The Constant Rap

The first time I heard it, I was drowning in the static of a dead channel. The CRT television in my room was a relic, a bulky obsidian block that hummed with a low electric thrum even when turned off. My mom refused to throw it out, saying it was ‘vintage.’ I called it a portal to nowhere. That night, the static wasn’t just noise; it was a canvas. And on that canvas, shapes were beginning to form.

It started as a flicker, a fast-moving dark smudge in the corner of the screen. I blinked, and it was gone. But then I noticed the shadows in my room. My room was a cube of light; I had lamps in every corner, with bulbs so bright they cast a sterile, clinical glow. The only dark space was behind the television, a wedge of black that defied the light. I’d always felt a trickle of unease looking at it, but now it felt like a gaze looking back. The shadow there seemed to have substance, a deeper blackness that shifted when I wasn’t looking.

The television started making that sound. It wasn’t the usual crackle of interferenc; it was a rhythmic, deliberate tapping from inside the glass. At first, it was faint, like a finger tapping on a table. Then, it grew louder, more insistent, a rapid staccato that echoed through the room. It would come in bursts, sometimes a single sharp rap that made me jump, other times a frantic drumming that shook the TV in its stand. My mom said it was the tube warming up or cooling down, but I knew it wasn’t. It was knocking back.

Then the shadows began to move. They weren’t confined to the corner anymore. They lurked in the edges of my vision, darting across the walls, pooling under my desk. I would catch them in my peripheral vision, dark shapes that were taller than any human, their heads brushing the ceiling. When I turned to look directly, they would vanish, leaving a faint, icy afterimage. The air in my room grew cold, a clammy chill that clung to my skin no matter how high I turned up the heat.

The harassment escalated with the cold. As I walked toward the door, a hand would grip my hair, yanking me back with a violent jerk that snapped my neck. The grip was real, the pain blinding, the sensation of hair being pulled from the roots. I would spin around, my heart hammering, and there would be nothing. Just the empty room, the shadows still, the television silent for a moment before letting out a low growl that vibrated through the floorboards. The growl wasn’t from the TV; it was from everywhere, a throaty, menacing rumble that made the cat yowl and streak out of the room. The cat, my constant companion, now refused to enter my room. It would stand at the threshold, its back arched, its ears flat, hissing at something I couldn’t see.

The tapping on the television became a full-on assault. It would start the moment I turned off my lamp, the darkness swallowing the room except for the faint, phosphorescent glow of the screen. The tapping would echo, and then I would hear the shuffling of feet, the whisper of fabric on fabric, the harsh, rasping whispers that I couldn’t quite make out, but I knew they were directed at me. Sometimes the words felt like my own name, stretched and distorted. Then the window would rattle, as if someone was knocking on the glass from the outside, but my room was on the second floor, with no balcony. The knocking would grow insistent, a rapid, angry pounding that made the window glass tremble.

One night, I had enough. I decided to confront it, to turn on every light, to banish the shadows. I flipped the main switch, but the room stayed dark. The lamp on my nightstand flickered and died. The lamp by my desk gave out with a small pop. Even the digital clock on my shelf went dark. The only light was the television, and on its screen, a figure was visible. It was solid black, with no features, but I knew it was watching me. The tapping inside the glass became synchronized with the pounding on the window, a two-sided assault of sound that drilled into my skull. I clapped my hands over my ears, but the sound was inside my head now, a relentless, rhythmic beat that was the heartbeat of the room.

The sounds stopped at once. The room was silent, so silent I could hear my own blood rushing in my ears. And then, from behind the television, a voice spoke. It was a deep, guttural growl, but the words were clear as day: ‘You can’t turn on the light. We are the light.’ I spun around, my back to the wall, my eyes wide. The shadow behind the TV had grown, stretching out, its edges dripping into the room. It was no longer a shadow; it was a form, indistinct but solid, taking shape as a tall, thin figure. The figure took a step forward. I wanted to run, but my legs were locked. The figure reached out a hand, long and spindly, and I could feel the cold emanate from it. The hand passed through my chest, and the cold spread through me, a freezing numbness that weighed me down, suffocating my breath. And I heard a soft, mocking laugh that came from everywhere and nowhere.

I opened my mouth to scream, but I found my voice was gone. The light in the room began to return, the lamps flickering back to life, the TV screen fading to a hissing snow. The shadow shrunk back to its corner, a silent, lurking presence. I was lying on my bed, trembling, my clothes soaked with sweat. The constant rap of the television had subsided, replaced by a faint, low hum. But I knew it was waiting. And I knew that, no matter how many lights I had, there would always be a corner of shadow, and in that shadow, something would be knocking, always knocking, until I finally answered.

It has been weeks since that night, and I have not slept in my room since. I have sealed the door with plastic and duct tape, but I can still hear it on the other side. The tapping is always there, steady, rhythmic, like a heartbeat. My mom thinks I’m having a breakdown. The cat meows at the door at all hours. I dare not open it. I know what waits behind it, in the shadow of that television, waiting to pull me into the dark. The constant rap will never stop until I give in. And I am running out of time.