Page 27 of White Noise

My stomach twists, but I refuse to look at the speaker like he’s actually standing there. “You’re still a voice in a wall.”

“For now.”

The intercom dies.

I stay where I am for several seconds, waiting for him to start talking through something else, but the condo remains quiet. That should be reassuring. It isn’t.

Then static starts upstairs.

Not the faint hiss from before.

Loud.

Violent.

The sound floods down the hallway and into the kitchen hard enough that I can hear it over my own breathing. I look toward the stairs and immediately know what it is.

The television.

“I am so fucking done with this.”

The static gets louder.

I could stay downstairs.

That would be the smart thing to do. I could keep fighting with the front door, break a window, find something heavy enough to wreck the lock, literally do anything except walk back toward the haunted television after spending the last hour learning exactly why people in horror movies deserve what happens to them.

The static upstairs gets louder.

I tighten my grip on the utility knife and stare toward the ceiling.

I should stay where I am, I know that.

Instead, I head for the stairs.

“Yeah,” I mutter under my breath. “Great fucking idea, Saga. Go investigate the demon television. Brilliant.”

Every step makes the static louder, and by the time I reach the top, my pulse is hammering and my palm is slick around the knife.

The bedroom door is still open. Violet light spills across the hallway while white flashes pulse from the closet.

I stop in the doorway.

The CRT is on.

Its cord is still coiled beside it.

Silas is already there, visible behind the static.

Not clearly.

His shape fills most of the screen, larger than it was before, and I can make out white hair, broad shoulders and the black spread of tattoos across his chest.

He isn’t wearing a shirt. The image keeps breaking around him, tearing his body apart into strips of interference before pulling him back together.

“You really need a hobby,” I mutter.

His head tilts.