The Green Vest Projection

The old farmhouse outside of Fargo, North Dakota, had a way of keeping its secrets. My partner, Dana, and I rented it because it was cheap and remote, and the landlord warned us about the faulty wiring—’Don’t run the microwave and the toaster at once, or you’ll trip the fuse.’ We never expected the TV in the living room to be the centerpiece of our haunting.

It was an ancient CRT, the kind with a wooden cabinet and dials that clicked. We never plugged it in; the cord was frayed, and the screen was dusty. But one evening, as I walked through the living room, I saw a faint glow. Dana was in the kitchen, so I called out, ‘Did you turn that on?’ She came in, squinting. The screen displayed a grainy image of us, sitting on the sofa, as if the TV were a mirror. But we were both standing there, watching. The image was a few seconds behind, like a delayed live feed.

We chalked it up to a trick of light, but it happened again the next night. This time, the image changed: it showed a couple in old-fashioned clothes, standing in a field that looked like it hadn’t been farmed in decades. They were arguing, their mouths moving without sound. Dana grabbed my arm. ‘Is that… us?’ she whispered. ‘No, they look like they’re from the 1930s.’

Over the weeks, the images grew clearer. Sometimes they showed us, sometimes nothing—just a static hiss. But the most unsettling were the ones that showed people who weren’t there. One night, I was alone, watching the TV flicker to life. The screen showed a man in a green vest, standing in the corner of our living room, but when I turned to look, there was no one. The man in the glass seemed to be looking at me, his mouth moving as if trying to speak. He was middle-aged, with a weathered face, and he wore a hunter’s green canvas vest with pockets.

Dana and I began to see these figures separately, at different times. I saw a house with a wrap-around porch and a crib in the window; Dana saw men marching in a muddy trench, wearing those same green vests. She described them as soldiers, maybe from the Civil War, but the vests were like hunting gear. The images started to feel like symbols, a language we couldn’t decode.

One afternoon, I fell asleep on the sofa. I woke to the TV shining blue light across the room. The image was a close-up of the man in the green vest. He was knocking on the screen from inside, as if tapping on glass. His lips moved slowly, and though I couldn’t hear him, I could read the words: ‘Remember the basement.’

I sat up, my heart pounding. The TV shut off with a pop. Dana came in from the garden, wiping dirt off her hands. I told her what I saw, and she went pale. ‘I’ve been seeing him too,’ she said. ‘He’s been trying to talk to me, but only looks at you.’ We decided to explore the basement, which we’d never used because the stairs were broken. We cleared away the cobwebs and found an old door at the far end, hidden behind a tool rack. It was locked, and the key was rusted.

We used a crowbar to pry it open. Inside was a small room, musty and cold. In the corner, propped against the wall, was a photograph in a tarnished frame. The photo showed a group of men in green vests, standing in front of this very house. In the middle was the man from the TV, his arm around a woman holding a baby. On the back, written in pencil, was a date: ‘April 3, 1934.’ And below that: ‘We never forgot.’

We didn’t understand until we lifted the floorboards. Beneath them, we found a small metal box with a lock. We broke it open and found a tattered journal, its pages swollen with moisture. The entries were written by a man named Earl, who described his time in the city during the Great Depression, how he was a part of a group of ‘Green Vests,’ a civilian relief corps. He wrote about a baby, a child who died in this house, and a promise to protect the place. The last entry was dated the same as the photo. It read: ‘If you read this, you must finish the ritual. Plant the rose bush on the grave. Only then will the projection stop.’

We looked at each other, and without a word, we went to the overgrown garden. There, in the middle, was a small, unmarked grave, half-sunk. We bought a rose bush and planted it, the thorns biting our hands. That night, the TV remained dark. The next morning, the screen was filled with static, and the man in the green vest was gone. But as we stood in the living room, the TV suddenly flickered on. It showed a live image of us, but this time, there was a third figure—a woman in a long dress, holding a baby, standing between us. We turned, but the room was empty. The TV shut off, and we heard a whisper, like wind through leaves: ‘Thank you.’

We moved out a month later. The landlord said the old house had been a commune, a place for transients during the Dust Bowl. He never knew about the grave. We never told him about the TV. But sometimes, when I’m in a new place and the lights are low, I see a flicker on a blank screen, and I wonder if the man in the green vest is still watching, waiting for us to remember something else he forgot.