CHITTERROR TALES - EPISODE 001 The Continuity Hour, Part I Tonight’s story concerns a tired man, a familiar television program, and the danger of being offered precisely what one asks for. Viewer discretion is advised. Viewer participation is inevitable. --- You come home from an unending day of labor at the factory. You live alone. You have a small, sad apartment. You don't have many comforts, but you do have one: late-night public-access television. Your ritual of coming home from your job to watch your delightfully simple “edutainment” television has been yours for as long as you can remember. You know the programming by heart. The T.V. Guide wedged between you and the cushion of your beloved La-Z-Boy seems like a novice’s guide to the roadmap of coaxial-delivered entertainment. Except tonight, there is something new. [YOU ARE WATCHING CHANNEL 0.] [The Continuity Hour.] Before your very eyes, something new. Something... unique. But the first twenty minutes don't capture you. It's just reruns. Things you know have happened before. Even the news segment is covering what was, not what’s going on now. You reach for the remote. [The producers would like to assure our viewers that this is the most delightful show you'll be able to watch tonight. Don't touch that remote. I, your Host, will make it up to you. Let's let the callers decide what we watch next.] Strange. The numbers displayed on the screen are kind of fuzzy. You're curious, though, and you attempt to dial it anyway. 888-555-0090? Maybe? [Tonight's lucky caller. What would *YOU* like to watch?] Stranger still. You are instantly connected. You don't even remember pressing dial. “Huh? Oh. Uh.” You hear yourself almost instantly through the screen. Normally, you'd expect a thirty-second delay or so. “I can watch anything?” [Anything.] The Host seems to look at you, a slight hint of impatience in his visage. Though, like the text, you're struggling to make out any real details of his face. His transatlantic accent doesn't help, either. He's about as distinguishable as a Q-tip in a box of them. “Uh. Okay. How about something funny?” The Host declines to respond immediately. The faint outline of his head tilts toward you. Though you can't distinguish his expression, you understand that there is an uncomfortable impression of disappointment emanating from him in some small yet significant way. “Like one of those old sitcoms,” you clarify. “Something simple.” [Comedy is a matter of timing.] One white-gloved hand rises from beneath the desk. Between two fingers, the Host holds a cue card bearing words too blurred for you to read. [Fortunately, ours is impeccable.] He turns toward somewhere beyond the edge of the screen. [Give the man a quiet night in.] The picture cuts before he finishes speaking. For half a second, the screen is black. Not as though the TV is off; rather, it is projecting the darkness outward. It is a depthless absence that doesn't even allow for the reflection of you or your apartment. You can no longer see yourself sitting in the La-Z-Boy. You can no longer see the lamp behind you, the dirty plate on the end table, or the small window over the radiator. Then a jaunty piano begins to play. The darkness is drawn away like a theater curtain as the title “HOME AT LAST!” appears. The title is displayed in enormous yellow letters above a painted skyline. Beneath it, in looping white script: “Tonight's Episode: A Quiet Night In.” [This episode was recorded in front of a live studio audience.] The aforementioned audience begins to applaud. The camera sweeps across a cramped apartment set. The wallpaper is faded. A radiator sits beneath a narrow window. A dirty plate waits on the end table beside an old La-Z-Boy. A television glows in the corner, though its screen faces away from the studio audience. It is your apartment. It is so precisely yours, down to the stain on the carpet beside the chair and the strip of peeling wallpaper you've glued back into place six times. The studio door swings open. A man steps inside wearing your work clothes. The audience erupts into cheers and whistles, welcoming their star. He carries your lunchbox beneath one arm. He closes the door with his heel, drops his keys into the ceramic bowl beside the entrance, and stands motionless, his shoulders sagging beneath the accumulated wear and tear of the day. You remember doing this exact same thing less than an hour ago. The actor lets out a sigh. The audience laughs. He removes his jacket and misses the hook on his first attempt. The audience laughs again, only louder. He looks directly into the nearest camera. His face is an overexposed white blur. You lean forward in your chair. Onscreen, the man walks to his La-Z-Boy. He reaches between the cushion and armrest and removes a battered copy of the T.V. Guide. Your hand travels unconsciously toward the magazine wedged beside your own hip. The actor pauses. You pause. His blurred face turns slowly toward the television in the corner of the set. The studio audience is finally silent. You remove your hand from the chair. A moment later, he does the same. The audience once again erupts into laughter. “Very cute,” you say. Your voice comes through the television. The actor hears it immediately. His head snaps toward the camera. The audience quiets again. Like prey in the presence of a hunter, nobody moves for several seconds. Then the actor looks beyond the camera, toward someone standing offstage. A glowing red sign illuminates above the set. APPLAUSE. The audience obeys. The Host's voice enters the program from nowhere. [Our leading man has always suffered from stage fright.] The actor shakes his head. It is a small movement, frantic but carefully concealed. He raises one finger to where his lips should be. The telephone beside his chair begins to ring. Your telephone remains silent. The actor stares at it. On the third ring, he reluctantly lifts the receiver. “Hello?” You and the actor speak at the same time. It isn't voluntary. His voice is your voice. You watch him listen intently. Whatever he hears causes his entire body to stiffen. Slowly, the actor turns toward the apartment door. Three heavy knocks sound from the other side of the set. The studio audience gasps. The actor presses the receiver against the blank side of his face. “No,” you both whisper. The laughter sign illuminates. Nobody laughs. The Host speaks again, his patience audibly thin. [That is not your line.] The actor looks directly through the television. He looks at you. His face is pale and gaunt, with sunken recesses where his—your—our—their—eyes should be. “Don't answer the door.” The connection cuts. Your telephone begins to ring. Once. Twice. Three times. Then someone knocks on your apartment door. --- This episode was brought to you by Channel 0. We hope you enjoyed it. We already know whether you did. --- Content Tags: #horror #cw-unreality #cw-doppelganger #cw-home-invasion Submission Form: https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLScrx-q5ORGYYyOTKPerojhkRN_BFT7Aggaf16QlaHISxqaUcA/viewform?usp=header
CLASSIC. IT’S ALWAYS RERUNS OF RERUNS WITH THIS GUY.