The Last Three Bars

The apartment on Arlington Street had thin walls, and the neighbor’s argument was bleeding through like a persistent stain. I lay in bed, the glow of the television painting the ceiling in shifting blues, the volume cranked to a level that rattled the picture frames. I was bone-tired, the kind of fatigue that makes your eyelids feel like lead, but the noise was a physical presence, a pressure against my eardrums. The remote sat on the nightstand, an arm’s length away, but it might as well have been on the moon. My limbs were weights, and the effort to move them seemed colossal. I finally mustered the strength, my hand fumbling for the plastic rectangle, and pressed the volume down until the green bars on the TV’s display shrank to a tolerable level. I sighed, rolled onto my side, and closed my eyes.

But the silence was short-lived. The volume crept back up, one bar at a time, like a slow, deliberate breath. I snapped my eyes open, staring at the screen. The sitcom on the TV, some rerun with a laugh track, was growing louder again. I groaned, reached over, and pressed the button again, holding it until the bars were at a minimum. I kept my hand on the remote, watching the display. I counted the seconds. One. Two. Three. Then, as if animated by an invisible thumb, the bars began to climb again. My heart started a dull, heavy rhythm. I wasn’t a believer in the supernatural, but logic offered no explanation. I swung my legs out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold floor, and crossed to the light switch, flicking it on. The sudden brightness made me squint, but it also felt like a shield. Nothing could hide in that harsh, yellow light.

I turned to the TV, the volume now back to its previous, obnoxious level. The laugh track erupted again, a chorus of disembodied voices. I grabbed the remote from the bed, aimed it like a weapon, and pounded the volume-down button until it clicked and the bars were gone entirely. I held my breath, waiting. The apartment was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator. I turned to walk back to bed, but a flicker of movement at the edge of my vision stopped me. The volume bar on the screen had reappeared, climbing rapidly, bypassing its previous peak and heading toward the maximum. The laugh track returned, swelling to a crescendo, the faces on the screen seeming to grin wider. I stared, my mouth slightly open. This was no longer just a malfunction. There was intent in that rising bar.

The show cut to a scene of a young man in a brightly colored shirt, his eyes wide as he looked at a smoldering kitchen. The laugh track roared. But the volume kept climbing, past the safe zone, into the red, and the sound became distorted, a wall of noise that vibrated in my chest. I could feel the bass in my teeth. I yelled, ‘Stop!’ The word was swallowed by the cacophony. And then, as if my shout had been a command, the light bulb in the ceiling fixture exploded with a sharp pop, showering glass onto the floor. The volume dropped instantly, but not to zero. It settled at three bars, a low murmur just above the threshold of hearing. The TV continued playing, but the sound was a whisper, incongruous with the frantic visuals. My mother’s footsteps pounded up the stairs, her voice sharp with worry. ‘Why is the TV so loud? What was that noise?’ I opened my mouth to answer, but I couldn’t find the words. The volume bar on the screen pulsed gently, three green segments, like a patient eye. I turned to her, my face pale, and said, ‘I don’t know. It’s… it’s doing it by itself.’ She flicked the TV off with the remote, and the room fell into a sudden, heavy silence. I thought I saw, in the reflection of the dark screen, a faint shape, a smudge of grey, like a face pressed against the glass from the inside. But then it was gone.

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the dead TV, the three bars burned into my memory. The next morning, I tried to dismiss it as a wiring issue, a faulty capacitor, a trick of the light. But when my mother left for work, I found myself drawn back to the television. I turned it on, the screen flickering to life, and the volume was still at three bars. I changed the channel to a news program, but after a minute, the bars began to climb again. I pressed the volume-down button, but this time, the remote felt heavier, resistant. I looked down, and the button was stuck, pressed in as if by an invisible finger. I pried it out with my nail, and the volume dropped back to three. But the pattern continued. Whenever I tried to lower it below three, it would snap back, as if a minimum volume was a hard limit. I started to suspect that something wanted to be heard, even if I couldn’t see it.

A week passed, and I had grown accustomed to the television always being on, its volume fixed at that low threshold. I’d fall asleep to the murmur of infomercials, the dull drone of test patterns, the distant sounds of a world I wasn’t part of. But then, the show changed. It was late, and I was drifting off, when the TV switched to static. The volume didn’t change, but the static was a harsh hiss, cutting through the quiet. I sat up, fumbling for the remote. The static cleared, and a distorted image appeared, too blurry to make out, but unmistakably human. The audio was a garbled mess, words stretched and twisted, but I caught fragments. ‘…can’t… not… three…’ And then, as sudden as it started, the picture resolved into the familiar sitcom, the volume still at three bars. But now I was sure. That distorted voice had been the same one that had been laughing all along. It was a laugh, but it was also a plea.

I told my mother, but she thought I was being dramatic. She threatened to take the TV away if I kept ‘playing games.’ So I stopped talking about it. I became a prisoner in my own home, my sleep schedule shattered. I’d stay up, watching the volume bar, trying to understand. Sometimes, I’d see the bar flicker, going from three to two, then back to three, as if something was struggling to break through. I started to reply. I’d whisper into the dark, ‘What are you?’ But there was never an answer. Not in words. But when I asked, the volume would drop to two, just for a second, and the screen would flash a rapid series of images: a crowded street, a blur of faces, a child’s hand waving. I couldn’t make sense of it.

One night, I dreamed of a woman standing at the foot of my bed. Her face was pale, her eyes were hollow, and her mouth moved, but no sound came out. She pointed at the television, and the screen showed a graveyard scene, the camera panning over a field of headstones. One stone was cracked, the name worn away, but I knew it was hers. She spoke, and I heard her voice through the TV, low and gravelly, like the static from before. ‘You can’t lower the volume below three because three is my number. I was the third victim. When you hit the button, you’re silencing me. But you can’t. I will be heard.’ I woke up gasping, my heart pounding. The TV was still on, and the volume, for the first time since that night, had climbed to its maximum. The laugh track was blaring, but beneath it, I heard a whispering, a chorus of voices, all saying my name. I looked at the screen, and the sitcom was replaced by a live feed of my own bedroom. I was glaring back at myself, wide-eyed, my hand reaching for the remote. The volume bar on the screen showed three, but the audio was deafening. I screamed, and the light bulb in the hallway burst. The TV went black, and in the silence, I heard a final, satisfying click, as if a lock had been turned. The volume bar had vanished, and the screen flickered to life one last time, displaying a single word in white, blocky letters: ‘HEARD.’