The Screen’s Guest

The night of Friday, October 13th, 2017, was supposed to be like any other for Mira, a 19-year-old film student who lived alone in a rented basement apartment in the outskirts of a city known for its fog. She was editing her latest short film, a moody piece about isolation, on her desktop computer. The old CRT television in the corner was on, flickering with static on a channel that had gone off the air years ago. The screen was a dull gray, but she kept it for company.

At 11:37 PM, Mira leaned back in her chair, rubbing her tired eyes. The glow of the monitor cast long shadows across the room. She glanced at the TV, as she often did, to make sure it wasn’t going to explode or something. But this time, something was different. In the bottom right corner of her monitor, she caught a reflection of the TV screen. And in that reflection, a figure was standing in front of the television, blocking the static.

The figure was tall and thin, draped in a long, dark coat that seemed to absorb the light. Its head was bowed, hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat that cast its face in shadow. It stood perfectly still, as if waiting. Mira froze, her hand hovering over the mouse. She blinked, and the figure was gone. The static returned.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. She turned in her chair to face the TV directly. The room was empty. The TV flickered, emitting a low hum. She told herself it was a trick of the light, a glare from her monitor, or maybe exhaustion. She had been editing for hours. But the image was so clear, so distinct. She had seen the outline, the way it moved, though it hadn’t moved at all.

She tried to go back to her work, but her eyes kept darting to the reflection. She decided to turn off the TV, but as she reached for the remote, the static on the screen shifted. It formed a pattern, like a face pressed against glass. The features were indistinct, but the eyes were dark hollows. Mira’s breath caught. She grabbed her phone and snapped a picture, thinking maybe she could analyze it later.

The next morning, she looked at the photo. It was just a blurry mess of static, no face, no figure. She chalked it up to a prank by her own mind. But that night, as she sat down again, the TV was still off. She had unplugged it. Yet in the reflection of her monitor, she saw the same standing figure, now closer, almost at the edge of the room. She spun around, but the corner was empty.

She began to feel a presence, an oppressive weight in the air. The temperature in the room dropped. Her skin prickled with goosebumps. She decided to go to bed early, but as she lay in the dark, she heard a faint static hiss from the living room. She told herself it was the old wiring, but the sound grew louder, until it seemed to fill the apartment.

Over the next few days, the figure appeared more frequently, not just in reflections but in the periphery of her vision. She would catch a glimpse of it in the corner of her eye, only for it to vanish when she turned. She started sleeping with the lights on. She called her friend Ana, who dismissed it as stress from her upcoming film festival. But Mira knew it was real.

On the fifth night, she mustered the courage to investigate. She placed her phone on the desk, recording the room. She sat in her chair, watching the reflection. The static on the TV, though unplugged, was now swirling again. The figure materialized, slowly this time, its coat rustling as if in a wind she couldn’t feel. It raised its head, and she saw that his face was not a face but a void, a black hole that seemed to suck in the light.

It spoke, though not through words. The static formed a low, guttural sound, like distant thunder. Mira heard her name whispered: ‘Mira, help me.’ The voice was desperate, pleading. She felt a pang of sympathy, but then it changed. The whisper became a growl: ‘You see me. You must stay.’

The screen of her computer flickered. The video editing software opened on its own, and a timestamp appeared: ‘October 13, 2017, 11:37 PM.’ That was the exact moment she first saw the figure. The software began to play her footage, but the footage had changed. It showed her apartment, from a high angle, as if the camera were mounted on the ceiling. She saw herself sitting at the desk, and behind her, the figure standing, growing closer.

Mira screamed and threw her phone across the room. She grabbed her coat and ran out, driving to a motel for the night. She tried to rationalize, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that the figure wanted her to acknowledge its existence, to invite it in.

A week later, she returned, hoping to retrieve her belongings. The apartment was just as she left it, but the TV was now cracked, as if something had struck it. On the floor, she found a single photograph: a selfie she had taken with her friends, but in the background, the figure was there, taller, clearer, its hand reaching out. She noticed something else: in the photograph, her eyes were black, like the void.

She fled, but that night, in her motel room, she saw it again in the mirror. It was standing behind her, its presence now a constant shadow. She realized that once you see it, it never leaves. It feeds on the attention, on the fear. She had become its guest, and it would always be in her peripheral sight, waiting for her to turn fully, to look into the void and lose herself.

Now, months later, Mira still lives, but she no longer looks at reflections. She avoids mirrors, screens, even glasses of water. She carries a small mirror in her pocket, but she never flips it over. She speaks to no one about it, because she knows that the figure is always listening, always watching. And in the back of her mind, she hears that static whisper, a constant companion: ‘I see you, and I will always be here.’