The Multicolored Congregation

I bought the old farmhouse on Cedar Lane three years ago, drawn by the sprawling porch and the promise of quiet. The previous owners had left in a hurry, they said, leaving behind a few scuffed floors and a lingering smell of lavender. My dog, a loyal border collie named Max, seemed uneasy from the start, often staring at the far wall of the living room with a low growl. I dismissed it as country quirks and settled in, relishing the solitude.

Then came the night everything changed. I had gone to bed early, exhausted from a day of clearing brush. My bedroom was at the opposite end of the house from the living room. Around 2 a.m., I jolted awake to the sound of murmuring voices, a low, rhythmic chant that seemed just beyond comprehension. And through the crack of my door, I saw pulses of colored light—reds, blues, greens, a sickly yellow—casting shifting patterns on the hallway walls. Max was not beside me; he must have been in the living room.

I rubbed my eyes, thinking the neighbors were throwing a rave, though I knew the nearest house was half a mile away. I swung my legs out of bed and padded to the door, intending to shut it and block out the noise. But as I reached for the knob, I realized the light and sound weren’t coming from outside or from the bathroom opposite. They were emanating from the living room at the end of the hall, growing brighter and louder the closer I got.

I walked slowly down the dark corridor, the floorboards groaning under my feet. The voices swelled, but as I advanced, they seemed to diminish, as if retreating from my presence. When I finally stepped into the living room, the light blinded me for a second. I blinked and saw my TV, an old CRT I rarely used, flickering with static and emitting the multicolored glow. The sound was now a faint hiss. Max was cowering in the corner, his tail between his legs, his eyes fixed on the screen, whimpering softly.

I laughed nervously, chalking it up to a faulty TV and a wild dream. I turned on the overhead light, and the screen went dark. But as I reached for the remote to turn it off, Max let out a sharp bark. The TV flared back to life, and for a split second, I saw a face—wrinkled, ancient, with empty eye sockets—staring back at me from the static. Then it was gone.

I slept on the couch the rest of the night, keeping one eye on the dead TV. The next morning, I tried to ignore the lingering chill, but Max refused to enter the living room. He would stop at the threshold and growl, his fur bristling. I decided to have the TV serviced, but the technician found nothing wrong. He even commented on its unusual age and pristine condition.

Over the following weeks, the phenomena intensified. Lights would flicker on their own, and the TV would turn on at random times, always displaying a swirl of colors. The whispers returned every night, always seeming to originate from the living room, but they’d fade as I approached. I began to sleep with earplugs and a sleeping mask, but that only made it worse—I could still sense the shifting light through the fabric.

One evening, I decided to confront the source. I set up a video camera on a tripod, pointed at the TV, and let it record while I went outside to check the power lines. When I returned, the camera’s battery was dead, even though I’d charged it fully. I plugged it in, and the footage revealed a grainy video of the room, static, and a shadowy figure emerging from the screen and moving toward the door. The figure was shaped like a man, but its limbs were too long, and it dragged a faint, glowing thread behind it.

Then came the final night. I had been at the kitchen table, sorting old papers, when I heard Max barking frantically. I rushed to the living room and found him standing in front of the TV, hackles raised. The screen was a blinding white, and the air was thick with the smell of ozone and lavender. The voices were deafening, a thousand whispering tongues that suddenly coalesced into a single, clear sentence: ‘You are the new one. You will join us.’

Before I could react, the screen flashed, and I felt a violent tug in my chest. Max yelped and burst into flames—no, not flames, but a shimmer of light that consumed him, leaving nothing but a heap of ash. I staggered back, terrified, and the door behind me slammed shut. The TV went dark, and a cold silence fell over the house.

I haven’t left since. The neighbors have reported strange lights at my farmhouse, and a few have come to check, but they never find me. I’ve become the new presence, the one who gathers the light and the whispers, waiting for the next occupant to arrive and take my place. The TV sits quiet, but I know the colors are just beneath the surface, and the voices are always ready to speak again. If you find this letter, turn back now. Don’t let the colors lure you in.