The Static Hour

In late autumn, I accompanied my former partner, Victor, to his aunt’s farmhouse in the rural county of Ashford. Aunt Yvette was a warm, kindly woman, always humming as she moved about her sunlit kitchen. She had recently relocated from a cramped city flat to this sprawling property, eager to start a new chapter. Victor and I stopped to buy a bottle of Merlot for her, and he also grabbed a six-pack of stout. We arrived at the farmhouse as dusk settled, and after a pleasant dinner, fatigue overwhelmed me. I decided to stay the night, and we settled onto the worn leather sofa in the living room. Victor sipped his beer while I drifted into an uneasy sleep.

The room was dimly lit by the flickering glow of an old television, which Victor always left on, saying it lulled him to sleep. We lay facing each other, my back to the screen, his eyes half-closed. I dozed in and out, haunted by strange dreams of fields and distant voices. Around 2 AM, I was jolted awake by the sound of a man speaking. My heart raced as I thought: someone’s in the house. The voice was low, gravelly, and seemed to come from just beyond the window, but also from inside the room. It was like hearing one side of a phone conversation – fragments of sentences, pauses, then more words. I turned to look at Victor, but his eyes were wide open, staring at the ceiling, his lips slightly parted as if listening.

I sat up slowly, my skin prickling. The television was on, but the screen showed only static, a grey hiss that seemed to swallow the light. The man’s voice continued, now clearer: ‘No, she doesn’t know. It’s behind the wall. I’ll take them before dawn.’ I grabbed Victor’s arm, but he didn’t move. His hand was cold. I whispered his name, but he didn’t respond. The static grew louder, and the voice spoke again, almost joyful: ‘She’s awake now.’ I scrambled to my feet, backing towards the hallway. The voice followed me, seeming to emanate from the walls, the floorboards, the very air.

I ran to Yvette’s room, pounding on the door. It opened, but Yvette wasn’t there. The bed was neatly made, untouched. Panic seized me. I rushed back to the living room. Victor was gone. The sofa was empty. The television was now silent, showing a black screen. But on the floor, in the dust that had gathered near the baseboard, there was a message scratched into the wood: ‘We are the herd.’ A chill ran down my spine. I knew then I had to leave, but the doors were locked from the outside, and every window was sealed with rusted nails. I was trapped.

I spent the night huddled in a corner, listening to the static hum in my ears, the man’s voice whispering names I didn’t recognize. Near dawn, it stopped. I crept out, found Victor sitting on the porch, drinking coffee, as if nothing had happened. He smiled and asked if I’d slept well. I looked at him, but his eyes were different – distant, like he was looking through me. On his wrist, there was a fresh scar, in the shape of a winding spiral. I never spoke of that night, but I knew the static had claimed something. And I knew that wherever I went, that voice would follow, waiting for the hour when the television hums and the herd comes home.