The Ninth Setting

Marcus had always taken pride in his modern apartment—the sleek lines, the smart appliances, and above all, his new television. It was a marvel of technology, a 65-inch OLED with a user interface that felt like magic. He could browse programs a week in advance, set reminders, schedule recordings, and even have the set drift into sleep mode after he dozed off. For a year, it had been perfect.

Then, two weeks ago, the first oddity occurred. He was watching a documentary on deep-sea creatures when the screen flickered to a reality show about house flipping. He blinked, thinking he had hit the remote by accident, but the remote sat untouched on the coffee table. He changed it back, but a few minutes later, it jumped again, this time to a cooking competition. Annoyed, he turned the TV off.

The next evening, a notification popped up: ‘We think you’ll enjoy ‘Ancient Aliens’ at 8 PM.’ He didn’t remember setting any reminder for that. He dismissed it, but the channel switched anyway at 8 PM sharp, overriding his current show. He tried to protest, but the TV ignored him. Over the next days, it escalated: the volume would adjust, the screen would go to static, and the sleep mode would activate at random times, plunging him into darkness.

Frustrated, Marcus called the rental company. They sent a technician who replaced the TV with a brand-new one, still sealed in its box. The man unpacked it, set it up, and left. For the first few hours, it behaved. Then, as Marcus settled in to watch a late-night thriller, the new TV began its tricks. The channel changed to a home shopping network. A pop-up appeared: ‘Don’t forget to record ‘Bargain Hunters’ tonight.’ The sleep mode kicked in, and the TV shut off, leaving him in stunned silence.

Determined to find answers, Marcus searched online. He found articles about interference from neighbors’ remotes, passing trucks, and even solar flares. But the remote-only theory didn’t hold—he had unplugged the receiver, and the TV still acted up. The truck theory seemed absurd. Then he stumbled upon a forum post titled ‘Your TV is Watching You.’ It described a phenomenon called ‘Ghostcast,’ where rental TVs were being controlled by an unknown entity through the cable network. The post was old, from 2009, and had been locked for ‘inappropriate content.’

Curiosity turned to unease. That night, Marcus decided to test the TV. He unplugged it, disconnecting it from the power and the antenna. He waited in the dark, listening to the hum of appliances. Then, from the silent screen, he heard a faint crackle. The TV was still off, but the standby light glowed red. He approached it, and as he leaned in, the screen flickered to life, displaying a single line of text: ‘You’ve been chosen.’

A cold dread washed over him. He grabbed the remote to turn it off, but the remote was dead. The screen changed to a live feed—a grainy night-vision view of his own hallway. He watched as the front door opened, and a figure stepped inside, his own face, twisted in a grin. The feed showed him entering the bedroom, then the living room, and approaching the TV. The feed from the TV showed the back of his head as he stood mere inches from the screen. On the TV, the Marcus on the feed reached out and touched the screen, and a voice, thin and electronic, whispered through the speakers: ‘I’ve been waiting a year for you.’

Marcus stumbled backward, his heart pounding. He looked toward the hallway, but no one was there. He looked back at the TV—the feed had changed. It now showed a room he didn’t recognize, a sterile white room with a single chair. On the chair sat a woman, her head bowed. She lifted her head, and her eyes were black, like voids. She spoke to him in that same tinny voice: ‘They all think it’s just a TV. But we’re here. We’ve always been here. Through the wires, through the signals. We control the settings, the channels, the sleep mode. And soon, we’ll control you.’

The screen went black, but the standby light glowed brighter. Marcus rushed to the window, threw it open, and screamed for help. But the street was empty, the streetlights flickering. He turned back, and the TV was on again, this time displaying a countdown: 00:00:00. It struck zero, and the lights in his apartment dimmed. A low hum filled the room, growing louder. Marcus clapped his hands over his ears as the hum became a deafening roar. The TV screen shattered inward, and a torrent of black static poured out, enveloping him.

When he woke, he was sitting in the white room, in the chair. The woman was gone. The room had a single door, and through a small window, he saw a long corridor lined with identical doors. A speaker crackled, and a voice—his own—said, ‘Welcome home. You’re the ninth tonight. The settings have been adjusted. Sleep mode has been activated.’

The lights dimmed, and Marcus felt an overwhelming drowsiness. He tried to fight it, but his eyelids grew heavy. As he drifted into darkness, he heard the distant sound of a television tuning, and a cheerful jingle: ‘You’re watching the Night Broadcast.’ And then, nothing.