Welcome back to #IHEARTJROCK! This was recorded at the Valley Free Radio studios on July4th! 2026. We had a mini celebration of USA, also a lot of requests, retro, new music and more! Playlist from Spinitron and chat archives below. Thanks for the requests!
Some photo’s of the DJSs
The House That Wasn’t Haunted by DJSakura666
No one in Graymoor crossed the iron gate of Bellweather House after sunset. The old Victorian mansion leaned over the hill like a widow in black lace, its broken windows flashing whenever lightning rolled across the sky. People said the house was haunted by Mrs. Bellweather, who had vanished there thirty years before, leaving only a smear of blood on the ballroom floor.
Detective Mara Vale did not believe in ghosts. She believed in footprints, locked doors, and lies. So when the body of Mr. Dorran, the town banker, was found beneath the mansion’s grand staircase, she brought a lantern, a notebook, and a pistol.
Inside, Bellweather House groaned in the wind. A chandelier creaked above her. Somewhere deep in the walls, something scraped—slow, patient, almost breathing. Then a whisper drifted from the darkness: “Leave before she sees you.”
Mara raised her lantern. The hallway was empty, but dust on the floor told a different story. Fresh bootprints led behind a tall bookcase, where one shelf had been rubbed clean by many hands. She pulled it open and found a narrow passage running between the walls.
At the end of the passage, she discovered a hidden room lit by candle stubs. There were stolen jewels, ledgers from the bank, and three men in dark coats. One held a knife still stained red.
“There’s no ghost,” Mara said.
The tallest man smiled. “Of course there is. We made her.”
For years, the gang had used Bellweather House as a den, spreading stories of ghostly music, moving shadows, and bloodless faces at the windows. Anyone who came too close was frightened away. Mr. Dorran had not been frightened. He had followed his missing money to the house—and died for it.
The men lunged, but Mara fired into the ceiling. Plaster rained down like pale ash. “Next one goes lower.”
By dawn, the criminals were in chains, and the town gathered outside the gate to watch them taken away. The haunted house seemed smaller in daylight, its towers less like horns, its windows only glass.
But as Mara turned to leave, she noticed one thing no thief had made: a woman’s pale handprint pressed into the dust on the inside of a locked attic window.
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