The Last Broadcast of Channel 13

The summer I turned thirteen, my cousin Marcus and I were left to our own devices in my grandparents’ old farmhouse while they attended a funeral three counties over. The house was a relic of a bygone era, with a dusty, wood-paneled basement we had turned into our personal fort. Cursing was our rebellion, a secret language we used when the adults were gone, and the old television set with its rabbit-ear antenna was our confidant.

One sweltering afternoon, with the windows fogged from our forbidden soda and chips, we were watching a rerun of a toothpaste commercial. A cheerful woman with a blindingly white smile extolled the virtues of the latest formula, her voice syrupy and false. Marcus, emboldened by the power of our secret, shouted at the screen, ‘Go choke on your minty paste, you plastic-faced hag!’ I snorted, nearly choking on my own laughter.

Then the woman paused mid-sentence. Her smile didn’t falter, but her eyes—those deceptively warm eyes—swiveled directly to the camera. To us. She said, ‘Excuse me, young man? I don’t appreciate being spoken to in that manner.’ The commercial continued as if nothing had happened, but the air in the room had turned cold. We stared at each other, the laughter dying in our throats.

We switched to a different channel, but a late-night talk show host, in the middle of a monologue, stopped and looked into the lens. ‘Marcus, I heard that. You should be ashamed.’ His voice was friendly, but his eyes held a glint of menace. We turned it off, and in the ringing silence, the TV hummed. A soft, static whisper began to emanate from the speakers, growing louder until it formed words. ‘Don’t ignore us, boys. We have so much to show you.’

The screen flickered back to life, now showing a grainy image of our own basement. But in the feed, Marcus and I were sitting on the floor, our faces blank, our eyes reflecting the glow of the TV that was broadcasting the signal. In the feed, a woman’s voice—the same toothpaste woman—intoned, ‘This is your future. Be careful what you say.’

The next day, my grandmother called to check in. Her voice, distant and hollow, said, ‘Boys, the TV in the basement—don’t watch it. There’s something wrong with it.’ But it was too late. That night, we had left it on, and when we woke, the television was showing a live feed of our bedroom, but we weren’t in it. Our sleeping forms were on the screen, and the woman from the commercial was standing over us, holding a tube of toothpaste that oozed black liquid.

The feed flickered, and she looked straight at the camera, straight at us, and whispered, ‘I see you, Marcus. I see you, Daniel. You have such dirty mouths. Let’s clean them together.’

We tried to unplug the TV, but the plug was fused to the outlet. We smashed the screen, but the shards reassembled, forming a mirror in which our reflections were not our own. In that mirror, our mouths were sewn shut, and our eyes were wide with terror. The woman’s voice came from every speaker in the house, ‘You will never curse again. You will never speak of this. You will watch, and you will learn.’

Over the next weeks, we became prisoners in our own home. The TV showed us events before they happened: our grandfather slipping on the stairs, our mother crying at the kitchen table. And always, the woman’s face would appear, smiling, asking, ‘Are you going to say something rude? Go ahead, try it.’ But we couldn’t. Our voices had been stolen.

One night, the TV showed a channel with static, and through the noise, a faint voice: ‘Help us.’ It was a boy’s voice, young and desperate. The picture cleared to show a child, no older than seven, sitting in a room identical to our basement, but with different furniture. He looked at us, his face tear-streaked, and said, ‘They made me watch. They said if I curse, they’ll take my voice too. You have to find me. You have to break the signal.’

We followed his directions, finding a hidden panel behind the old coal chute. Behind it was a nest of wires and an ancient TV, the kind from the 1950s, with a crackling picture of a test pattern. On the floor lay a diary, written by a kid named Timothy, who had lived in the house decades ago. His last entry read, ‘She said I was rude, so she took my voice. I’m sorry, Mom.’

The TV turned on by itself, and the woman’s face appeared, larger than life. ‘So you found my little collection, did you? You’ve been very naughty, but I’m forgiving. Just say it. Say the words you said before, and I’ll let you go.’

I opened my mouth, but no sound came. Marcus did the same. The woman’s smile widened. ‘Suit yourselves. Then stay with me forever.’

The basement lights flickered, and the TV screens multiplied, surrounding us, all showing our own terrified faces. The woman’s voice became a chorus, ‘Watch, learn, and never speak.’

We never told anyone what happened. My grandparents sold the house a year later, and we moved away. But sometimes, late at night, when the static on the TV is just right, I can still hear her voice, asking, ‘Excuse me, what did you say?’ And I know, wherever that house is, another child is learning the price of a curse.