The Hollow Static

The first time I noticed something wrong was when Cora, my three-year-old, stopped playing with her alphabet blocks and stared at the far corner of the living room. Her eyes were wide, her tiny body stiff. I asked her what was the matter, but she just pointed and said, ‘Bad man.’ There was no one there. I told her it was just a shadow from the porch light, but she wouldn’t look away. She started to cry, a low, wet sound that made my stomach clench. I picked her up, but she kept looking over my shoulder, her small hands fisted in my shirt.

My wife, Lena, thought it was a phase—imaginary friend gone wrong. ‘She’ll grow out of it,’ she said, but there was a tremor in her voice. Cora’s episodes became more frequent. She would freeze mid-play, her gaze fixed on empty corners, doorways, or the ceiling fan. She’d whisper, ‘He’s watching,’ and then scream, ‘Don’t let him get me!’ We tried everything: nightlights, a dreamcatcher, even moving her crib to the other side of the room. Nothing helped.

Last night, it escalated. I was putting Cora to bed when she became rigid, her eyes locked on the closet door. ‘He’s in there,’ she said, her voice eerily calm. I opened the closet, showing her it was empty, but she shook her head. ‘Not there. In the dark behind the dark.’ That phrase sent a chill down my spine. She started screaming, a high-pitched wail that made my ears ring. Lena ran in, and we tried to console her, but she just kept pointing and crying, ‘Scary, scary, scary!’

Later, after she’d finally exhausted herself, Lena and I sat in the kitchen, the fluorescent light buzzing overhead. ‘It’s just a phase,’ I said, but I didn’t believe it. Something felt off. The house seemed quieter than usual, the normal creaks and groans muted. I checked the security cameras, but the living room feed showed nothing—just static. That’s when I noticed the static was wrong. It wasn’t the usual snow; it was shaped like a face, indistinct but there. I blinked, and it was gone.

The next night, I was in the bathroom, washing my face. I felt a presence behind me. I looked in the mirror, and there was a dark shape, slightly taller than me, standing in the doorway. I whipped around, but nothing was there. My heart hammered. I tried to rationalize it: shadows, tired eyes. But then I heard Cora giggling from her room. She was laughing, and that was more terrifying than crying. I walked in, and she was sitting on her bed, staring at the closet with a content smile. ‘He’s friendly now,’ she said. ‘He says he’s been waiting.’

I don’t know what’s in our house, but it’s not imaginary. Every night, the static in the monitor grows louder. And last night, when I looked at the baby monitor, the screen showed Cora sitting up, staring at the camera, her mouth open too wide. She said, clear as day, ‘He wants you to come play too.’ I unplugged the monitor, but the static followed. It hummed from the walls, the floor, even from inside my own head. I haven’t slept in two days. I’m starting to see things at the edge of my vision—a tall, thin figure with hollow eyes. I know it’s coming for me next.