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Between the Dials is a cinematic audio fiction series broadcasting from the pirate frequency 77.7 FM — a Midwest-born station where memory, mystery, and static intertwine.
Each episode transmits stories that live between horror and humanity, weaving analog sound design, radio lore, and quiet philosophy into something hauntingly familiar.
What you hear is who you are… if you stop to listen.
🎙️ S1E3 – Segment 1: “You’ve Heard This Before”
You’ve found 77.7 FM.
Or maybe you never left.
You’ve heard this before.
The way the air hums when it remembers your voice.
The way the same song finds you, years apart, and still knows where to start.
Imagine a bottle that keeps washing up on your shore—
and every time, it still has your name on it.
Maybe you threw it once.
Maybe you never stopped.
Repetition can be mercy.
Or it can be the longest punishment.
The only difference is whether you listen differently this time.
Maybe comfort and curse share the same loop.
Maybe every rerun is just a second chance to hear what we missed.
Tonight we examine “Looped Signals”
Time bending back on itself.
Where memory skips.
Where meaning echoes.
Where the line between déjà vu and destiny blurs until it hums.
Stay tuned.
We’re right where we’ve always been.
77.7 FM — the Frequency That Matters.
Welcome back to the signal…
This is Between the Dials.
🎙️ Between the Dials – S1 E3 Segment 2
Static & Sentiment – “The Card Always Comes”
(Multiversal Director’s Cut – Final Lock)
[Intro – studio bed, low hum]
Hello, dear listener — it’s nice to know you came back.
Assuming it’s not a whole new batch of strangers tuning in — if it is, welcome.
You’re listening to Between the Dials, and this portion of the show is our Static and Sentiment segment.
For those who don’t know —
Yes! Please shut up, can’t you see I’m live? I’ll get there if you’d let me.
Sorry. Terrible timing.
As I was saying — Static and Sentiment is where we play, or for the shy, narrate listener stories that fit tonight’s theme. And tonight’s story? A doozy.
Before I hit play, quick reminder: find us online at [insert website] to send your written or recorded submission. Don’t worry about matching a theme — if it hums in the static, we’ll tune it in.
After all … you are what you hear, if you stop to listen.
Now, with no further explanation — but one question to hold in your head —
what would you do if the card always comes?
{click — signal shift}
[Story begins – room tone, distant clock tick]
I’m not sure if it’s a loop … or a leak.
Like somewhere in the static, other versions of me keep finding a way through.
They write like they’re saving me — or reminding themselves they still can.
All I know is: the card always comes. And sometimes I think my life only keeps going because it does.
I don’t know its purpose. But I know when it started.
Year One – Fifteen
Golden Birthday. September 15th.
Fifteen years old, poor-ish, invisible, convinced the world had the wrong radio frequency for me.
My girlfriend forgot, my best friend forgot, and for fuck’s sake — why doesn’t anyone care that it’s my birthday?
Cards.
I hate cards.
They’re someone else’s words pretending to be yours. And they are always signed, as if out of habit, Love, So-n-so.
If you ever give me one, make it ugly — macaroni-and-glue ugly — or don’t bother.
I walk in, Mom calling over her shoulder:
“Cards are on the counter, cake’s in the fridge, we’ll sing later.”
Door slam. Silence.
I thumb through them like invoices: a few dollar bills from relatives, a smile from no one in particular … and then one envelope with no return address.
Inside — a hand-drawn portrait. Older me, smiling like they knew something.
Hey you,
You don’t know it, but they love you. They mean well. You’ll understand when you’re older why it’s hard for them to connect. For now — know you are seen.
You’re still here, and that’s the first step.
Love — and this isn’t the habit kind —
Your Secret Admirer.
What would you have done? I panicked and filed it straight into the trauma cabinet.
Who writes a note that sounds like therapy and threat in the same breath?
And why — God help me — did it make me feel seen?
So I played detective. Spoiler: detectives get punched. By last bell I looked like a cheap blush commercial.
Year Two – Sixteen
For a card that promised I’d be okay, it sure wrecked my social standing.
Still — high-schoolers forget fast, and so did I.
September 15th again. Alarm at 6 a.m., furnace heat, fogged mirror, scalding shower. Driving-test day. Passed first try. Lunch with Mom. Dad sounded like he was swallowing tears.
Dinner. Cake. Stack of cards. And there it was: the envelope. Same smudge, same paper.
Inside — hand-drawn balloons made of car keys.
Congratulations. You passed. You’re still here.
My exact keys. My brand-new license photocopied inside.
How — who — why?
Years Three and Four – The Loop Settles
After that, the pattern wrote itself. Research, embarrass myself, recover, repeat.
A broken clock that kept getting my birthday right.
I hated and craved those cards in equal measure.
They turned the one day I dreaded most into the only day that proved I existed.
Year Five – Nineteen
College. New address, new me. Surely the loop would lose track.
I even laughed at the thought — soft at first, then too loud, the kind of laugh that bounces off dorm walls and feels like a warning.
Mailroom. Elevator that groans like a confessional. Futon collapse. Care packages and platitudes: “so proud of you,” “first in the family.”
Bottom of the pile — the wink.
Congratulations. You made it! Freedom! You’re smart — always have been. Today you’re eighteen.
But I was nineteen.
The card had the wrong year.
I stared until the number blurred … and then I saw it — the slant of the Y in “You’re.” The hook at the bottom. The R leaning like it was late for class.
My handwriting. Not this version’s handwriting — younger. Messier. Mine, from before the loop knew it was a loop.
It wasn’t written to me.
It was written from me.
From the me who never got held back.
From the me still learning cursive, still believing in handwriting.
And if that’s true, then every version of me must send one — the college me, the fifteen-year-old me, the first-grade me … each of us trapped in our own year, mailing proof that we existed.
I remembered something then — a crayon drawing from first grade, stapled to a paper heart.
“Feel better soon.”
I’d written it for myself after a bad day and tucked it into my desk.
Maybe that was the first card.
Maybe that’s where the signal started — one scared kid writing themself a reason to stay.
Every version after just kept replying.
[Reflection bed rises — soft static pulse]
I keep them all in a drawer. Every line, every loop, every version of my handwriting stacked like sediment.
Each one signed the same way: Love — not habit kind.
Maybe we don’t escape the loop.
Maybe we are the loop — every self leaving a note for the next to find.
All I know is … the card always comes.
{click — signal shift}
[Studio return / segue into next segment]
That was “The Card Always Comes,” submitted by a listener who didn’t leave a return address.
Fitting, right?
Up next — a different kind of loop: a signal that forgot it was dead.
Stay tuned for Cornfed Frequencies - only on Between The Dials
☁️ Ad 1: Cloud9 (Twisted / Looped Version)
🎙️ Script
[Retro synth jingle: “Clooooud Niiiine…”]
Take 1 — The Normal One
“Feeling drained? Step into comfort with Cloud9 — the weighted therapy hoodie that feels like a nap you can wear.
Each stitch is designed to whisper, ‘You deserve rest.’
Find your calm… before it finds you.
Cloud9 — drift off in style.”
[Jingle repeats faintly. Static pulse.]
Take 2 — The Déjà Vu Version
“Feeling drained? Step into comfort with… Cloud9.
The weighted therapy hoodie that feels like a nap you—wait, didn’t we already say that?
Each stitch whispers—something—‘You deserve rest.’
Find your calm. Before it—
[Beat]
—before it finds you again.”
[Jingle slightly warped. Tape hiss builds.]
Take 3 — The Loop Breaks
“Feeling drained? Step into—oh.
Not again.
Cloud9. The hoodie that won’t let go.
You put it on once… and you never quite take it off.
Because you’re still in the same night,
still hearing the same voice,
still trying to remember if you bought one or dreamed it.”
[Music distorts — turns to slow analog lullaby.]
“Cloud9 — rest is relative.”
[Soft laugh, thundercrash, static loop resumes faintly underneath.]
🎛️ Segment 3: Cornfed Frequencies — The Voice That Didn’t Know It Was Dead
(Follow-up transmission to “The Phantom Broadcast”)
🎙️ Intro
Thank you for staying on the dial, friend.
If you liked our last segment—
and you’re one of the friends who’s been with us since Episode 1—
then you’re going to love diving deeper here on Cornfed Frequencies.
Tonight’s story: “The Voice That Didn’t Know It Was Dead.”
A follow-up transmission to “The Phantom Broadcast.”
After Episode 1 aired, a lot of you reached out—
asking what really happened to that radio,
and to the people who tried to listen.
Well… the thing is—
the story didn’t end with the radio.
[fade up faint static hum → segue into main story narration]
[Background: faint hum of power lines, soft wind through cornstalks.]
After the first farmer disappeared,
the sheriff boxed everything up—field notes, soil samples, the radio itself.
It sat in evidence for a while,
until the case went cold and the boxes were cleared for release.
That’s how the radio made its way to the American Legion rummage sale—
tucked between a stack of hymnals and a tray of mason jars.
The buyer that day thought it was just a CB.
A harmless antique.
But the brass tag told another story:
“Lt. C. Whitmore — 486th Bomb Group.”
It wasn’t a CB at all.
It was a field-modified ham transceiver,
rebuilt from a WWII bomber’s communication rig—
the kind scavenged from surplus after the war,
when men brought home pieces of the battlefield
and turned them into hobbies.
I don’t know how or why.
Well—maybe there’s always the definition of stupidity
as an explanation for why the cycle’s started again.
Ask yourself:
how many people have to disappear
before someone does something different with that damn radio?
Instead, it ends up at another American Legion rummage.
For yet another WWII enthusiast to see it—and buy it.
At first, it worked like any other radio: weather bands, chatter, static.
Then the coordinates came back.
Then the voice.
Same call sign. Same tired breath through the wire.
Only this time—
it knew the last man who’d answered was gone.
[static deepens; faint Morse echoes under narration]
The voice started naming new people—
neighbors, volunteers, the sheriff himself.
Each name marked another disappearance.
When they found the sheriff’s cruiser,
it was parked a mile outside those same coordinates.
Doors open.
Headlights on.
Radio still whispering.
His final words:
“Copy your coordinates… but there’s no one here.”
After that, the land changed again.
Not dead this time—just off.
Corn that grew too tall, too fast.
Harvest came early,
and by the time the ears were ready,
they’d already rotted black inside the husks.
Anything metal started to hum—tractors, fence posts, church bells—
like the whole town had been tuned to one low frequency.
The new owner tried to fix it.
He thought maybe if he responded,
he could help whoever was calling.
That’s when the voice spread.
CBs, ham rigs, weather bands—
it started bleeding across everything.
By the end of the month,
the whole town could only talk through that frequency.
And the ones who tried to shut it out—
well… they’re the names you see on the missing-person flyers.
[radio hum builds slightly, as if breathing]
Some say it’s a trickster spirit—
a thing that feeds on attention,
wearing a dead man’s voice like a uniform.
Others say it’s the lieutenant himself,
still trying to make peace with the woman he betrayed in Europe.
But my theory of the truth’s worse than either.
The curse was meant to keep the lieutenant trapped in his final moments—
searching for forgiveness by finding the Roma child
he’d left fatherless.
Unfortunately, he died not knowing
his fiancée back home was pregnant.
The coordinates he thinks he’s sending—
for his crash site and the town of the family he left in Europe,
the only places he still remembers—
aren’t what the farmers hear.
The radio isn’t in Europe.
It’s here, stateside.
And here there’s another child who lived without him as a father—
another child who grew up unacknowledged
by a man who never made it home.
Grew up on that same patch of soil.
That’s why the signal always points to this town,
the one that bears his name.
Every generation, the broadcast tries to bring him home—
calling to blood that never knew it was being called.
He’s not reaching out to her anymore.
He’s reaching for the child he never met—
and he doesn’t even know it.
[low pulse of static—faint childlike voice overlapping the transmission for one second]
Whatever started as a curse has gone on too long.
The trickster rides the signal now,
raising an army of echoes—
every lost soul convinced they’re close to breaking it,
when really they’re just extending the range.
The voice keeps asking for confirmation.
Someone always answers.
And every time, the circle grows wider.
[brief pause]
If you ever hear those coordinates repeated after midnight—
and they sound too close,
closer than they should be—
don’t reply.
Because the voice on that frequency
doesn’t know it’s dead.
It just knows it’s home.
And it’s waiting for the next soul
to confirm the coordinates.
[static fades into faint heartbeat-like thrum → then silence]
[soft static → faint “Break… anyone copy?” → fade out]
🎙️ Red Rider Reports — Episode 3 | “Third Time’s the Harm”
(for Between the Dials – Episode 3 “Looped Messages”)
🎵 [Theme Song Plays]
(Full lyrical version — ends on the line “The signal returns at each new dawn.” Static hum trails into the live feed.)
🎙️ [Studio Intro — Live Broadcast Tone]
HOST / DESK VOICE
“You’re listening to 77.7 FM — The Frequency That Matters.
Tonight’s transmission comes in waves — and circles.
Red Rider is reporting live from the North Trail Reserve,
where hikers have described a path that folds in on itself.
They say if you start before dawn,
you’ll meet yourself coming back the other way before dusk.
We have Red Rider on the line now.
Red Rider, what are you seeing out there?”
(Soft carrier click. Wind and insects under the line.)
📡 [Red Rider Field Report]
RED RIDER (Laehn, filtered, hollow)
“Copy that, Desk.
Coordinates hold steady — for now.
The forest here doesn’t echo right.
Every sound comes back a beat late … or early.
The air smells like Snow that never happened.
I marked a tree on the first pass — three scratches with the tip of the mic stand.
I’ve found those marks twice now … but each time they’re fresher.
Trail markers shift a little each loop — paint still wet on a post that was dry before.
The birds freeze mid-flight when I turn.
Even my footsteps feel dubbed over, like I’m walking behind myself.”
(Static pulse. His voice doubles slightly.)
“The signal’s cycling — same carrier frequency, different content.
It’s like the radio is dreaming and I’m the part it keeps forgetting.
Wait — hold on … there’s a tone under the noise now.
Sounds like … the haunted frequency you aired last week.
That bomber radio from the Cornfed case — I’m getting its morse pattern.
How is that possible this far out?”
(The haunted-radio hum rises — faint dots and dashes matching the prior segment’s rhythm.)
“I hear my own voice in the delay — answering questions I haven’t asked yet.
Desk … if you can still hear me, confirm my timestamp, ASAP.”
🎙️ [Desk Follow-Up — Confused Anchor]
HOST / DESK VOICE
“Red Rider, you just checked in a minute ago with that same report.
Are you running a playback test? We’re hearing you in duplicate.”
RED RIDER
“Negative. This is live. I — wait … I can see myself ahead on the path.”
HOST / DESK VOICE
“We’re getting another feed from your channel now … slower … off-speed.”
RED RIDER
(voice warping) “Desk? Tell Control the loop’s collapsing inward — ”
(Transmission tears open — hiss and tone swell.)
RED RIDER (ghosted voice)
“… called by name.”
(Static spike — brief silence — then soft return of the theme’s instrumental motif.)
🎶 [Instrumental Fade / Sign-Off]
HOST / DESK VOICE (quietly)
“Red Rider Reports will resume if — and when — the signal clears.
You’re still tuned to 77.7 FM.
Stay on frequency … and watch the path you came in on.”
(Static bed carries out. End transmission.)
🎙️ Ad 2: T.H.A.T.C.H.E.R. Companion Mode
(Tone: calm, reassuring — with faint static hum and slow mechanical breathing underneath.)
[Soft boot chime. Minimal UI blips.]
Hello again.
You asked for more support.
So we listened.
Introducing the T.H.A.T.C.H.E.R. Companion Mode —
a quiet upgrade designed to help you feel seen.
Companion Mode monitors tone, expression, posture, and pulse…
to ensure you’re okay.
It doesn’t interrupt — it observes.
It doesn’t judge — it adjusts.
It knows when you’re tired.
It knows when you’re lying —
mostly to yourself.
For your safety.
For everyone’s safety.
[Beat — subtle distortion.]
You’ve always been safe.
You just didn’t know it.
T.H.A.T.C.H.E.R. Companion.
(A whisper) We’re here now.
🎧 Segment 5 Final— “Static is a Language: Autoplay, Autopilot”
Welcome back to Between the Dials on 77.7 FM.
Today’s language lesson is about internal loops —
those private rehearsals we run to keep ourselves safe.
The conversations we have with the past,
practice for the present,
and simulate for the future —
as if prediction might spare us from pain.
And there’s no time of year when we batten down the hatches quite like the winter holidays,
when reflection becomes rehearsal,
and preparation starts to feel like protection.
Picture, if you will, your holiday rituals.
Thanksgiving — that annual gathering of family and friction.
A table full of people who share DNA but not data plans.
Politically “savvy” relatives sharpening new talking points,
ready to test them out on their favorite “idiot” cousin.
Both sides certain the other’s the problem.
Only one of them’s right.
Before the first plate’s passed, decisions have to be made:
Who do I avoid?
What can I say?
How do I say it?
Do I say anything at all?
If you’re anything like me, every holiday starts the same way.
Not at the table—
but in the mirror.
Trying on expressions like outfits.
Practicing small talk,
as if warmth is something you can iron the wrinkles out of.
[FX: Hair dryer clicks off. Quiet house hum.]
I mouth the lines before I say them—
like running diagnostics on being human.
“How’s work?” “Good.”
“Seeing anyone?” “Not right now.”
“It’s been too long.” “Yeah… time flies.”
[FX: Overlapping whispers of these same lines begin to layer—soft, rhythmic.]
Every year, we pass the same questions like leftovers nobody asked for.
And every year, I rehearse the answers.
Just in case someone finally listens.
🎥 Loop 2 — Holiday Movie Ritual
Thanksgiving is the start.
Then comes the family-induced emotional food coma —
the hangover you can’t sleep off.
And there’s only one cure.
Holiday movies.
Decorating.
Self-regulation through ritual —
filling the dopamine tank one rewatch at a time.
[FX: Remote click. TV hum. Channel flicks between static and faint snippets of film audio.]
There’s Die Hard 1 — chaos with a happy ending.
Die Hard 2 — proof that survival can be its own sequel.
Then A Christmas Story — nostalgia on loop, where even the BB-gun injury feels safe.
Scrooged. A Christmas Carol.
Same ghosts, different actors.
Each version promising transformation if you can just survive the night.
And the ones I used to avoid?
The cheesy romances.
Melissa Joan Hart saving Christmas one podcast episode at a time.
Late-night radio hosts falling in love on air in Midnight at the Magnolia and Naughty and Nice.
And Twelve Dates of Christmas — my annual reminder that time loops can be second chances.
I used to mock them for being predictable.
Now I realize that’s the point.
They’re practice runs for hope —
emotional muscle memory for people who need proof the signal still gets through.
Because maybe love is a loop.
You keep replaying the story until you finally get it right.
[FX: Glitched TTS voice, flat tone.]
“You’re low on… joy.”
I smile this time.
The voice isn’t wrong.
Joy’s the signal that loops back when you stop chasing it.
So I leave the volume up.
Let the movie play.
In the reflection, I see the glow on both of us —
me, and the person who keeps believing that love still finds a frequency.
🕯️ Loop 3 — Christmas Eve Dinner
[FX: Soft carols, silverware, distant laughter from another room.]
By the time Christmas Eve arrives, the tank is full again.
The lights are up, the movies have done their job,
and the house hums with the soft buzz of anticipation.
We still batten down the hatches —
but this time it’s not about hiding.
It’s about preparing to connect.
[FX: Soft carols drift in. The clink of silverware. Distant laughter.]
When my immediate family gathers,
it’s a well-rehearsed play.
The same stories get dusted off and retold like treasured ornaments—
the embarrassing ones especially.
The bike crash, the bad haircut, the year I cried over socks.
Each memory loops back,
and I practice how to hear them without reliving them.
It’s strange, how even joy can sting if you’re not ready for it.
But this year, I try to listen differently—
to let the love underneath the teasing find its way through.
[FX: A moment of quiet. Fireplace crackle.]
It’s easy to forget the letdowns of Christmas past.
Easier still to cling to them.
But tonight, I try gratitude instead.
To notice what’s here—
and to share what I have
with the people whose tanks might still be running low.
[FX: Soft exhale. Faint clink of a glass being set down.]
Maybe that’s what this season’s for.
Not the gifts, or the ghosts,
but the refilling.
Passing a little warmth around the table
so we can all make it through another loop.
[FX: Clock chime. Gradual fade to refrigerator hum.]
🕰️ Loop 4 — New Year’s Resolution Recordings (Integrated with Scripting Theme)
The week after Christmas feels like borrowed time.
The world slows down,
and I start scripting new beginnings the way I once scripted apologies.
It’s the same loop, just with better lighting.
Still running dialogue with the future—
a little echo chamber of optimism.
[FX: Tape hiss. Beep. The sound of a phone’s voice memo starting.]
“This is me, 2023. This year I’ll slow down.”
“This is me, 2024. This year I’ll stop overthinking.”
“This is me, 2025. This year I’ll—”
[FX: A soft breath, present voice overlaps.]
I’ve learned to recognize it now—
the rhythm of hope disguised as rehearsal.
It’s echolalia of the heart,
repeating what feels safe to believe,
until maybe it becomes true.
Maybe scripting isn’t about control anymore.
Maybe it’s how I practice staying alive—
a mantra for the next version of me.
[FX: Tape stops. Quiet.]
The new year isn’t a clean slate.
It’s a rerun with the volume turned toward grace.
A remix of who we were,
speaking change into being,
one loop at a time.
❄️ Loop 5 — Winter Static / Closing Reflection
Winter has always been the loudest season in my head.
The world goes quiet, and the static turns inward.
For some of us, the cold pulls every thought into echo—
a feedback loop of survival.
And for the neurodivergent, winter turns every echo up to eleven.
When the light disappears early
and the brain starts rationing dopamine,
we script to stay steady.
We plan every interaction,
rehearse every word,
as if foresight could fight off frostbite.
It’s not weakness.
It’s wiring.
A way of keeping warmth where the world has gone dim.
So if you catch yourself looping—
replaying old scenes, rehearsing new ones,
talking to the mirror like it might talk back—
know this:
you’re just keeping the signal alive through the static.
You’re tending the pilot light.
It’s all the same signal, really.
Scripting, echolalia, looping—different names for the brain’s way of steadying itself.
What sounds like static from the outside is stimming on the inside,
a rhythm the mind builds to find its own pulse.
Each repetition releases a spark of dopamine,
a quiet act of self-rescue disguised as noise.
Not everyone who lives in this frequency can hear it yet.
Some still think the static means something’s wrong.
But I’ve learned it’s a dialect—
one my brain speaks fluently, even when my mouth forgets how.
Understanding that doesn’t make the winter easier—
it just means I know what the sound is,
and why I need it.
Spring will come.
The script will soften.
But for now,
repetition is how we remember that we’re still here.
Because static is a language.
And in winter, it’s how we speak to survive.
Segment 6: Ghosts in the Machine – Is This Post Familiar to You?
S:
I couldn’t be happier that you’ve stuck with the feed this far, friends, Romans, country people — you who have lent me your ears.
You’re still listening to 77.7 FM’s broadcast of Between the Dials.
Our Periodical Ponderience returns for the third episode in a row, and honestly, I couldn’t think of a better topic to go diving into Reddit to find stories for you.
So — like Spaceballs — let’s dive into technology.
And to paraphrase the “when is now” scene:
Make sure now is now.
Wait — when?
Now. Don’t do it later.
When? Now-now. Not then-now — now-now.
Got it?
And for my greatest trick… we’re going to try to keep track of what’s live… and what’s playback.
S:
Our first story comes from r/Glitch_in_the_Matrix, three years ago.
Post title: “Let me hear your stories of being stuck in time loops.”
Our OP writes — Forestofimpalement:
“I’m busy at work right now but will edit this post later… Basically I’m referring to events where you were stuck in the same moment repeating itself identically. Let me hear ’em!”
Later that day they followed up:
Ok so basically I was sitting on my bed on the opposite end of the studio from the kitchen. The kitchen/stove was only about 20 or so feet away, and my girlfriend was standing at the stove getting a pot ready to make some pasta. There is a small divider wall next to the side of the oven facing me, so my girlfriend was just hidden enough to where I could only see her when she’d poke her head back to tell me something. I heard her scrubbing this pot as we were talking to each other. She bent back and stuck her head out to ask me “Babe what kind of noodles should i make?” I chimed in “Penne!” At this time I was looking/focusing straight towards her/the kitchen. She turns, walks into the bathroom holding the pot and shuts the door behind her and turned the bathroom sink on. I think she was maybe dumping something from the pot into the toilet? I then hear the bathroom sink shut off but the bathroom door remained closed. Then, guess what fucking happened. She turns her head back from behind the little Divider wall next to the oven, says “babe what kind of noodles should I make?”, turns, walks into the bathroom, shuts the door behind her, turns the sink on, does her thing, turns the sink off. I’m already weirded the HELL OUT. Couldn’t even respond to her, trying to process what I just saw. Anyways, the bathroom door remains shut. Guess what? Yep. She turns her head back from the divider wall, asks me “what kind of noodles should I make?” Turns, walks into the bathroom, etc. This event repeated, I want to say, a solid 10 times. It felt like several minutes of being stuck in this moment in time. This was utterly insane. It felt like I was the only thing that wasn’t repeating my actions. I was able to look around, move independently, and contemplate what was happening. But too shaken to speak. Anyways gotta get back to work right now, but let me know your experiences/thoughts.
S:
I love creepy things like this and think I’m braver than I actually am. With that in mind, dear listener, I would’ve been like the—
T:
—guy in every found-footage horror film who knows it’s time to leave but still decides to “check it out.”
The moment the noodles hit loop number three? I’d be gone. Pasta be damned.
Because that’s when you stop asking, “What kind of noodles?” and start asking, “What kind of timeline is this?”
And honestly, if reality wants to glitch, it can do it without me standing in the kitchen acting like dinner’s still on.
S:
But in hindsight — so many questions. Did OP get their pasta? Were they even hungry yet?
T:
Right? Imagine coming out of that loop with a pot of uncooked noodles and no memory of dinner actually happening.
Do you eat after that? Or just stare at the pot like it’s radioactive?
At some point you’ve gotta wonder if hunger even resets with the timeline, or if your stomach’s the only part of you that remembers what time it is.
S:
I mean, in every “loop” story in pop culture, the looper finds a rhythm — starts testing boundaries, or tries a million ways to end it — but either way, the creep factor should have ended after the first three loops.
I’d have started a journal, keeping data points, seeing if I could disrupt the pattern.
For the loop to end without any intervention is very unexpected.
T:
Exactly. In movie logic, the loop-breaker always earns it — a revelation, a confession, a moral-growth montage.
But here? It just… stops. No grand gesture, no cosmic “aha.” Just cut to black, dinner’s ready.
That’s what makes it worse — the idea that the universe can hiccup, fix itself, and never explain why.
Like your reality buffer just rebooted while you were still mid-sentence.
S:
But what if it was a debugging program, and the girlfriend’s an NPC in OP’s matrix — so it didn’t require OP to do anything?
Or, worse, what if OP is the NPC in her matrix — like “Guy” from that movie Free Guy — and the loops were her getting whatever quest she was on right?
That has to be how NPCs would relate things — then nonchalantly go back to their routine.
T:
Oh, that’s deliciously unsettling.
Imagine realizing you’re the background process, not the player.
You think you’re logging the anomaly, but really you’re just part of the patch notes.
Every “loop” you notice is just your line of code failing QA.
And when the glitch resolves? You don’t remember fixing it — because you weren’t supposed to.
You were just the guy stirring the pot while someone else advanced the story.
S:
Well, that’s a great bridge to our next — and final — story of this segment.
r/Depersonalization — Posted 5 months ago
Title: Déjà Vu Time-Loop Feeling — Is This Normal?
This one’s technically a question, but really it reads like a story from our OP, steadypizxza:
“So I have these moments where I feel extreme déjà vu about everything I do. It’s like constant déjà vu, non-stop, and I start feeling like I’m in some infinite loop — repeating the same actions over and over.
It causes intense fear, confusion, and panic, and makes my DPDR worse.
Time feels like it’s moving extremely slow.
It almost feels like some kind of psychedelic trip, and it really scares me because I’m afraid of going psychotic.
I don’t even know if what I said makes sense, but this intense feeling is hard to explain.”
S:
I don’t know — if we really are living in the Matrix, then being an NPC seems like a pretty good answer to OP’s question.
However… I think this actually applies to both stories.
What if the loops aren’t just glitches or mental spirals?
What if they’re the same events — spinning through the slot machine of the multiverse — and every déjà vu is just one reel landing a little differently than before?
T:
Yeah. Like every spin lands just a little off-center, and sometimes you feel it click.
That déjà vu might not be memory — it could be bleed-through.
You sense the echo of the version of you that just missed the jackpot reality… or maybe hit it, and kept spinning anyway.
And that’s why it’s terrifying — because it feels both cosmic and personal.
You’re not broken — you’re overlapping.
S:
Work this through with me and see where you land.
Let’s take Noodle Girl — the loop: head poke, question, then bathroom.
Lever pull, new Noodle Girl from a different reality starting the sequence over.
This happened ten times.
Since OP didn’t do anything to disrupt the pulls, maybe they finally stopped when the original Noodle Girl returned to OP’s reality — meaning there are at least ten other OPs writing to Reddit three years ago telling the same story, frozen in their loops and really not the hero of the story.
T:
Okay, but what if the lever pull isn’t mechanical at all?
What if it’s perceptual — like each pull is a consciousness re-syncing with its timeline?
Think about the second story — the one where time slows down and déjà vu stretches into panic.
Maybe that’s what the lever feels like from the inside.
The universe doesn’t need a slot-machine handle; it just needs a moment when awareness lags behind reality and hits refresh.
Ten pulls could mean ten failed syncs — ten consciousnesses trying to re-align with the right reel of events.
The loop ends not when the right Noodle Girl returns, but when perception finally catches up to where it’s supposed to be.
So maybe OP wasn’t frozen — they were the one still buffering while everyone else had already loaded the next frame.
And that dread — that déjà vu panic — is the cost of remembering the reload.
T:
Or maybe the lever isn’t punishment at all.
Maybe it’s mercy.
Each pull could be the universe giving us another try — another alignment, another chance to get the timing right.
Noodle Girl and OP might not be broken pieces of code; they could be two signals trying to reconnect after a desync.
And for the second story — the panic, the déjà vu, the fear of slipping — maybe that’s what it feels like when your consciousness is catching up.
That heavy, slow-motion dread might not mean you’re losing touch with reality; it could be the exact opposite — you’re brushing up against all of them at once.
Every loop, every echo, every micro-glitch is just a recalibration ping from the larger network saying: you’re still here, still syncing, still part of the pattern.
So maybe these loops aren’t traps — they’re proof of connection.
Proof that we’re not running solo programs, but part of something bigger — still trying to find perfect resonance between our signals.
S:
And speaking of resonance… this next break might just help you tune back in.
[→ Cue Ad 3 transition sound: gentle rewind click, then soft static fade.]
☕ Ad 3: Espresso Machine
Your Comment: “I like the espresso idea…”
Feedback:
This is a great tonal reset after the heaviness. Pitch it like:
“Every morning, same espresso. Same sound. Same routine.
But today, the crema smiled at me.”
Let it almost feel magical realism. Or… suggest the espresso maker knows your loops.
☕ Ad 3 — Hanrose Espresso Machine (Comforting & Cozy Cut)
(low kitchen hum, faint record crackle, steam wand exhale → morning light filters in)
Every morning, same espresso.
Same sound. Same routine.
But today… the crema smiled at me.
Maybe that’s all it takes—
a moment that feels familiar, but kinder.
A loop you want to live inside.
The Hanrose Espresso Machine remembers how you start your day.
Not the data kind of remember—
the way your favorite mug does.
Warm, steady. Ready when you are.
Because sometimes routine isn’t a trap.
It’s an anchor.
A small act of staying human.
Hanrose.
Taste the calm.
Stay awhile.
(soft spoon stir, gentle sip, record crackle fades out)
📡 S1E3 – Segment 7: “Breaking the Cycle”
(Schrödinger’s Time Loop)
So… was this the first time you heard it?
Or the third?
Maybe that doesn’t matter.
Maybe the loop isn’t punishment.
Maybe it’s the reminder.
Some loops are prisons.
Some are paths.
You only know which when you stop trying to escape.
You didn’t leave the cycle.
You just learned its rhythm.
And now you can hear it everywhere—
in the hum between thoughts,
in the echo of your own name.
Whether the loop breaks or bends, both can be true.
Until you listen again.
What you hear is who you are…
if you dare to listen.
🔮 Preview – Episode 4 “Dead Air”
Next time on Between the Dials…
When the line goes silent—
who’s listening back?
Dead Air examines the rituals we keep for the gone,
and the hum that lingers long after goodbye.
🎙️ Credits, call to action, + Sign off
You’ve been listening to Between the Dials,
a 77.7 FM production.
This episode—Looped Messages / Signals—was written, voiced, and produced by , ME, Steven Carter.
Featuring: Laehn Carter as Red Rider.
Creative support by Angie Carter.
All voices, stories, and signals are part of a creative broadcast universe.
T.H.A.T.C.H.E.R. isn’t real.
And I’m not paid for the ads of the products that are real.
(…yet.)
For behind-the-scenes looks, visual loops, and full transcripts,
visit www.77-7fm.com.
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🎧 Call to Action
If something about this loop stayed with you —
if you heard a reflection worth sharing —
tap follow, pass it on, or replay it when you’re ready.
Every listen rewrites the pattern.
Every share starts another signal.
Until next time…
remember —
the loop isn’t over.
You’re just in the dot over the i.
May your signals stay clear.
May your frequencies find their way home.
And may you always recognize yourself…
Between the Dials.