The Static Between Stations

It didn’t happen recently. It was a few autumns ago, when I was thirteen, living in a small apartment above my mother’s antique shop. My brother, Seth, had just left for college, leaving me with the back bedroom that smelled of old books and dust. That night, my cousin had invited me to a sleepover, but I’d begged off, craving the rare solitude. The building was quiet except for the murmur of the radiators and the occasional groan of the old pipes. I’d spent the evening watching a grainy VHS of a horror movie on our tiny television, the kind that had a dial for the antenna. When the credits rolled, I yawned and stretched, my eyes tired. I decided to get a glass of water from the kitchenette, which was really just an alcove off the living room.

As I padded down the narrow hallway, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone. It was like a breath on the back of my neck, a whisper just out of earshot. I told myself it was just the old building, but my heart thrummed a little faster. I remembered my brother telling me about a night when he was about my age, waking up to see a man sitting in the armchair by the window, just watching him. He said the man had a blank face, no features, just a smooth oval. I’d laughed at the time, calling it a nightmare. Now, as I filled my glass, I glanced over my shoulder and saw the empty living room, the armchair dark and vacant. Still, the unease clung.

Back in my room, I couldn’t sleep without some background noise. I had an old transistor radio on my nightstand, with a cracked dial and a frayed cord. I knelt down and started twisting the knob, scanning through static, talk shows, and bursts of music, looking for something soothing. The room was lit only by the pale glow of the streetlamp outside. As I fiddled with the tuner, I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror on the closet door. I paused, adjusting the dial, when I heard a voice behind me. It was small, like a child’s, and it said, “Hi.”

The voice was so close, right at my ear, that I felt the warmth of breath. My hand froze on the dial. In the mirror, I saw myself, my mouth open, my eyes wide. But behind my reflection, there was a flicker of movement. A small figure, no taller than a child, stood in the doorway of my room. It was indistinct, like a smudge on the glass, but I could see its outline, its head tilted. I turned around slowly, but the doorway was empty. The hallway was dark, and I heard a faint humming, like a radio left on in another room, rising and falling in pitch.

I spun back to the mirror, and this time, I saw the figure clearly. It was a girl, maybe nine or ten, with pale skin and dark hair that hung over her face. She wore an old-fashioned dress, like something from a sepia photograph. She stood behind me, her hand raised in a small wave. In the mirror, she smiled, but her eyes were black, empty. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The light from the streetlamp flickered, and for a moment, the mirror went dark. When it flickered back, she was gone, but the radio had changed. It was now playing a soft lullaby, a tune I didn’t recognize, but it was unmistakably a distorted version of a song my mother used to hum.

I ran to the door, but it slammed shut before I could reach it. The doorknob was cold, and when I turned it, it wouldn’t budge. I heard a giggle from behind me, and when I turned, she was standing right there, in the middle of my room, no longer in the mirror but solid, her form shimmering like a bad signal. The static from the radio grew louder, drowning out the lullaby, and I felt a hand on my shoulder, light as a feather. In the mirror, I saw myself, and she was standing behind me, her mouth near my ear. She whispered, “Don’t turn around,” and I didn’t. I stood frozen, feeling her presence, until the radio clicked off on its own, and the hand slid away.

I don’t remember how I got out. I must have bolted for the door, finding it unlocked, and I spent the rest of the night on the couch in the living room, with every light on. In the morning, I told my mother, and she said it was just a bad dream. But when I went back into my room, the radio was on the floor, its dial snapped off, and in the dust on the mirror, there was a child’s handprint, small and clear. I tried to photograph it, but the film came out black. I never slept in that room again. And to this day, I can’t listen to static without feeling a small hand on my shoulder, and the faint whisper of a girl saying, “Hi.”