Every town has its stories. Bridgeport has more than most. They travel through the wrong places-through static that never quite clears, through streetlamps that buzz when no one's around, through the shadows under beds and behind closet doors. The grown-ups say it's bad wiring, bad dreams, imagination. The kids know better. Because in Bridgeport, stories don't stay stories. They crawl out of the woods at night with eyes that glow like flashlights. They sit waiting on your porch in cracked birthday greasepaint. They whisper from under the mattress, humming in voices too close to your own. They smile wide, open their arms, and ask for a hug. Once you've heard them, they don't let go. From ghost cats to playground lights that burn long after curfew, from the substitute teacher who doesn't quite blink right to the baby that scurries under your bed when your parents aren't home-Wrong Channels is a collection of dark legends and suburban horrors. Stories passed from kid to kid, from night to night, until they start to sound less like fiction and more like memory. And once you tune in, you'll never be able to change the channel. Bridgeport is waiting