Cover of Ghost Frequency

Ghost Frequency

Ghost Frequency

By: Muttley’s Marauders
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All stories begin with a sound.

Late one night, whilst scanning the dead space between radio stations, a faint signal appears- almost human, almost a melody.

At first it seems like interference. Atmospheric noise. Cold War leftovers drifting through the airwaves.

But the signal keeps returning... and so do memories. Memories of something that might not have happened years ago.

Always the same frequency. Always at the same time, and always just long enough for it to feel intentional.


In this series we'll follow the fragments left behind; notebooks, messages, interviews and the signal itself. We will look into the histories of all involved, to try and answer a question that becomes more troubling the deeper we look;-

Was there ever a transmission? Or simply was it just fragmented memories that were mis-remembered.?

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Muttley’s Marauders Drama & Plays Science Fiction Social Sciences
Episodes
  • End Transmission

    End Transmission
    29 May 2026

    “Subject reports being ‘left behind.’

    Pattern suggests retention of self with loss of co-referential memory object.

    Monitor for progressive isolation phenomena.”

    Isolation phenomena.

    A safe phrase.

    Safer than:

    Someone is missing inside him.

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    38 min
  • Remember

    Remember
    28 May 2026

    I remember the silence.

    You remember the sound.

    I remember the falling.

    You remember the ground.

    I remember the promise.

    You remember the cost.

    I remember the moment.

    You remember what’s lost.

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    19 min
  • We Are In The Dark

    We Are In The Dark
    21 May 2026

    WE ARE IN THE DARK All three will remember this differently.

    This is where the story fractures.

    There is a kiss. Or there isn’t. (Or there is more)

    Or there is, but not how it’s remembered.

    Intimacy without clarity is still intimacy.

    We are in the dark. Together. Whether that is comfort or threat remains unresolved

    It is winter. Not poetic winter — but that brittle, metallic kind. The air smells like iron and distant smoke. Frost stiffens the ground. Every breath is visible. The trees were black silhouettes against a sky the colour of old bruises.

    Snow clung to the branches in thin, trembling lines.

    The air was so damn cold it felt hollow — like sound couldn’t travel through it.

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    26 min
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