The Midnight Phonograph

The brown paper package sat on the mixing board. No return address. No postmark. Just his name typed in block letters: MARCUS WEBB.

Marcus adjusted his tie. The red ON AIR sign pulsed above the door like a heartbeat. Three minutes until showtime.

He sliced the package open with a letter opener. Inside, a single vinyl record wrapped in brown paper. No label. No markings. Just black vinyl disc.

"Anonymous," Marcus muttered. He smiled.

His overnight show had built a loyal following. But mainstream success always felt just out of reach. Until tonight.

The needle dropped. A crackle hissed through the headphones. Then a voice emerged. Low. Mechanical. Reading tomorrow's headlines.

"Stock market crashes. Three hundred points lost."

Marcus leaned closer. His fingers hovered over the volume knob.

"Fire erupts in Brooklyn warehouse. Three firefighters injured."

A chill traced his spine. He laughed. What a brilliant hoax. His exclusive scoop.

"Murder outside Harlem's Blue Note Jazz Club. Victim identified as James Monroe."

Marcus's hand froze. The voice continued. More headlines. More disasters. All dated tomorrow.

The ON AIR light flashed. He was live.

"This is Marcus Webb," he said, his voice smooth as velvet. "Keeping Harlem awake to the rhythm of the night."

He cued the record. The mechanical voice filled the booth. Tomorrow's news broadcast tonight. The phone lines lit up before the track ended.

Listeners called. Some laughed. Some panicked. All tuned in. Marcus signed off with a grin. His name would be in every newspaper tomorrow.

By dawn, two predictions had come true.

The warehouse fire burned through three Brooklyn blocks. Firefighters battled flames that the record had predicted hours earlier.

Marcus stared at the newspaper. The headline matched the mechanical voice's words exactly. His hands trembled. The phone rang again.

Another listener. Another confirmation.

The record hadn't predicted the future. It had written it.