The Static Visitor

January 6, 2015

by Jaylan

It was the night before our long drive to the mountains, and I was in our cramped bathroom, trying to tame my frizzy hair for the family dinner. The house was small and old, and my mom’s bathroom had a mirror that always seemed to catch the light strangely. I was sixteen, not some kid who jumps at every shadow, but that night felt different.

As I ran the straightener through my hair, I caught a flicker in the mirror. I froze, staring at my own reflection, but something behind me seemed off. The air in the room felt thick, like someone was standing too close, breathing down my neck. I turned around, expecting to see my cat, but there was nothing. Just the pale blue paint of the walls and the faint hum of the bathroom fan.

I tried to shrug it off, but the feeling persisted. It was like a pressure at the back of my head, a sense of urgency, as if something was about to pounce. I whispered, ‘Hello?’ but the only answer was the fan. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the shower curtain sway. There was no draft in that room, no window open. My heart started to beat faster.

I remembered my grandpa, Richy, who had passed from cancer two years ago. He was always joking, making everyone laugh. But now, I felt a cold presence, not comforting at all, more like a static on an old TV. It was as if something was trying to communicate, but it couldn’t get the words out right.

Suddenly, the straightener clattered into the sink. I hadn’t dropped it. It just fell, as if someone had knocked it. I stared at my reflection, and for a split second, I could have sworn I saw a figure behind me—a tall, thin shape, darker than the shadows. But when I blinked, it was gone.

I spun around, but the room was empty. The fan clicked off, plunging the room into an eerie silence. That’s when I noticed the bathroom door, which I had left ajar, was now slightly open, and the hallway beyond was pitch black. The light in the hallway had been on just a minute ago.

I called out for my mom, but my voice came out as a shaky whisper. No one answered. I felt a sudden urge to run, but my legs were rooted to the spot. Then, the mirror fogged up, even though the water was off. Letters began to appear in the condensation: ‘NOT YET.’

A cold dread washed over me. I didn’t know what it meant, but I knew it wasn’t friendly. I finally forced myself to move, stumbling out of the bathroom. The hallway light flickered back on as I stepped into it, and I heard my mom’s voice from the kitchen, asking if I was okay. I said I was, but I didn’t believe it.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the static, the letters, the feeling of being watched. The next morning, I told my mom about it, but she laughed it off, saying I was probably just nervous about the trip. But I knew what I saw. And when we got to our cabin in the Rockies, I found an old photo album in the attic. In it, there was a picture of Richy, taken just months before he died. He was standing in front of a mirror, and in the reflection, there was a tall, thin shadow behind him. On the back of the photo, in his handwriting, were the words: ‘It follows.’

I’ve never told anyone the full story. But sometimes, when I look into a mirror, I see that static, that dark shape, and I hear a faint, jumbled voice, as if something is trying to say something. And I know it’s not done with me yet.

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