The Static Visitor

Corporal Marcus Webb had been back from the Jalalabad province for exactly six weeks. The apartment he shared with his girlfriend, Dana, was small but familiar, a stark contrast to the dusty, tense outposts he’d called home for a year. He’d been sleeping fitfully, a common occurrence since his return, when a sharp crack from the corner of the bedroom snapped him awake. The old box fan on the dresser rattled and hummed, its blades chopping the air, but that wasn’t the sound. It was a sharp, wooden knock, like a fist against the doorframe, yet there was nothing there. His heart hammered. He slid out of bed, grabbing the 9mm from the nightstand, and flicked on the lamp. ‘Who’s there?’ he yelled, his voice hoarse. The room was empty. The closet door was ajar, but it had been that way for days. He checked the hallway, the living room, the kitchen. Nothing. He chalked it up to nerves, the residue of war. He went back to bed, leaving the light on, and eventually drifted off.

A few hours later, Marcus woke with a start. He was on his left side, facing the wall. A pressure, immense and suffocating, pushed against his back, lifting him, rolling him onto his back. His arms and legs were pinned, as if by invisible hands. A violent, electric tremor coursed through his body, making his teeth clench and his muscles spasm. He couldn’t breathe. He tried to scream, but only a strangled gurgle escaped. It felt like a huge weight pressed on his chest, and a cold, static-like buzzing filled his ears. He fought, every fiber of his being straining against the unseen force. After an eternity that lasted maybe thirty seconds, the pressure vanished. He gasped, sucking in air, bolting upright. The room was silent except for the fan. His hands were shaking. He called Dana, then his sister, Rachel, who lived a few blocks away.

Rachel arrived with her two dogs, a nervous beagle named Biscuit and a stoic bulldog named Tank. Marcus, exhausted, asked her to keep him company while he tried to sleep. He took the dogs to his room, hoping their presence would be a comfort. He lay down, the dogs settling at the foot of the bed. Biscuit soon hopped off and whined, then vomited under the dresser. Tank let out a low, guttural bark, then fell silent. Marcus tried to ignore the unease. Soon, all three were asleep.

An hour later, a sound like a thunderclap, but deeper, rattled the windows. Marcus shot up, his hand instinctively reaching for the gun on the nightstand. In the dim light, he saw it. A figure, dark and indistinct, standing beside the bed. It was shaped like a woman, but raw and jagged, like a silhouette of static or torn cloth. It had no face, just a dark void, but it was looking at him. He felt a cold, radiating malevolence. Before he could move, the figure dissolved into the shadows. Rachel, awakened by the noise, burst in. Marcus was sitting up, his face pale as a sheet, the gun trembling in his hand. ‘What happened?’ she asked. He could only stare at the empty space where the figure had been, and whisper, ‘It was her.’