The silence is broken only by the electric hiss of the TV, which flickers erratically in the darkness. The Man, gaunt and weary, sits hunched on a threadbare couch, his eyes rimmed with red from too many sleepless nights. He glances at the glowing clock on the wall—3:00 AM. The room feels colder than it should, the air dense with anticipation. "They say that at 3:33 AM, the barrier between our world and the next is at its thinnest. Most people call it the 'Witching Hour.' I used to call it a superstition," he murmurs, voice barely above the static.
The Man shifts uneasily, his gaze fixed on the TV. "It started with the television in my guest room. I haven't watched cable in years, yet every night, it turns itself on. Just static. Cold, vibrating white noise that seems to suck the heat out of the air," he confides, voice tinged with disbelief and fatigue. The shadows in the hallway seem to creep closer, feeding off the television’s unnatural glow.
Unable to look away, the Man leans forward, his face mere inches from the flickering glass. The static shifts, swirling around the dark shape, which grows clearer with each passing second. "Last night, I didn't turn it off. I leaned in close. My nose was inches from the glass. I realized the static wasn’t random. It was moving around something. A silhouette. A figure standing in a hallway that looked exactly like mine," he whispers, heart pounding in his chest.
The Man swallows hard, his breath shallow. The static grows louder, almost deafening, as the figure in the TV reaches forward. In its hand, it clutches a remote control, identical to the one lying forgotten on the man’s coffee table. "My heart stopped when I saw what the figure was holding. It was a remote. It pointed it at me, and I heard a click. Not from the TV... but from behind my left ear," he says, his voice trembling.
The room plunges into oppressive silence as the static ceases. In the reflection, the Man sees himself, wide-eyed and frozen, while the ghostly hands reach ever closer. The darkness behind him thickens, swallowing the last remnants of the TV’s glow. He does not move; his terror is absolute.
"Now I know why the static is so loud. It’s not noise. It’s the sound of them trying to scream their way into our world. And I just let the door stand wide open," he breathes, as the darkness consumes everything.
