The Lullaby Static

Mara had always scoffed at her sister’s insistence on sleeping with the TV on—some fuzzy channel that played old cartoons and lullabies. It was silly, she thought, a childish comfort. But after her sister’s sudden death three months ago, Mara found herself in her sister’s apartment, taking over the lease, and one sleepless night, she turned on that same channel out of a desperate, aching sense of closeness. The static-laced melody of ‘Hush, Little Baby’ filled the room, and for the first time in weeks, she slept through the night.

That was three weeks ago. Tonight, the apartment felt colder than usual. Her boyfriend, Leo, was in the living room with his cousins, their laughter a muffled drone through the thin walls. Mara lay in the bed, the TV’s blue glow painting the ceiling in shifting patterns. The show was a grainy, rerun of a puppeteered musical number with cheerful marionettes. She counted the stitches on the main puppet’s cheek—there were seven—and listened to the tinny piano. She was wide awake. She knew exactly which episode it was: ‘The Rag Doll’s Revenge.’ She’d seen it a hundred times.

At 2:20 AM, Leo poked his head in. ‘Hey, I’m gonna go hang with them for a bit. You okay?’

‘Fine,’ she said, not looking away from the screen. ‘Can you turn it up a little before you go?’

He did, and she heard the door click shut. The puppets on screen were now in a graveyard, singing a song about forgotten toys. The melody was a lullaby, but something in the arrangement was off—a note too low, a beat too slow. She felt her eyelids grow heavy, but she fought it, counting the crooked headstones in the background. There were thirteen.

At 2:27, the music stopped. The puppets froze mid-dance, their painted eyes staring straight ahead. The screen flickered, and for a split second, the reflection on the dark glass showed a figure standing behind her—a tall, thin shape with elongated limbs, its head tilted at an unnatural angle. Her breath caught. She didn’t dare move. The static returned, louder now, and the lullaby resumed, but it was distorted, as if sung through a muffled throat. Then, something hit her face. Hard. A slap, sharp and cold, that snapped her head to the side. The impact was so strong that her ear rang, and the taste of blood bloomed in her mouth.

She stayed frozen, her cheek burning, her eyes fixed on the wall. The air around her seemed to thicken, and a rank smell—like wet earth and old copper—filled her nostrils. She felt a presence behind her, patient and malevolent, just out of sight. She knew that if she turned, she would see something she couldn’t unsee. So she didn’t. For five agonizing minutes, she counted her heartbeats, each one a thunder in her ears. The TV static screamed, and the lullaby became a lullaby no longer—it was a garbled, guttural hiss, like a voice trying to form words but failing.

When the sound ceased, she risked a glance. The room was still. The TV was off. The silence was absolute. She scrambled off the bed, her legs shaking, and ran out the door, down the hall, and burst into the living room. Leo and his cousins looked up, startled.

‘What’s wrong?’ Leo asked, rising.

Mara opened her mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. She only pointed toward the bedroom, her hand trembling. Leo exchanged a look with his cousins and went to check. The TV was unplugged. The remote was on the dresser. Nothing was out of place. But when he came back, his face was pale.

‘There’s a handprint on the window,’ he said quietly. ‘On the inside.’

Mara felt the cold seep into her bones. She knew that handprint wasn’t hers. It was too large, the fingers too long. And she knew, with a sickening certainty, that it had been there when she slept, that something had watched her through the night, and that it had finally decided to let her know it was there. She never turned off the TV again, but the static never stopped. It followed her, humming behind every lullaby, waiting for her to fall asleep once more.