The Static in Room 4

The last thing I wanted to do that autumn was spend a week at the old Fairview Inn, but Mom had booked it months ago, and she needed the rest after the hospital. I understood. She had been through enough. So when Dad’s work trip came up, he asked me to go with Mom and keep an eye on her. I was fifteen, and I thought I was tough. I was wrong.

Fairview Inn was a sprawling Victorian relic on the edge of a dying town. The paint was peeling, the porch sagged, and the whole place smelled of dust and mothballs. The owner, a tired woman named Mrs. Calder, handed us a brass key with a tag that said ‘Room 4.’ As she did, she looked at me with something like pity and muttered, ‘Mind the static.’ I thought it was a warning about the old TV. It wasn’t.

The room was at the end of a long hallway, the last door before a fire exit. The wallpaper was patterned with faded roses, and the curtains were heavy velvet that let in only slivers of light. I set my bag on the bed and checked the TV. It was an ancient set with rabbit ears. I turned the knob, and instead of a picture, all I got was static. The noise was like a thousand whispers, but too low to make out. Mom laughed and said, ‘Probably an antenna issue.’ I didn’t laugh. The static felt like it was watching me.

That first night, I woke up at 2:00 AM. The TV was on, fuzzing softly, glowing blue in the dark. I knew I had turned it off. I lay there, listening to the hiss, and then I heard something else: a voice, coming from the static, saying my name. It was a woman’s voice, low and cracked, like a recording stretched too thin. ‘Allie,’ it said. ‘Allie, come here.’ I pulled the covers over my head and didn’t move until morning.

The next day, I told Mom I wanted to leave. She said, ‘We just got here, sweetheart. The doctor said I need rest. Give it a day or two.’ I didn’t want to worry her. So I stayed. But I avoided the TV. I unplugged it, and I felt a little better.

That evening, I sat on the bed reading, when I heard a man’s voice from the closet. I froze. It was muffled, like he was speaking through a wall, but I caught fragments: ‘…still here…’ and ‘…she sees me…’ I yanked the closet door open. Inside, there was only a bare rack and a faint smell of mothballs. No one. But the air was cold, and I could see my breath.

I called my friend Maya, who had been through her own weird stuff. She said, ‘That place is known for spirits. They latch onto people. Don’t show fear.’ Easier said than done.

On the third night, I woke to static again. This time, the TV was on, and the static was thicker, like a snowstorm. I sat up, heart pounding. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shape at the foot of the bed—a white mist, formless but human-sized. It stood there, and I heard the woman’s voice again, clearer now: ‘Get out.’ I couldn’t move. The mist drifted closer, and I felt a cold hand on my ankle.

I screamed, and Mom burst in. The TV shut off by itself. Mom held me, and I cried into her shoulder. She whispered, ‘It’s just a nightmare.’ But I saw, over her shoulder, the static in the TV flicker back on, and I knew it wasn’t.

The next morning, I demanded we leave. Mom finally agreed, seeing how terrified I was. As we packed, the TV turned on by itself. The static was louder, almost deafening, and through it, I heard the man’s voice, deep and angry: ‘You can’t leave. She follows.’ I grabbed Mom’s hand and ran out the door.

In the car, I kept glancing at the rearview mirror. The inn shrank in the distance, but I felt something clinging to us, like static in my mind. Mom said, ‘You’re okay now, Allie.’ But I know I’m not. Because when we got home, I went to my room, and the TV was on. Static. And from it, a voice I knew too well: ‘You’re back.’