In a quiet nursery, an old AM radio crackles to life, its amber glow casting long shadows across the crib. Luna sits beside it, her voice low and trembling, as she pulls stories from the static — tales of frequencies that shouldn't exist, of voices that slip through the airwaves to whisper secrets only children can hear. Each episode of Static Lullaby is a stand-alone descent into the eerie world of broadcast horror: a pirate radio station that plays lullabies from the dead, a ham operator who picks up a distress call from a town that vanished in 1959, a late-night talk show guest whose laugh hides a parasite. These are not stories of monsters under the bed, but of the static between stations, the flicker of a dying tube, the soft hum of a receiver left on after midnight. Luna's narration is a hush, a secret shared in the dark, each tale a lullaby that soothes and unsettles in equal measure. The nursery window flutters; the static hisses. Listen closely, but don't fall asleep.

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