The Lenten Lens

On the night before Easter, 2007, the air in our small Ohio town was thick with the smell of rain and freshly cut lilies from the church across the street. My fourteen-year-old daughter, Maya, and her two friends, Zoe and Rachel, were sprawled on the living room floor, their laughter echoing off the walls as they watched a comedy film on our old CRT television. I was in the kitchen, half-listening, half-worried about the ham I was preparing for tomorrow’s feast. My husband, Dan, was dozing in the armchair, the newspaper over his face.

Maya had recently gotten a video-capable flip phone, a clunky silver brick that could only capture fifteen seconds of choppy footage before shutting off. She loved to film funny moments around the house, and tonight she was trying to catch the ridiculous faces of the actor on screen. Zoe and Rachel were egging her on, their voices a constant chatter. I heard the familiar beep of the phone starting a recording, and then the sound of laughter. I smiled and turned back to my ham.

A few minutes later, the laughter stopped. I heard Maya say, “What the heck…” in a confused voice. I walked toward the living room, wiping my hands on my apron. The three girls were huddled around the phone, their faces pale in the bluish light of the TV. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

Maya held up the phone, her hand trembling slightly. She had filmed a clip of the TV screen, but when I looked at the tiny display, I saw something impossible. Floating in the air in front of the television, superimposed over the actor’s face, was a three-dimensional object. It was black, like a twisted piece of silk, but it had a shape—a rough elongated shape, with a form that seemed to have a face lying sideways, its features indistinct but distinctly there, an eye, a mouth twisted as if in agony. And on top of the TV, I noticed small red lights that I had never seen before, glowing like tiny embers.

“It’s just a glitch,” Zoe said, but her voice was shaky.

“Maybe it’s the reflection,” Rachel added, but she wouldn’t look at the phone again.

Maya took another recording, but it was normal—just the movie playing. The red lights were gone. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had seen something real. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about that floating object, the face lying sideways, the red lights. At 3:00 AM, I got up to get a glass of water. As I passed the living room, I saw the TV was on, static buzzing. The red lights were back on the TV, but they were brighter, and they seemed to pulse. And in the static, I thought I saw the same shape, the face, now more defined, staring at me.

I called Maya’s name softly, but no one came. I walked closer to the TV, my heart pounding. The static cleared for a moment, and I saw a reflection in the screen—but it wasn’t me. It was a woman, her face half-rotten, her hair matted, her eyes black. She was standing behind me. I spun around, but no one was there. When I turned back, the TV was off, and the red lights were gone.

The next morning, Easter Sunday, I found Maya sitting in front of the TV, staring at the blank screen. She hadn’t touched her Easter basket. She told me she had a dream that night. A woman with a twisted face was standing in the doorway, reaching out to her, whispering something about a “tobacco store.” I didn’t know what that meant, but it chilled me.

Later that day, I tried to recreate what had happened. I picked up Maya’s phone and looked at the date on the file: April 8th, 2007. But wait, the date on the phone was April 7th, 2007. We had recorded the clip at 10:35 PM on the 7th. But the file metadata said April 8th, 3:02 AM. The time I was at the TV. But the clip was filmed AT the TV, not by me.

I’ve never been able to explain it. The red lights are still there, hidden behind the screen, pulsing faintly when I look at the TV in the dark. And sometimes, when I’m alone, I hear a voice, a faint whisper, saying, “Turn it off. Turn it off.” But I can’t. I’m afraid if I do, something will come through.

I’ve kept the clip, though I’ve never shown it to anyone else. Every time I watch it, the object seems different—the face more distinct, the black shape more solid. And last week, I noticed something new: a faint reflection in the TV screen, of a woman standing in our living room, holding a camera. When I looked closer, I saw it was me. But I wasn’t holding a camera. And in the reflection, I was smiling.

I don’t know what we captured that night. But I know it’s still here, waiting for the right moment to show itself again. And I know it’s not just a glitch. It’s something that came into our home, and I’m afraid it never left.