The Visitor in the Static

The old farmhouse on Marrow Lane had always hummed with a strange energy, but last night it truly woke up. My sister, Dana, and her four-year-old daughter, Lily, were curled up on the sofa watching cartoons. The television was an ancient set that sometimes picked up a ghostly second audio track, a whispery hiss that we chalked up to bad wiring. Lily was drifting off, her eyelids heavy, when Dana scooped her up to carry her to the bathroom for a final potty break. As they passed the hallway mirror, Lily’s eyes snapped open, and she pointed a trembling finger at the glass. ‘Who is that man?’ she asked. Dana saw only their reflections, but a cold draft slithered down the corridor.

They finished their business and returned to the bedroom. No sooner had Dana tucked Lily under the patchwork quilt than Lily let out a shriek that sliced through the quiet. ‘He’s there! He’s there!’ she cried, pointing at the far corner near the wardrobe. Dana spun around, seeing nothing, but the air in the room felt thick, as if something heavy had displaced it. Lily’s face turned ashen, and within minutes, her skin burned with a fever of 103.3. Her little body racked with violent shivers, and her eyes, wide with primal terror, darted around the room.

I heard the commotion from my room and rushed in. Lily began to sob, ‘It’s right there, it’s beside me.’ I didn’t see anything, but the hair on my arms stood on end. Dana was shaking, her knuckles white. Then Lily’s voice dropped to a weirdly calm whisper: ‘There’s blood on the walls. They want us to die.’ The words hung in the air like a foul odor.

Desperate, I remembered the old folk remedies my grandmother swore by. I fetched a bottle of Florida Water, some olive oil, a lime, and the family Bible. Dana and I worked together, rubbing the cool liquid over Lily’s burning skin while our cousin Marcus, who had been staying with us, recited verses in a shaky voice. Lily thrashed and moaned, sometimes crying out, ‘Don’t let him touch me!’ We sang hymns, we prayed, we anointed the doorways with oil. The clock on the wall seemed to crawl, each tick a hammer blow.

For an hour and a half, we fought an unseen presence. Then, as suddenly as it started, Lily’s fever broke. A sheen of sweat covered her face, and her shivering ceased. She let out a long, shuddering breath and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. Dana and I looked at each other, our own faces pale and streaked with tears. Marcus closed the Bible and whispered, ‘What was that?’ I had no answer.

Later, as Dawn crept through the curtains, I went to the kitchen to make tea. The old television in the living room was still on, but the channel had changed to static. And in that static, I saw a form — a tall, thin man with hollow eyes, glaring at me from the screen. I yanked the cord, and the set went dark, but the image burned into my mind. Now, every time I hear the faint hiss of static, I feel him watching, waiting, and I know that Lily’s nightmare is not over. It has only just begun.