The Pawnshop Television

The house at 13 Carrowmore Lane had always felt watchful, but never outright hostile—until the morning the television in my son’s room switched itself on. I was in the living room, a stack of bills fanned across my desk, when the tinny crackle of static bled through the walls. My fingers froze above the keyboard. It was the sound of an old CRT warming up, a sound I knew well, because I’d bought that TV three years ago from a pawnshop on the edge of town, a bulky TV/VCR combo that had sat in our son’s room like a dormant beast.

I padded down the hallway, my heart tapping a nervous rhythm against my ribs. The door to Leo’s room was ajar, and through the gap I saw the screen flickering with gray noise. No one was inside; the room was empty, the bed unmade, Lego bins stacked against the far wall. I stepped in, grabbed the remote from the nightstand, and pressed the power button. The screen went black. I pressed it again, and it came back on. The remote’s timer function was untouched, the clock not even set. That TV had never misbehaved before, not once in three years.

I told my husband, Dan, who was hunched over his laptop at the dining room table, a half-empty mug of coffee growing cold beside him. He shrugged, suggesting a timer glitch. But I knew better. I had felt something three days prior, standing on the front porch in the thin morning light—a prickling at the back of my neck, as if someone were watching from the overgrown rhododendrons. I’d dismissed it as a stray cat.

That night, I couldn’t shake the memory. I lay in bed, Dan’s steady breathing a low drum, and listened to the house settle. At three in the morning, the television in Leo’s room clicked on again, its glow spilling under the door like a pale eye. I slipped out of bed and crept down the hall, my feet cold on the hardwood. The screen showed static, but as I watched, the static began to coalesce into shapes—a shadowy figure, a doorway, a child’s silhouette. The VCR was blinking 12:00, though I had never set the clock. A low hum emanated from the speaker, and beneath it, faintly, I heard a child’s voice whispering, ‘It’s warm in here.’

I yanked the plug from the wall, my breath ragged. The screen blackened, but the glow of the porch light outside cast long fingers through the window. I wouldn’t sleep that night.

The next day, I decided to get rid of the TV. I called a local electronics recycler, but when I went to Leo’s room to unplug it, the screen was on, displaying a clear image: my front porch, filmed from the corner, as if from a camera mounted on the wall. I saw myself walk across the porch the day before, my eyes darting to the bushes. Then the image flickered to the dining room, where Dan sat at the table, his face lit by his laptop. He didn’t look up. The image shifted again—to Leo’s room, where my younger daughter, Emma, was sitting on the edge of the bed, playing with a tablet. She looked up, straight at the lens, and smiled.

The VCR began to whir, and a tape slid out. I hadn’t inserted a tape. It was blank, but as I stared, faint lines appeared—a woman in a tattered dress, her mouth open in a silent scream, and behind her, the same shadowy figure. I didn’t touch it. I backed out of the room, and for the rest of the day, I kept all the doors shut.

That evening, Dan and I had a fight about the TV. He said I was being paranoid, that old sets had quirks, but I refused to keep it in the house. He agreed, reluctantly, to haul it to the curb the next morning. I fell asleep on the couch, exhausted, but was jolted awake at 2:47 AM by a crash from Leo’s room. I ran in to find the TV on its face on the carpet, the screen cracked, blue light sputtering. The VCR was ejecting a tape, its plastic casing cracked, and from the tangled ribbon of tape I could make out images: a family, sitting in a living room, watching that same TV—and then everything dissolving into static.

I unplugged the TV and dragged it to the garage, then drove it to the dump the next day, watching the bulldozer crush it into a twisted lattice of glass and metal. But when I returned home, the TV was in Leo’s room, back on its stand, the screen whole and glowing, displaying a black-and-white image of my living room. In the image, I saw myself on the couch, my hands covering my face, and behind me, a tall, dark figure leaned over my shoulder.

I haven’t told anyone else. My husband thinks I’ve lost my mind. But this morning, as I passed Leo’s door, the TV was off, and yet I heard a child’s laughter from inside—a sound I’ve never heard before. I peeked in, and there was Emma, sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching the dark screen as if it were showing her something wonderful. When she saw me, she said, ‘Mommy, the man says to say hi.’

I don’t know what he wants, or why he chose us. But I’ve started sleeping with the lights on, and I’ve taken to carrying the remote with me everywhere—just in case. The pawnshop TV was a bargain, but I’m beginning to think the price was never mine to pay.