The Static Hum

It was the last house on Mulberry Lane, a sagging Victorian that had been in my family for three generations. The locals called it the Denton place, after the old man who’d lived there before my grandmother bought it. He’d died in the upstairs bedroom, alone, and they said he still lingered. I’d never believed them. I was a skeptic, a science major, someone who needed evidence.

But that night, Halloween night, 2017, changed everything. We’d just returned from trick-or-treating—yes, I still went, sue me—and my mom was fumbling with the keys. Our dog, a mutt named Biscuit, was already inside, and I could hear her barking from the porch, frantic and high-pitched.

Mom pushed the door open, and the living room was bathed in the pale flicker of the TV. The remote was on the couch, untouched, but the screen was alive with a movie. It was that old horror anthology, the one with Freddy and Jason, and Mom froze.

‘Not this one,’ she whispered.

She dashed for the remote, but before her fingers could reach it, the picture dissolved into a blizzard of static. The sound filled the room—a harsh, electric hiss that made Biscuit howl. Mom grabbed the remote and jammed the power button. Nothing. The static persisted, growing louder, like a thousand whispering voices struggling to be heard.

I edged closer, my heart hammering. The static seemed to pulse, and for a split second, I saw something in it: a small, pale face, eyes wide and unblinking, mouth open in a silent scream. Then it was gone.

Mom backed away, her face ashen. ‘That’s not possible,’ she said. ‘That TV is controlled by the remote.’

I picked up the remote. The power button was depressed, but the TV stayed on. I pressed it again. The static continued, now accompanied by a low hum, like the house itself was vibrating.

We decided to leave, to go to my aunt’s place across town. But as we turned to the door, the lights in the hallway flickered, and a cold draft swept through, causing the pictures on the wall to sway. The front door slammed shut on its own, the deadbolt clicking into place.

Biscuit yelped and scrambled under the couch, and I swear I heard a child’s giggle from the upstairs hallway.

‘Mom?’ I said, my voice cracking.

She was staring at the staircase, trembling. ‘I think we should go upstairs,’ she said. ‘Just to check.’

‘No, we should get out!’ I yelled, but she was already climbing the steps, her movements stiff, as if compelled.

I followed reluctantly, my legs heavy with dread. The upstairs hallway was dark, the only light from the room at the end, where the old man had died. Our footsteps creaked on the floorboards, and a musty smell, like old cigarettes and mothballs, filled the air.

We reached the door. It was ajar, and through the gap, I could see the static glow of a small TV in the corner of the room, sitting on a dusty dresser. It was the same static, but it played a grainy picture: a little girl in a white dress, standing in a field, turning slowly to face us. Her face was blurred, but her smile was clear.

Mom let out a sob. ‘She’s been here the whole time,’ she said.

I didn’t understand, but then I remembered: my grandmother used to tell a story about a girl who lived here before, who drowned in the creek out back. She’d been six years old.

The girl on the screen lifted a hand and pointed at us. The static hissed louder, and the room grew cold, so cold I could see my breath. And from behind us, I heard a man’s voice, low and gravelly: ‘Get out.’

I turned. A figure stood at the top of the stairs, silhouetted against the faint light from below. It was tall, gaunt, with empty sockets where eyes should be.

Mom grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the window. She threw it open, and the screen gave way with a ripping sound. ‘We have to jump!’ she shouted.

I looked down. The ground was two stories below, but the branches of an old oak tree reached close to the house. Mom went first, scrambling onto a branch and shimmying down. I followed, my hands slick with sweat.

As I descended, I looked back. In the window, framed by the static glow, stood the little girl and the old man, side by side, watching us. And I swear, as we hit the ground and ran, I heard the faint echo of a child’s laughter, and then—silence.

We drove to my aunt’s in a daze, never speaking of it until years later. And even now, when I see static on a screen, I feel a chill, and I can’t help but think of that house on Mulberry Lane, still playing its haunting loop to an empty room.