Somewhere after midnight (Freewrite)

He would tune it at the exact same hour, each night, three minutes after midnight. The show never started before then, so in time, he just tuned in at that particular time, dispensing with the two minutes of heavy anticipation.
Jackson couldn't quite remember how he got to listening to 'Somewhere after midnight' since he was never much of a radio guy. He would just allow himself to lay back and listen to the soothing sounds of his Celtic homeland. He had a soft spot for that music, although he hadn't been home for many, many years.
And one night, out of the clear blue sky, something happened. The sounds stopped coming and it was as if there had been no music, for a second. He sat in his living room, now eyes wide open staring up into the ceiling fan and he wondered, like you do, what the Hell was going on. He'd bought the radio machine cheap at a garage sale ages back, true, but he never had any trouble with it until now. But then, just as he was summoning up the willpower to get off his eazy chair and give the radio a good smashing, he started hearing it again, a faint music in the background of his head. Somewhere, behind him, not quite there, yet somehow inside the room, a presence appeared, over the sounds and the music. And the voice spoke softly over sound waves, murmuring into the ears of thousands, mayhaps even millions.
It was a voice Jackson would come to know as the voice of the radio host, known only as HG – the guy who was somehow always there in the back of his mind. For every day, as he walked to work or lumbered though the process, he heard the little voice in his head, telling him secrets and of worlds long gone.
He didn't realize he was hearing it, at first, it seemed as if he was just remembering the podcast of the night before, but slowly, as he focused more and more on the words inside his head, he realize dhe'd never head them before. That they were not, indeed, the words he'd heard last night, but new ones, made-up on the spot, and only for him. And then, Jackson got it into his head that maybe he was growing a bit loony, maybe it was all the late nights and perhaps, he thought, he should cut back on the night radio. But he was wrong, see. Someone was indeed talking and he was not the maker of music.

HG put the headpiece down and smiled to himself, like he always did. Of course, there was no one else whom he could smile to, because he was all by his lonesome. He was on a plane of his own and while folks were more than glad to lend a helping hand or listen to him, not one could see him, not one he could smile to. He always hated Himself for that, for that one mean little trick. It was like a voice telling HG 'you can't play with the other kids' and slowly, it drove him further and madder than he'd ever been.
So he started spending more time with the earthlings, he set about making new friends, talking to those who would truly listen.
Soon, Jackson Macintyre would take a loaded pistol into work and shoot out each one of his colleagues. All twenty-seven of them and he would remain uncaught. For a while.
HG had big plans for him and he would make sure the little man created quite a blast before he went. And once this was done, he would move on to the next one and the next and so on until the whole world would be destroyed.
If you don't play nice, you don't play at all, he thought, as he switched the soundboard off.
And somewhere in the distance, over tiny fragmented wavelengths, a message looped inside Jackson Macintyre's mind.

In the name of the Father, the Son...

No idea how this came about, but the prompt of the day was 'radio show'. Check out @mariannewest to join our wonderful freewriting community!

Thank you for reading,