Chitterror Tales

Chitterror Tales

6 days ago

@horrorStories[HS]

CHITTERROR TALES - EPISODE 003 Woe is Thee. Tonight's story concerns a regular customer, a familiar order, and the importance of noticing when someone has changed. Viewer discretion is advised. Viewer participation is inevitable. --- You are a barista. You work mornings. There are worse shifts, really. Your alarm is at five in the morning. The drive is always in darkness. The smell of coffee clings to your clothes even after you have gone home. The first customer stands outside ten minutes before you open. You can feel their peering eyes through the glass, as though staring hard enough will force you to turn the lock. Still, you enjoy the mornings. Mornings have regulars. They are predictable enough that you can spend the next eight hours in a tolerable rhythm. There is an old man who gets a small black coffee. He always complains that it costs more today than it did the day prior. The price hasn't changed in four years. There's the nurse whose three shots of espresso over ice are the difference between dead and living patients. The construction crew always shows up on time, together, orders separately, and occupies all of your seats in the interim. Oh, then there's her. She arrives at 7:13 AM every single morning. Not around 7:13, always at 7:13. The first few times you noticed, you thought it was funny. Eventually, you started watching the clock. 7:13 every time. She's young. College-aged, it seems. Blonde hair. She is always dressed a little too formally. Dark skirts, sweaters, the occasional scarf even when it's warmer out. She carries books with her, too. Not textbooks, but just books. Old ones. The kind with cracked spines and embossed titles you don't recognize. Girls her age tend to like a little sweet treat before a long day. Not her. In her flat voice, from black-painted lips that carry the slightest condescending sneer, you have the same interaction every day. "Large coffee. Black." You don't even mention the price; it doesn't seem to matter to her. She is already holding her card to the payment terminal. She has no cream, no sugar, no flavoring. You like this about her. Not because she's friendly, but because you can tell all of the flavor she needs comes from her own life. She has the demeanor of someone who has decided how the conversation is going to end and would prefer that you catch up to her pace. Eventually, you work up the nerve to make small talk with her. Not because you're trying to be nosy, but you do try to keep some rapport with your customers. You ask what she's reading. She glances down at the book. Her soft voice comes through, starting off with a small crack, almost as though she wasn't quite ready to speak about it. "A poor translation, I suppose." You ask if it's good reading anyway. "No." You let out a chuckle. She doesn't. Then, eventually, the corner of her mouth turns upward. You decide she was joking. You write her order on the cup. BLACK COFFEE. She watches as you do it. "That's redundant," she says, clarifying the Sisyphean task you've undertaken. You like her just a little more. She has been a regular for quite some time. 7:13. Large coffee. Black. She takes the same table near the window. She opens her book. She writes in the margins. Sometimes she sits perfectly still while reading the same page. She never uses a phone. You don't think you've ever seen her with one. A few weeks of her coming have passed. You notice something about her is different for once. Her once-porcelain portrayal and posturing have a flaw. She looks tired. Shadows under her eyes look painted on with a broad brush. Her complexion is duller. You ask if she's had a rough night. "I've had many." You stop, considering the possibilities before asking her about her finals. "Hm?" She looks up from the book you didn't notice she had opened. "Something like that." You try to hand her the coffee. For the first time, she doesn't take it. She just stares at your hand. Eventually, she breaks her own trance, taking the cup. Her fingers brush against yours, somewhat intentionally. At first, you feel flattered. Then you realize how cold they are. Not, like, winter-morning cold, or maybe forgot-your-gloves cold. She is cold enough that you jump a little, pulling your hand away. She, of course, notices. "Sorry." It's the first time you've heard her apologize. She leaves at 7:46 AM. When you wipe down her table, there's a black ring where the cup of coffee sat. It does not come off. --- The next morning, she seems... gray. You know how silly that seems. People don't turn gray. Especially not like this. Maybe she's sick. Maybe... it's the lighting? Maybe it's makeup. Maybe you've just got this image in your head of what she should look like. Whatever the explanation, her skin has lost some of its color. Gray. Like reduced saturation on a T.V. screen. 7:13. Large coffee. Black. You ask if everything is okay. "No," she responds with her earnest bluntness. It somewhat surprises you. She looks at you, then the coffee, then back at you. "But it will be." You aren't sure what that really means, or if it's reassuring. She sits down at her usual table. Today's book is enormous. No title on the cover. When you happen to clean the nearby table, you see the pages are black with white writing. You tell yourself that it must be something artsy. You have to tell yourself several times. --- It is now Wednesday. She is grayer. Then Thursday rolls by. Grayer. Friday. You consider asking if she's wearing makeup. You don't. There are things you ask customers, and there are things you don't. 7:13. Black coffee. Large. Same table. She is reading faster now. Not skimming, but reading. She is physically engaged, leaning forward. Pages turn every few seconds. Sometimes several at once. You begin to notice something. No one will sit near her. You aren't sure why. You see customers begin to approach the nearby table, stop, look strangely confused, then move to another seat. You see a toddler pointing at her and crying. The dog tied outside is barking at the window until its owner drags it away. The lights above her table burn out. You replace them. They burn out again. Your manager blames the fixture. You don't tell him about the strange thing in the shadows. You don't tell him how you're certain her shadow postures differently than she does. Like it was her before all of this. Most of the time, it follows her. But sometimes, you catch it still sitting at the table. Sometimes, it reaches for her coffee before she does. When she's reading, the shadow's head is pointed at you while she keeps her eyes on the page. That is enough to get you to stop watching. --- Monday. 7:13. The bell above the door rings. She walks in. For a moment, you forget what you're doing. The milk is steaming in your hand until it spits boiling foam over the pitcher and onto your skin. It doesn't hurt. You switch off the steamer. She approaches the counter. Oh. She is completely gray now. Not, like, sickly pale. Gray. Her blonde hair has turned a stark white. Against her face, it looks like it belongs to someone else and has been placed on a statue. Her eyes are darker. You try not to stare. "Large. Black. Please." You turn, you pour, you put the lid on. You turn back. She's closer. You didn't hear her move. You nearly drop the cup, and she raises her brow. "You appear distressed, dear." You laugh it off. You didn't get enough sleep, you explain. "Neither did I." She takes the coffee. You don't let your hands touch. You know she notices. Her smile is small. "I'm not contagious." You laugh because you can't be entirely sure about that. She does not laugh. At 7:31, both televisions in the shop turn on. You normally keep them off until around noon for the lunch crowd. Both screens are filled with static. Your manager comes from the office and begins banging on the screens. Eventually, the static clears. A man sits behind a desk on screen. Black suit, white gloves. A face so brightly illuminated that the camera can't pick it up. He adjusts his stack of cards. [Good morning.] Your manager reaches for the remote. The buttons do little to stop the program. The man on screen turns his head. Not toward the camera, but toward the table by the window. [Ah.] Your regular does not look up from her book. The Host smiles. [There she is.] Your manager unplugs the television. It remains on, despite him staring at the cable in his hand. You can't stop staring at the screen. The Host shuffles his cards with the expertise of a magician with a century of practice. [Our apologies for the interruption, viewers. It seems one of our scheduled guests has elected to arrive ahead of her appearance.] The girl turns a page, not bothering to look up. "Ignore him." You look at her intently. "I said ignore him." The Host rests his chin against one of his white-gloved hands. [You are just so dreadfully impolite. Always have been, you know.] For the first time since you've met her, she looks angry. Irritated doesn't amount to a percent of a percent of the rage she feels. She closes the book. The televisions go black. Your manager spends the next hour insisting it's some sort of prank. You don't tell him the man on the television knew her. You don't ask her about it. You really, really want to. But your survival instincts disagree. --- Tuesday. She is gray. Wednesday. Grayer. Thursday. Her eyes look... wrong. The whites seem too bright, the pupils seem too dark. Sometimes, when you look at them, it's like you're staring down a long hallway with something at the end. She doesn't have books anymore. Just pages. Hundreds of them. Loose sheets covered edge to edge in handwriting. Some of it seems like hers. Most of it isn't. Diagrams, circles, eyes. Tentacles. She arranges stars in patterns that make your head ache with pain if you stare for too long. She catches you looking. "Curious?" You shake your head no. "Good." She begins turning the page over. You catch three words before they are hidden. THEY ARE LISTENING. --- Eventually, she doesn't come in. 7:13 passes. You stare at the door, astonished. 7:14. Nothing. 7:20. Nothing. You think you are relieved... But you aren't, really. At 7:46, you realize you made her coffee for nothing. Large. Black. On the counter getting cold. Wednesday. No one. Thursday. Nothing. Friday, you've stopped making her coffee. You think that whatever was happening is over. Maybe she got help. Maybe she found another shop. The thought bothers you more than it should. --- Monday. 7:12. You're wiping down the counter after a small spill. The lights flicker. You stop. Something is moving outside. Not someone. Something. There is a shape beyond the window. It is tall, then short, then tall. The glass is distorting around it like a funhouse mirror. Then the bell above the door rings. 7:13. She enters. No one speaks. Every conversation in the coffee shop has stopped. She is gray. Completely gray. Her clothes have changed. Black fabric hangs from her body in shapes you cannot quite follow, clinging to flesh that's there one moment, then gone the next. It gathers around her shoulders and trails behind her despite there being no breeze indoors. Her hair floats slightly above her back, longer than before. Her eyes are gone. Not closed. Gone. In their place is white. Perfect, radiant white. She approaches the counter. Your body moves before your mind does. Large. Black. Your hands shake. She watches you. You greet her with a good morning. Her mouth moves before the words come out. For a moment, nothing emerges. Maybe nothingness, to be exact. It feels like deafness. Then every speaker activates. The television, the headset, the speaker inside the register, every phone in the store. A voice pours from them all simultaneously. It is hers. It is not hers. There are so many voices speaking beneath the roaring chorus. "Good morning." Several customers run. One makes it to the door. But there's no parking lot outside. It is an ocean of black water stretched beneath a violet sky. You watch in the distance as an impossibly large figure swells beneath the surface. The customer slams the door shut. Everyone screams. She doesn't react. You give her the coffee. She looks down at it as though she has forgotten what it is. You whisper to her that it is a large coffee. Black. Her head tilts. Something behind her is moving. At first, you think it's the fabric. Then you realize the shapes around her are not clothing. They extend too far, bend too many times, and some vanish above the ceiling tiles as though she is clipping through them. One curls around a chair. Yet another rests against the window. The walls seem to creak. The air seems too thick to breathe. The television turns on. The Host appears. He isn't smiling. He looks at her. She looks at him. Neither speaks. Then he turns toward the camera. [Our regularly scheduled programming will not be seen this morning.] The thing wearing the shape of your favorite customer reaches for the coffee. Her limb passes through the cup, and then the cardboard collapses inward on itself like a singularity. Black liquid pours onto the counter. Not coffee. It doesn't fall toward the floor. It rises, like reverse rain droplets. Her mouth opens. It is deep. An impossible depth filled with distant lights. Like the night sky. But no, those are not stars. They are eyes. Thousands of them. Looking through her. Something older than her. Than the shop. Than the street. Older than mornings. Older than the idea of a miserable little world. You understand that the gray woman standing before you hasn't become something different. She has hollowed herself out to make room. Before you can continue thinking, you are interrupted. [Dear viewers.] The lights begin bursting one by one. [It has been brought to my attention that our guest will not require an introduction.] The final bulb above you explodes. Darkness. The only illumination comes from her eyes before they disappear, too. --- This episode was brought to you by Channel 0. We hope you enjoyed it. Whatever is watching certainly did. --- Content Tags: #horror #body-horror #cw-unreality #cw-eldritch-horror #cw-transformation Submission Form: https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLScrx-q5ORGYYyOTKPerojhkRN_BFT7Aggaf16QlaHISxqaUcA/viewform?usp=header

Chitterror Tales

1 week ago

@horrorStories[HS]

CHITTERROR TALES - EPISODE 002 The Continuity Hour, Part II: The Servant Tonight's story concerns a devoted maid and her precise employer. Viewer discretion is advised. Viewer participation is inevitable. --- The studio audience applauds before you enter. You can hear them through the curtain. There are dozens, maybe hundreds, of hands striking together with mechanical enthusiasm. Their rhythm is too perfect to be spontaneous. There are no cheers, no whistles, no individual voices rising above the rest. Only the unending applause. The volume begins at full, then ends abruptly in silence. A red light illuminates the air in front of the stage door. ON AIR. You smooth the front of your uniform. The dress is not yours. Yet it fits too perfectly to have ever belonged to someone else. Your uniforms have always been practical things in the past. Reinforced dark cloth, deep pockets, cleaning implements, and so forth. This dress is theatrical. The skirt is too full, the white apron is too clean, and the cuffs are so starched that they abrade your wrists. Looking down, you see that someone has polished your shoes so thoroughly that the toes reflect the red light above the door. Your employer would not have approved. Rather, your former employer, you must remind yourself. The distinction remains unpleasant. A stagehand gestures for you to proceed. Their face cannot be discerned. Their head is concealed beneath a black cloth, as though they are furniture waiting to be unveiled at a realty staging. The applause begins again. You step through the curtain. The set resembles a sitting room assembled by someone who has only heard sitting rooms described over the telephone. A velvet sofa rests before painted bookshelves. A fireplace crackles without producing heat. Framed portraits hang on the walls, though every painting depicts the room from a slightly different angle. In one, the sofa is empty. In another, you are already seated. In the third, the Host stands behind you with both hands resting upon your shoulders. The sight makes you unwilling to look at the remaining portraits. Instead, your eyes dart forward. The Host reclines in a high-backed chair opposite the sofa. Tonight, he is dressed in a black smoking jacket with satin lapels, a white cravat, and pale gloves. His featureless yet bright face has been softened by the studio lighting, allowing the suggestion of cheekbones and a courteous smile to emerge from the glare. A silver microphone rests on the table between you. Beside it sits a tea service. There is only one cup. [Ah. There she is.] His voice rattles as though it comes from a can on a string, yet it is also clarity itself in the back of your mind. The Host extends his arm toward you. The audience applauds again. [Our guest this evening has worked in domestic service for a truly astonishing length of time. Maid, caretaker, confidante, accomplice. She has worn many titles, although I understand very few of them were voluntary.] The audience's laughter leaves you stunned and standing. The Host's indistinct face inclines toward the sofa. [Please. Make yourself comfortable.] You sit. The cushions sigh beneath you. The sound does not resemble air escaping from a cloth pillow, but rather the whimper of a person attempting not to cry out. The Host collects a stack of cue cards from the table. [You have been rather difficult to schedule as of late.] "I was occupied." Your voice is raspy from disuse. You soon clear it. Your hand reaches toward the teacup in the hope that it is yours. It never is. He deftly and simply moves it out of your reach. [For several centuries, apparently.] "Some households are demanding." The audience begins laughing rancorously. Your small joke seems to be the jest of the century to the onlookers. But maybe they are laughing at you, not for you. The Host waits for them to finish. [Would you care for tea?] You know this trick. "No." [How fortunate. We have none.] He lifts the silver pot and pours. A thick black stream fills the cup. It does not steam. Something pale and narrow turns beneath its surface before sinking out of sight. [Let us begin with the question viewers have died over and over to ask.] The smile sharpens within the light of his face. [What did you do for him?] Him? Who is "him" in this instance? Maybe your previous employer. The lights of the set are too bright for you to see anyone seated there. You see rows of perfectly still silhouettes. "I maintained the house." [How modest.] "I cleaned his rooms. I prepared his meals. I received his guests." [Oh? What happened after you received the guests?] "Things became untidy. I would have to clean again." The audience's applause sign illuminates. They clap again. You glance up at the sign, and it goes dark. Their hands continue moving for several seconds after the sound stops. The Host shuffles his cards and draws another. [When did you first enter his service?] "I do not remember." A clock chimes somewhere behind the painted bookshelves. The Host turns his head slightly, seemingly in disapproval. Maybe disappointment. [That is not true.] The hands of the clock above the fireplace begin moving backward, a warbling effect emanating from it in wondrous displays of color. You watch as the second hand reverses its way around the face for what feels like hours. "I was young." [You were.] "I was alone." [Not for much longer.] Your fingers tighten against the fabric of your skirt. The Host glances toward the nearest portrait. Your eyes follow without prompting. In it, a version of you seated on the sofa has turned her head away from him. [Did he rescue you?] "No." [Did he purchase you?] "No." [Did he create you?] You don't answer. The audience leans forward. Hundreds of chairs creak in perfect unison. The Host places that cue card to the side. [We will return to that.] The painted fireplace pops. A spark lands on the carpet. Yet instead of fading or smoldering, it crawls across the fibers like a green insect. You squash it with a polished shoe, grinding it into the carpet until the glow disappears. The Host watches, smiling. [Still cleaning up after him?] "Habit." [Devotion.] "Habit." [What is the difference?] "..." [Is there a difference?] "Yes." [How reassuring.] The audience laughs again. The Host lifts another card. [Describe an ordinary day in your former household.] "There were no ordinary days." [Humor me, then.] "I awoke before the clocks would ring." [All of them?] "Of course." You look past him toward the painted shelves. You begin reading the title of each book in your head as though they might calm you. Each one seems to be a deeply personal chapter in your life or, maybe, lives. "I would open the curtains, then extinguish whatever fires had started during the night. I would collect the weapons left throughout the corridors. I would replace the broken glass and count the doors." [Why would you count the doors?] "In case another room had appeared." [What if it did?] "I would have to clean it." [Before or after discovering what was inside?] "During." The Host settles deeply into his chair, as though your answer has provoked thoughts beyond simple acknowledgment. [You prepared his meals.] "Yes." [What did he eat?] "Whatever I placed before him." [Mighty evasive. Have you ever thought of poisoning him?] "Every time." For the first time, the Host laughs. The sound is warm and polished, yet it seems to lack amusement. The audience remains silent. [You see? She is so delightful. One wonders why he kept her hidden away.] "He did not hide me." [No?] "He displayed me whenever it served him." The smile on the Host's face becomes much easier to see. [Ah.] You hear movement, as though something is being dragged behind the curtain. Or maybe someone. It could be as innocent as the crew repositioning the set between takes. Before you're permitted to find more excuses, the Host continues. [Were you ever afraid of him?] "No." The clock begins moving again, still backward. The Host says nothing as he looks toward the crowd. The second hand continues to retreat as the crowd lets out a dramatized "Ooh," as though something saucy has been revealed. "...Yes." The clock stops moving. The audience releases a sigh of relief. [There we are.] The Host leans into his microphone. [The sponsors demand honesty, folks.] "You have no sponsors." The audience gasps at the interruption, the dissent. The Host turns toward you. Despite his lack of features, you can almost feel him wetting his lips as he prepares his mouth for correction. [You have a talent for making folks notice what they shouldn't.] You stare at the single camera beyond his shoulder. You notice that the red recording light is not illuminated. "Who is watching this?" [Everyone who missed it the first time.] "I have never been here before." [You have never been here yet.] The Host pours more of the black liquid into the already-full cup. It rises above the rim without spilling. [Tell me about the first person you killed for him.] The studio lights dim. The portraits along the walls change, each now containing a different room. A bedroom with red curtains, a stone corridor, a field beneath a violet sky, a nursery, and a ballroom full of dead guests lying facedown upon the floor. You can't help but look away. "I do not remember the first." [How about the last? Do you remember the last, dear?] "Yes." [Who was it?] You examine your white gloves. A dark stain has appeared along one fingertip. The Host looks toward the audience as though your answer is going to be a great thriller. "Someone. Someone who thought I could be forgiven." Another cooing "ooh" comes from the audience. [Optimism. A recurring killer.] The sign illuminates, again calling for laughter. The audience does not respond. The Host looks again toward you, then to the darkened seats. The sign flickers again, brighter now and glowing green. LAUGH. A low chuckle begins in the back row. The others eventually join in reluctantly before the laughter rolls forward, with the entire audience performing it. The silhouettes shake so violently that they begin folding in their chairs. The others continue without acknowledging their broken brethren. [Did you enjoy it?] "No." The clock does not move. You wish that it had. The Host studies both this and you for several silent seconds. [How disappointing.] "I performed my duties." [Hardly a shelter of a phrase, dear.] "You would know." The applause sign illuminates. Nobody claps. The Host glances toward it. The word changes, becoming a hypnotic pattern of red and green spelling out SILENCE. The audience obeys. The Host sets his cue cards aside. [This is not an interrogation.] "It is." [You believe you are being judged.] "I am." [By whom?] He cocks his head. You look into the brightness where his eyes should be. "You," you hiss accusingly. Again, his face softens with disappointment. [My dear maid, I already know what you have done. I know which stains came out and which merely faded. I know every instruction you obeyed, every order you anticipated, and every small rebellion you concealed beneath perfect service.] The portraits change again. Now they all show the same image. You stand behind your former employer’s chair. His body is obscured by a green-white blaze. Your head is bowed. One hand holds a serving tray. The other holds a knife behind your back. [There is no revelation you can offer me.] “Then why am I here?” The Host folds his hands upon his knee. [Entertainment.] He offers the weak excuse. The applause sign illuminates again, now saying WELCOME. The audience begins clapping. You rise from the sofa. The Host remains seated. "What position?" The curtain behind you opens. There is no backstage beyond it. There is only a corridor. It has faded wallpaper and framed portraits. The images depict scenes from programs you've never seen. An interview with a queen, a botanist, a poet, and an author. Doors extend into the distance, marked with brass numbers. 1. 2. And 3. There are stains upon the carpet, some fresher than others. At the end of the corridor is a service cart. Your service cart. Clean towels are folded upon its shelves. Bottles of dark liquid rest beside cables, cue cards, reels of videotape, and several items concealed beneath white cloth. A uniform hangs at the side. It is not the theatrical dress you are used to wearing. It is dark, practical, and reinforced at the seams. There are deep pockets for keys, cleaning implements, folded instructions, and whatever else must be carried discreetly from one room to another. The Channel 0 insignia has been embroidered above the breast. You turn back toward the Host. "No." The clock above the fireplace begins to chime. Once. Twice. The Host lifts one finger. [That is not your line.] The word above the audience changes one last time. PURSUE. They rise from their seats. You can see them clearly for the first time. Each and every chair contains you. Young and old. Wounded and whole. All dressed in the same uniforms. Hundreds of versions of you stand beneath the studio lights. Their hands have applauded so hard for so long that you can see the flesh and bone beneath their palms. Some are smiling; some are weeping. Several lack eyes. The Host gestures toward the corridor, interrupting your gaze. [Every production requires someone willing to work behind the scenes.] “I am no one’s servant.” [Of course not.] The featureless oval of his face brightens until the set begins to disappear within it. [You are the Handmaid.] Every member of the audience snaps their head toward you. The red light above the corridor illuminates again. ON AIR. Behind the first numbered door, someone begins screaming. The service cart awaits. You look down. At some point, you have changed uniforms. The keys are already in your pocket. The Host retrieves his cue cards. [Do take care of that, won’t you? We have another guest arriving shortly.] You do not move. The screaming continues. The Host’s smile remains visible after the rest of him fades into white. [And, dear?] The first door slowly opens. Green light spills across the stained carpet. [Do try not to leave anything that might trouble continuity.] --- This episode was brought to you by Channel 0. We hope you enjoyed it. She will be cleaning up after you shortly. --- Content Tags: #horror #abuse #cw-unreality #cw-coercion #cw-captivity Submission Form: https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLScrx-q5ORGYYyOTKPerojhkRN_BFT7Aggaf16QlaHISxqaUcA/viewform?usp=header

Chitterror Tales

1 week ago

@horrorStories[HS]

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