Static
April 6, 2025
Eliza hadn’t used the old TV in years. It sat in the attic, dusty and boxy, with two bent antennae like brittle insect legs.
She found it while cleaning, remembering how she and her brother used to watch Saturday morning cartoons on it. Back when things were simple. Back when he was still alive.
Just for nostalgia, she plugged it in.
The screen flickered.
No channels. Just snow—black and white static hissing like an angry snake.
She was about to turn it off when a shape moved in the static.
A figure.
Just for a moment.
Then gone.
She leaned closer.
The static pulsed.
“Eliza…”
She stumbled back.
The voice had come from the TV.
Faint. Cracking. Like it was underwater.
“Eliza… help me…”
Her skin went cold. “No. That’s not— That’s not possible.”
The voice again.
“Still here…”
A memory flashed—her brother’s face. Smiling. Laughing. Then blue and lifeless, pulled from the lake three years ago.
This is a trick, she thought. A glitch. Maybe the TV caught some signal, something from a station somewhere.
But then the screen changed.
It showed her attic. From above.
From right now.
She looked up. No camera. Nothing.
“Eliza…”
The voice was clearer now.
“I’m cold…”
The figure appeared again—closer this time. Standing in what looked like water, the static rippling around it.
Then she saw his face.
Her brother.
“Jeremy?” she whispered.
The screen buzzed violently. Lines bent. The attic lights flickered.
“Let me in,” he said. “I’m so tired.”
“No,” she said, backing away.
“Let me out.”
She ran downstairs, heart pounding, trying to breathe.
The static followed.
Every screen in her house turned on—her phone, her laptop, the microwave display. All buzzing. All showing him.
In water.
In pain.
At 3:33 a.m., the lights in her house went out.
The TV in the attic turned on by itself.
She climbed the stairs, something pulling her back up, step by step.
On the screen, Jeremy stood on the edge of whatever ghostly realm he was trapped in.
“Just one touch,” he begged. “Pull me through.”
Tears filled her eyes. “I—I don’t know how.”
“Just reach out,” he said. “Like we used to.”
Her hand hovered inches from the screen.
The glass rippled.
She could feel cold air pouring out. Smell lakewater and old pine.
“Eliza,” he whispered. “Please.”
She touched the screen.
Everything went black.
The next day, her neighbor reported the static. Said it had been blasting from the attic all night.
Police found the old TV still on, glowing faintly.
Eliza was never found.
But sometimes, late at night, if the signal’s just right, you can turn to Channel 3 and catch a glimpse:
Two siblings, standing hand in hand.
Smiling through the snow.