The drive to WCLV-TV 58 was tense. The small TV station sat on the outskirts of Iron Hill, a squat, unremarkable brick building that looked more like a warehouse than a broadcasting hub. Its exterior bore faded signage and rusted satellite dishes.
"Hard to believe something this run-down is at the center of all this," Lewis said, leaning forward from the back seat.
"It's not the building," Roland replied. "It's what's inside. Or what might have been."
The team exited the car, the crisp November wind biting through their coats as they approached the entrance. Inside, the station was dimly lit, the faint hum of outdated equipment filling the air. A receptionist glanced up from her desk, her expression bored until Roland flashed his Bureau credentials. Her demeanor shifted instantly to wary compliance.
"We need to speak with your station manager," Roland said firmly.
Moments later, a middle-aged man in a threadbare blazer emerged from an office, his thinning hair slicked back. "I'm Glen Harris," he said, his voice tinged with unease. "What can I do for you?"
Roland wasted no time. "We're investigating reports related to a program that allegedly aired here. Candle Cove. Do you recognize the name?"
Harris paled, his eyes darting nervously. "I… I've heard the rumors. But no, nothing like that ever aired here."
Trench crossed his arms, his piercing gaze locking onto Harris. "We've spoken to locals who say otherwise. Kids describing specific details, even drawing characters from the show. You're telling us that's all just coincidence?"
Harris swallowed hard, sweat beading on his brow. "Look, we've had some… odd broadcasts over the years. Signal interference, back in the 70s, pirate transmissions, as it were. But Candle Cove? It's a ghost story. Nothing more."
"Then you won't mind showing us your archives," Lewis interjected, her tone sharp. "We need to confirm for ourselves."
Harris hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "Fine. Follow me."
He led them down a narrow hallway to a room cluttered with dusty shelves and rows of VHS tapes. The air was thick with the smell of mildew. Harris gestured vaguely. "This is everything we've got."
The team split up, combing through the tapes. Hours passed in tense silence, interrupted only by the occasional muttered curse as they found nothing but old commercials and news segments.
Finally, Trench called out. "Got something."
The others gathered around as he slid a tape labeled "Static, October 1988" into a nearby player. The screen flickered to life, showing grainy footage of what initially appeared to be static. But as the seconds ticked by, faint shapes emerged: jagged lines resembling a ship, shadows moving like puppets.
"That's it," Lewis whispered, her voice tinged with awe and dread. "That's Candle Cove."
As the recording played, a voice crackled through the distortion, high-pitched and grating. "Come closer, little ones. The sea is waiting for you."
Suddenly, the screen went black, and the tape ejected itself with a loud click. The team stared at each other, the weight of what they'd just witnessed sinking in.
Harris backed away, his face ashen. "I swear, I… I don't know how that got here."
Roland stepped forward, his tone cold. "You've been sitting on evidence of an Altered World Event. Whether you knew it or not, this tape is proof."
"What does it mean?" Harris stammered.
"It means," Roland said grimly, "this station is now under Bureau jurisdiction. And you're going to tell us everything you know."
Back in their car, the team drove in silence, the tape secured in a case in the trunk. The implications of their discovery hung heavy in the air.
Finally, Lewis broke the silence. "If this tape is connected to the murders, then whoever—or whatever—is behind Candle Cove isn't just targeting kids. It's broadcasting fear itself."
Trench stared out the window, his jaw clenched. "And we're going to find out why."