The Sticky Button

On the third night after my sister Mara’s funeral, I finally spoke to her. Not in a whisper, not in a prayer, but in a low, matter-of-fact tone as I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the flickering fluorescent light above the sink. ‘Mara, if you’re out there, just give me a sign. Anything. A flicker, a draft, a goddamn bird hitting the window. I just need to know you’re not gone.’

I waited. The house, an old colonial we’d inherited from our grandmother, creaked its usual evening sounds. The fridge hummed. The clock on the microwave ticked. Nothing out of the ordinary. I sighed, dumped my cold coffee into the sink, and went to my room to distract myself with cleaning. It was a habit—when anxiety spiked, my hands needed motion. I pulled out the plastic bin of old photos from under my bed, intending to sort them, but caught sight of my tablet on the nightstand. I’d been binge-watching a nature documentary, but I was more focused on wiping down the dust from the drawer handles.

I grabbed the can of all-purpose cleaner and a rag, and as I sprayed the dresser, I heard a distinct click from the bed. I turned. The TV remote—one of those universal ones with a hundred buttons—was lying face-up on the comforter, its ‘INFO’ button visibly pressed in. It stayed depressed, as if a ghostly finger were holding it down. I blinked. The button popped out. A second later, the TV changed from the documentary to the home shopping network, and the volume jacked up to 35.

My heart hammered. I hadn’t touched the remote. It was at least two feet from the tablet, and the bed was smooth—nothing could have rolled onto it. I walked over, cautiously, and picked up the remote. The ‘INFO’ button wiggled, loose. I pressed it myself; it felt normal. But then I noticed something odd: the rubber coating on that button was sticky, as if someone had spilled soda on it and it had dried into a tacky film. But I never eat or drink on my bed. Ever.

I looked around the room. The mirror on the closet door reflected the bed, and for a split second, I thought I saw a silhouette—a shape that wasn’t mine—sitting at the foot of the mattress. But when I turned, nothing was there. The TV switched back to the documentary. The volume dropped to 12.

I didn’t sleep that night. I kept the lights on and stared at the remote, which I’d placed on the nightstand. At 3:33 AM, the ‘INFO’ button clicked again, all by itself, and the TV turned off completely. In the silence that followed, I heard a whisper that sounded like Mara’s laugh—the way she’d laugh at her own jokes, a short, breathy sound. It came from directly behind me, though I was alone.

I drove to my friend Yvette’s house the next morning, bringing the remote with me. I showed it to her, explaining what had happened. Yvette, a skeptic, examined it. ‘It’s just a sticky button,’ she said, pressing it a few times. ‘See? No ghost.’ But as she handed it back, the button pressed itself again, and the TV in her living room—which wasn’t even synced to the remote—switched channels. Yvette went pale. She gave the remote back.

I returned home, but I couldn’t bring myself to go back to that room. I slept on the couch for a week. Every time I entered the room, the remote would be in a different place: on the windowsill, under the pillow, once even on top of the ceiling fan, which I never use. Each time, the button would be pressed, and the TV would cycle through static channels, sometimes displaying a transmission of a single, grainy image: a hospital hallway, a doorway, a pair of eyes.

On the seventh night, I finally worked up the courage to sit on the bed and pick up the remote. I held it in my palms, feeling the tacky surface of that button. ‘Mara,’ I said, ‘if you’re here, don’t scare me. Just… just tell me you’re okay.’

Nothing happened. I waited. Then, very slowly, the button began to depress under my thumb—without me pushing it. The pressure was firm, undeniable. A voice, not Mara’s, but a hollow, hissing sound, came from the TV’s speakers: ‘She doesn’t want to leave. Neither do I.’

The remote went scorching hot. I dropped it, and it hit the floor with a crack. The screen split up the middle, and a black sludge oozed from the cracks, pooling on the carpet. The smell was like rot and burned plastic. I backed away, but the sludge began to move, forming a shape—a hand, with fingers too long, reaching toward me.

I ran out of the house and never went back. I lost the remote somewhere between the front door and my car. But last night, I was at a diner, and a new waitress came to take my order. She had the same eyes as Mara. And she was wearing a nametag that said ‘Mara.’ I haven’t touched a remote since, but I can still feel that sticky button under my skin, pressing, pressing, waiting for me to push back.