

The drive snaked through Ouachita’s dark, the fog curling like “The Shadow’s” breath. Clara fiddled with the radio, the static crackling until Now and Then came on, like a 2023 ghost. “Mama’d love this,” Clara said. Dana’s knuckles whitened. “She’s with us.” Clara leaned back. “You think ‘The Shadow’s’ huntin’?” Dana’s gut twisted. “Feels like it’s waitin’.” Clara nodded. “We’ll beat it.” Dana’s jaw tightened. “For Mama.”

Highway 7 led to Buckeye Hollow, the KZMB tower’s skeletal frame rising against the stars, rusted but defiant. Dana parked, her flashlight slicing the dark, Clara’s breath was quickening. “This place screams cursed, like She’s Leaving Home,” Clara said. Dana’s heart was thumping, Lunara’s hum echoing in her ears. “Mama's here.” Clara nodded. “We’ll find the truth.” They climbed the tower’s base, the wind whistling through metal, “The Shadow’s” chill nipping their heels.

The tower’s control shack was a husk, with wires dangling like veins. Clara’s light caught a dusty console, a tape deck rusted shut. “Dana, look!” she said. Dana knelt, brushing metal—a reel labeled I Me Mine. George’s cry hit her like a storm. Clara pulled another. “Now and Then—John.” The track felt like Mama's pulse. “These are hers,” Dana said. Clara nodded. “Her soul’s in ‘em.’

The shack’s air thickened, shadows pooling like ink. A low hum surged, and “The Shadow” struck—formless, cold, it slammed Dana and Clara against the wall, its icy tendrils choking their throats. Dana gagged, clawing at nothing, her lungs were screaming as her vision blurred. Clara thrashed, gasping, her nails scraping the air. A hiss seared in their ears: “Leave the tapes, or die.” Dana’s heart pounded, in her mind Lunara’s fierce eyes were flashing, and Lunara’s guitar strums blazing through her mind. “No!” she choked, kicking wildly, boots scraping rusted metal. Clara writhed, spitting, “No way!” The grip tightened, stars bursting in Dana’s eyes, Come Together’s groove—Mama's fire—pulsing in her veins. She roared, shoving against the force, muscles burning, but the shadow crushed harder. Clara’s gasps weakened, her body slumping. Darkness swallowed them, and they collapsed, unconscious. They woke, sprawled on the shack’s frigid floor, “The Shadow” pressing them down, its weight like frozen stone, hissing, “Give me the reels, or I’ll bury you forever in this hollow.” Dana’s chest heaved, her strength surging, and she kicked, screaming, her boots thudding against the floor. Clara twisted, gasping, shoving upward, her fists pounding nothing but cold. The shadow’s hum faltered, its grip slipping as their defiance swelled, fueled by their mama's spirit. Dana grabbed a loose pipe, swinging blindly, the metal singing through the air. Clara scrambled, clutching the tapes, shouting Lunara’s name. The shadow recoiled, its form fracturing, then vanished, leaving them bruised, trembling, but unbroken, a cold sweat soaking their skin. Dana grabbed Clara’s arm, panting. “Are you okay?” Clara coughed, nodding. “Mama's watchin’ over us.” They held the tapes tight, their resolve was ironclad, and the shack’s silence was heavy with their victory.

Inside the shack, crates held more reels: Rubber Soul, Revolver, Abbey Road. Dana’s mind flared with Taxman’s bite, George’s voice sharp as a Hot Springs’ neon sign. Clara held Come Together, John’s groove a lifeline, a song Mama belted. Norwegian Wood’s sitar pulsed in Dana’s chest, tying her to Lunara’s dreams. She’s Leaving Home’s ache clung to Clara, and her grief was raw. “Mama left these for us,” Clara said. Dana nodded, her hands trembling. “To fight The Shadow,” she said.

They counted eight albums’ tapes, Lunara’s Beatles legacy. I’ve Got a Feeling hummed in a tin, Paul and John’s hope like Mama's laughter. The Fool on the Hill was a vision Dana felt, Paul’s voice weaving Lunara’s secrets. Clara found a note, the ink now faint: “To Lunara, my trust—G.” Dana’s breath caught again. “George leaned on her.” “And ‘The Shadow’ hunted her.” Dana nodded. “We’re endin’ it here.” Clara grinned. “You’re right sister.”

They hauled the tapes to the truck, the history feeling heavy in their arms. Clara glanced back. “You think ‘The Shadow’ will try again?” Dana fired the engine. “Let it!” The tapes clinked, like John and Paul’s voices were a lifeline. Back at the family home, they knelt by the large gun safe in Lunara’s old study, its steel door gleaming under the lamplight. Dana opened it, revealing stacks of other tapes, decades of Mama's secrets. Clara slid the new reels in, their labels catching the light: I Me Mine, Now and Then. Dana locked the safe, the click sounding final. They sat on the floor, the Ouachita hills now silent outside.

Clara broke the quiet. “Should we keep ‘em, Dana? All these tapes?” Dana stared at the safe, and Lunara’s guitar case was resting in the corner, still locked. “Collectors’d pay millions for Taxman alone…” Clara shook her head. “But Mama hid ‘em for a reason.” Dana’s fingers traced the rug, picturing Lunara’s hands on her guitar. “Maybe to protect George’s soul.” Clara leaned back. “Or to keep ‘The Shadow’ away.” Dana’s chest ached, unsure. “What’d she want us to do?” Clara’s eyes met hers, steady but searching. “Keep ‘em safe? Share ‘em? I don’t know.” Dana exhaled; the weight of their Mama's legacy was as heavy as a Ouachita stone. “Neither do I,” she said, as Now and Then’s faint hum lingered in their minds, the hills guarding their choice. “Let’s sleep on it and talk about it in the morning; I’m tired, Dana said. Clara replied, “Okay, sister, let’s go to sleep now; tomorrow’s another day.”

1671 words in the story above.
Written by Noisy Wren, 2025
For The Beatles Musical Extravaganza Week 4