The Interference

It was the last night of summer in 2019, and I was twenty-two, housesitting for my aunt in her old farmhouse outside of Marrow, Kansas. She was on a cruise in the Mediterranean, and I had the place to myself for two weeks. The farmhouse was a creaky, drafty Victorian that leaned slightly to one side, as if it were tired of standing. The nearest neighbor was a mile down a gravel road, and the nearest town was twenty minutes away. I didn’t mind the isolation; I was writing a novel, and the quiet suited me.

That particular evening, I had spent hours at the dining room table, typing away on my laptop, but the words weren’t coming. I had a case of writer’s block that felt like a wall of static in my brain. Frustrated, I decided to take a break and watch a movie on the old television in the living room. The TV was a relic, a heavy CRT that my aunt refused to replace, and it only picked up a few channels with the rabbit ears. I fiddled with the antenna, catching a fuzzy news broadcast that was mostly white noise, but the image was clear enough to follow. It was some report about a recent storm that had knocked out power lines in the region, but I wasn’t really paying attention.

I sat on the sagging couch, wrapped in a quilt, and tried to relax. The house creaked around me, the wind rattled the windows, and the tree branches scraped against the siding like claws. At one point, I heard a faint, rhythmic sound coming from the upstairs bedroom directly above the living room. It was a repetitive thump, like someone bouncing a ball, but the room was empty. I dismissed it as the house settling, but the sound persisted, growing more insistent. I turned off the TV to listen, and the thump stopped. I shook my head and turned the TV back on, but the sound returned, this time in sync with the static on the screen.

I muted the TV, and the sound stopped. I unmuted it, and the thump started again. It was as if the static was triggering something. Curious, I turned the volume down low and went upstairs to check the bedroom. The door was closed, which I found odd because I had left it open earlier. I pushed it open, and the room was dark, but I could see the faint outline of a radio on the nightstand. It was an old AM/FM radio that my aunt kept there, and it was on, emitting a low hiss. I hadn’t turned it on, and the cord was not plugged in. The radio was battery-powered, and the batteries should have been dead. I picked it up, and the hiss grew louder, morphing into something that sounded like a garbled voice, almost intelligible. I dropped it, and it clattered to the floor, the sound cutting off abruptly.

I retreated to the living room, unnerved. I decided to call my girlfriend, Maya, to talk, but when I dialed, the call wouldn’t connect. The phone showed ‘No Service,’ even though I had full bars a moment before. I tried the landline in the kitchen, but it was dead. I chalked it up to the storm damage. I decided to go to bed early, hoping a good night’s sleep would reset my brain. I walked upstairs to the master bedroom, which was at the opposite end of the hall from the radio room. As I passed the radio room, I noticed the door was ajar. I hadn’t opened it after I dropped the radio. I pushed it closed and continued to my room.

I lay in bed, the sheets cool against my skin, but sleep did not come easily. The house was unusually quiet, as if holding its breath. Then, I heard a faint, repetitive beeping from downstairs, like a smoke detector with a low battery. I groaned and got up to investigate. The beeping led me to the kitchen, where the microwave clock was blinking 12:00, but the beeping wasn’t from the microwave. It was coming from a baby monitor that my aunt must have left on the counter. I had never seen it before. It was an old model, with a static-filled speaker. I picked it up, and the beeping turned into a crackle, then a voice, clear as day, said, ‘You are not alone.’ I nearly dropped it. I set it down and backed away, my heart pounding.

I tried to rationalize it. Maybe it was a pirate radio signal, or a prank. But the voice was calm, intimate, as if it was spoken right into my ear. I felt a chill run down my spine. I went back to the living room and noticed the TV was on, even though I had turned it off. The screen was filled with static, and the volume was low, but I could hear a faint whispering underneath. I stood there, frozen, as the whispering grew louder, coalescing into a single voice that said, ‘Come find me.’

I should have left, but my car keys were on the table, and I was too scared to move. The voice came from the static, and it sounded like my own voice, but distorted, as if from a bad recording. I felt a presence behind me, and I spun around, but there was nothing. The whisper continued, ‘I’m in the basement.’ I had explored the house earlier, but I hadn’t gone into the basement because the door was locked from the outside, and I didn’t have the key. Now, the door was standing open at the end of the hallway.

I walked toward it, my feet heavy, as if I were wading through water. The basement stairs descended into darkness, and the air was cold and musty. I flipped the light switch, but nothing happened. I pulled out my phone, but the flashlight wouldn’t activate. The voice echoed from below, ‘You’re close.’ I took a step down, and the stairs creaked under my weight. The darkness seemed to swallow the light from my phone, which glowed weakly, but I could see a faint outline of a figure at the bottom, standing perfectly still.

I called out, ‘Who’s there?’ but my voice was swallowed by the silence. The figure didn’t move. I took another step, and the figure took a step closer. I realized with horror that it was mimicking me. I stopped, and it stopped. I turned to run, but the stairwell behind me was gone. I was in a complete void, and the only direction was forward. The figure spoke, and this time, it was clear, it was my voice, but colder, ‘I’ve been waiting for you to come home.’

I woke up on the floor of the living room, the TV buzzing with static and the room bathed in a pale blue light. The radio was on the table, next to my phone, which showed a missed call from Maya. I checked the time, it was 3:33 AM. The radio was quietly hissing, and from the static, I could make out a faint, rhythmic thumping, like a heartbeat. I unplugged the radio and threw it across the room, but the hissing continued from the TV, even when I turned it off. I sat in the dark, trembling, until dawn broke.

When I called Maya later, she told me she had a strange dream that night, where I was calling out to her from a deep, dark place, but she couldn’t reach me. I never found an explanation for what happened that night. The next day, I left the farmhouse and never returned. To this day, I still hear that static hiss sometimes, especially when I’m alone in a quiet room, and I know it’s waiting for me to listen.