Loop 1973 E-Book

Lena Grace Holloway

• Herausgeber: Twist & Tether Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

On the morning of September 11, 1973, Andrés Salazar jolts awake alone in a Santiago radio station, moments before tanks descend on the city. The broadcast has ended in static. The building is abandoned. And outside, the coup has already begun.
Each time he tries to escape, time resets. Each loop reveals new clues—voices that shouldn’t exist, erased names, and echoes of a woman who may not be real. Andrés knows something is wrong with the memory of that day. But the more he tries to warn others, the more the signal fights back.
As Andrés digs deeper, the boundaries between history and repetition begin to unravel. Who is really listening? Why is the signal alive? And why does silence feel more dangerous than the truth?
Set against the haunting backdrop of Chile’s fractured past, Loop 1973 is a tense, psychologically charged descent into memory, guilt, and the architecture of time.
If a man keeps broadcasting into a world that’s forgotten him, is he preserving history—or becoming part of its trap?

Leseprobe

Loop 1973

He Escaped the Coup. But Not the Day.

VERIWARP: The Truth Wasn’t Lost. It Was Engineered.

Lena Grace Holloway

Copyright © 2025 by Lena Grace Holloway

All rights reserved. This book, including all individual stories and original content, is protected under international copyright law. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, distributed, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission from the author, except for brief excerpts used in reviews or academic commentary, which must be properly credited.

Fiction Disclaimer:

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

Cover Image Notice:

The cover artwork for this book was created using licensed generative AI tools under commercial-use terms. It is an original, symbolic composition created specifically for this title. Any characters depicted are fictional and do not represent real individuals.

AI Tools Acknowledgement:

The cover image and/or illustrations were created using generative AI technology under appropriate commercial-use licensing. All visual elements are original compositions intended solely for this publication.

Thank you for reading this special collection. I hope you enjoy every story inside.

Table of Contents

Loop 1973

Description

Chapter 1: The Signal Breaks

Chapter 2: To Warn the Living

Chapter 3: Breaking Format

Chapter 4: Echoes on Frequency

Chapter 5: Dead Air is Never Empty

Chapter 6: The Anchor Voice

Chapter 7: Playback Forever

Loop 1973

Description

On the morning of September 11, 1973, Andrés Salazar jolts awake alone in a Santiago radio station, moments before tanks descend on the city. The broadcast has ended in static. The building is abandoned. And outside, the coup has already begun.

Each time he tries to escape, time resets. Each loop reveals new clues—voices that shouldn’t exist, erased names, and echoes of a woman who may not be real. Andrés knows something is wrong with the memory of that day. But the more he tries to warn others, the more the signal fights back.

As Andrés digs deeper, the boundaries between history and repetition begin to unravel. Who is really listening? Why is the signal alive? And why does silence feel more dangerous than the truth?

Set against the haunting backdrop of Chile’s fractured past, Loop 1973 is a tense, psychologically charged descent into memory, guilt, and the architecture of time.

If a man keeps broadcasting into a world that’s forgotten him, is he preserving history—or becoming part of its trap?

Chapter 1: The Signal Breaks

The air tasted like copper. Sharp. Dry.

I jolted awake—not with a scream, but with that quiet terror that slides behind your ribs and hisses before you understand what’s wrong. My breath fogged the glass of the studio booth. The overhead light flickered, buzzing like a fly trapped in a bottle. I blinked at the dials and meters on the control panel. Everything was lit, glowing steadily, like it had always been on.

Except it hadn’t.

Not before.

What was before?

The clock on the wall said 08:57. The calendar pinned above the weather sheet read September 11, 1973. My hand, resting on the mixer fader, trembled like it remembered something my mind hadn’t caught up to.

I stood. The chair spun behind me, groaning on its one bad wheel. Dust motes swam in the sunlight leaking through the Venetian blinds. A reel-to-reel tape spun idly on Deck B—no sound. The red ON AIR sign above the door blinked once and went dead.

I opened the booth. The hallway beyond was empty. No footsteps. No chatter. The smell of old coffee and melted wiring lingered like an aftertaste.

“Rosa?” My voice cracked. “Carlos? Anyone?”

Silence.

I walked to the newsroom, my shoes tapping on the terrazzo floor like a slow metronome. Desks sat abandoned—papers strewn, typewriters idle. A coffee mug with a lipstick print steamed faintly. The radio beside it was on, tuned to static.

Then came the sound.

A sharp pop, like a mic being unplugged.

Followed by silence.

Then a low hum—growing louder, almost melodic.

I turned in a circle. The hum was everywhere. I reached for the door. My hand brushed the handle, and—

Crack.

The lights died. A flash flared outside the glass window.

I ran—boots slamming concrete—toward the lobby.

I burst outside into heat and brightness and chaos.

Tanks.

Tanks rolling down Avenida Bernardo O’Higgins.

A crowd screaming.

A child crying beside a fallen bicycle.

A man shouting into a bullhorn: “Back inside! Get down!”

Helicopters sliced the sky, blades roaring. The presidential palace smoldered in the distance—smoke rising in black fingers.

I ran.

I ran because something was wrong and everything was familiar.

The guard at the corner fired into the air. A bullet ricocheted off the metal awning above me. I dove behind a dumpster, heart thrumming in my teeth.

And then—

A voice.

“We interrupt this broadcast—”

Static again.

My eyes closed.

Everything spun.

***

The same buzz. The same copper air.

I opened my eyes.

Booth light on. Deck B spinning. 08:57.

The tape hissed.

My hand was already on the mixer fader.

No.

I stood, slower this time. The chair spun again, exactly as before. The dust swam again. The blinds cast the same angled lines on the floor.

Same cup. Same lipstick.

“Rosa?”

No answer.

My breath came shallow.

I walked to the newsroom.

The papers—same positions.

Radio—same static.

I placed my hand on the wall and pressed my forehead to the glass.

Am I still dreaming?

Did I die?

Or worse—was I here before and chose to forget it?

I reached into my pocket. Empty, except for a crumpled cigarette I didn’t smoke. On the back of my hand, a faded blue mark—pen ink. A date: 11/9.

I scratched at it. It didn’t come off.

Outside, a distant explosion rattled the window.

I didn’t move. I watched.

And when I did walk out again—when I stepped into the lobby and pushed open the main door—it was the same heat. The same tank. The same fallen bicycle.

But this time, the child looked right at me.

Not in panic.

In recognition.

Like he knew I’d be there.

Like he was waiting.

Please, I whispered, tell me I can stop this.

He didn’t speak. He turned and ran.

Gunfire erupted again.

I didn’t flinch.

I walked straight toward it.

And then it all went white.

Static again.

***

Third time.

Booth.

08:57.

Fader.

Tape.

Am I being punished? Or preserved?

I stared at my reflection in the glass. My eyes were sunken, rimmed with dark half-moons. My lips were cracked. I reached up and touched my face. The man in the glass mimicked me, but slower—delayed by a breath, as if reluctant.

I walked out again, this time heading for the archive room. The halls felt like tunnels now. Each step echoed back at me twice.

Downstairs, behind a rusted green door, the archives sat stacked in dusty boxes. I flicked the light switch. Nothing. I pulled out a flashlight from the wall hook. Battery flickered but worked.

Rows of tapes.

One was labeled: “Emergency Broadcast — Sept 11.”

I pressed play.

Nothing but static.

Then—

My voice.

“This is Andrés Salazar. If you’re hearing this, the signal is broken. The day won’t end. I’ve tried everything. If you’re like me, leave a mark. Carve something. Burn it. Looping is real.”

I dropped the recorder.

My knees buckled.

I’ve already been here.

I already know.

But I don’t remember.

Why?

What did I do that day?

What am I trying to undo?

The answer wasn’t on the tape.

The answer was in the silence between the words.

In that pause.

That hesitation.

The voice—the me on the tape—had broken. It had faltered at everything. As if there was more.

As if he lied.

I stood up slowly, flashlight beam cutting a path through the dust.

I walked to the back of the archive room.

Carved into the wall, behind a leaning bookshelf, was a single line:

“Don’t trust the voice.”

My flashlight died.

Darkness.