I hated going to Grandma’s house. It smelled weird, she always kept the A/C set too high, and she would sometimes call me by the wrong name. My parents dropped me off there one afternoon in early July, a chorus of cicadas filtering in from the cracked car windows as we pulled up the gravel driveway. I asked how long I’d be staying, but just like every other time, they didn’t really answer and told me to stop complaining and just have fun (like there was even anything fun to do there.) Grandma’s backyard was small and empty, with yellow grass that struggled to stay alive in the intense heat. She only had crosswords to pass the time, and out of the dozens of pens in her kitchen drawer, only one of them (sort of) worked. But the thing I hated the most was having to stay the night.

I was still quite afraid of the dark, and Grandma's house got very dark when the sun set. There were no streetlights or nearby store signs to temper it like at my Mom and Dad’s apartment. There was no muffled late-night traffic or partying neighbors either, only an old grandfather clock sitting in the pitch black hallway outside the room I stayed. Even with the door shut, the loud, obnoxious ticking would be all I could hear in the silence. Every hour it would toll, each ring echoing in the cold air of the dead house. The darkness, the cold, the tedious rhythm and the hourly racket of bells all created a wall of fear that guarded me from sleep. The only thing that prevented me from laying awake all night was an old TV that sat on top of an antique dresser across from my bed.

It was the kind with rabbit ear antennas and dials and a grainy picture that flickered in faded color. When I turned it off after having it on for a while, the 20-inch screen gave off a halo of static electricity that I liked to rake my fingers through, feeling the energy swirl around them like tingly sand. I would tune it to whatever was playing in the late evening to help me fall asleep. Old detective shows, documentaries, the weather channel, nothing I would ever remember in detail. Just pleasant noise and light that would carry me into sleep.

I was upset to learn from Grandma that the TV had stopped working since my last visit. I asked her questions about it relentlessly, but all she could say was that it just “doesn’t get channels anymore.” I checked for myself after my bath on the first night, wet hair dripping on the hardwood floor as I spun the tuning dials. Sure enough, nothing but static. Grandma came in and scolded me for not being in bed. She turned it off before tucking me in and saying goodnight.

I tossed and turned the first two nights, getting through by riding a light, hollow sleep. It felt like I’d just closed my eyes and waited until morning came. By the third night, I couldn’t take it anymore.

A sheen of anxious sweat stuck the itchy sheets to my bare legs. The tip of my nose felt ice cold. The thin curtains just barely covered the slim rectangle of endless, pitch black night from the cracked window. The air hung still outside, muggy from an evening thunderstorm that had long since passed. The mechanical clock that guarded the hallway outside ticked in the nearly pure darkness, the sound like rapping footsteps that seemed to get louder and louder, as if they were coming up the stairs and approaching the door.

I got out of bed, blindly following the edge of the bed frame with my hand until I could reach out to the dresser. My fingers felt along the wooden surface, smooth and dusty, until it hit the plastic case of the TV. I felt for the power switch at the back. A pale, flickering glow filled the dark room as the soft hiss of static rushed in. Fiddling with the tuning dials, I searched for anything that could be hidden in the white noise. There had to be something. I couldn't believe that TV channels would just go away. Then I discovered that Grandma was actually wrong. There was one channel it still got.

“–the transition to digital television.”

Amidst the endless sea of static was a dark-haired and clean shaven man in a pale blue dress shirt, standing alone in a sparsely decorated room as he demonstrated how to hook up cables to a box. He looked outwards as he talked, addressing the viewer directly with a strained smile on his warm face. Between each demonstration, graphics would flash by on the screen reading, “ANALOG SHUTOFF – JULY 12th, 2009.”

I climbed back into bed and curled up under the cold, itchy sheets. The man carried on with his demonstrations of the different types of cables and boxes, which antennas were the right ones, and what numbers to call if the viewer needed more help. Quiet music played throughout, aimless and gentle, as to not distract from the evidently important information he was relaying. At the end, he’d finished setting up his array of boxes, cables, and antennas, and placed his hands on his hips in a show of pride for his work. Then, he turned towards the screen and waved.

“Thanks for watching! We hope this program was helpful in getting you started with the transition to digital television. See you on the other side!” His smile was tight-lipped as he finished, eyes looking out of the screen, almost directly at me. Then, the screen went dark. The TV still gave off a faint light, the old clock’s ticking punching holes in the soft hush of dead air. Just as soon as it ended, the program restarted.

Hi, I’m Clay Giordano! I’m here to help you with the transition to digital television.”

The words and images slowly melded together into that pleasant sound and light, waves of sleep lapping against my mind as the 10 minute program looped over and over. I drifted in and out, his words bleeding into half-formed dreams. He repeated the lines the same way each time, until–

“Can you hear me? Time is running out.”

I sat up a little in the bed, blearily looking at the TV screen, eyes heavy with sleep. The man stood in the same room he’d been in, arms hanging at his sides as he stared out through the screen. He didn’t continue his usual script, the gentle, aimless music playing over the sound of his shallow breathing. I sank back into the pillow, pulling the covers up to my face.

“July 12th. It keeps saying July 12th. Is that soon?” he asked, a nervous laugh bubbling up from his mouth. “I've completely lost track.”

I kept silent, hiding under the covers. The man leaned forward expectantly.

“C’mon, I know you can hear me. Please tell me you can hear me.”

His voice wobbled ever so slightly, eyes glistening in the grainy, flickering picture. Peeking out from the covers, my voice came quiet and faltering.

“I can hear you.”

“Oh my god, yes!” he exhaled in exasperated excitement, his face lighting up. “Thank you, God, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I replied out of habit.

“What’s your name, kid?” he asked with a friendly smile. I could’ve sworn I recognized him from something. Maybe he had been the weatherman, or an actor in a detective show, or a news anchor. Regardless, he somehow felt familiar to me.

“Sebastian.”

“Great, Sebastian– you can call me Mister Clay.”

“Okay….”

“Listen, Seb, can you tell me what day it is?”

I strained to remember what Grandma’s calendar looked like downstairs. It was a messy smear of boxes and red Xes in my mind.

“July 10th?”

His face fell. Any relief that he had gotten from somebody talking to him had clearly been swiftly and completely crushed. He glanced away from the screen, reaching to steady himself on the nearby table covered in un-assembled boxes and cables. The color drained from his face, going from a warm and ruddy tan to a sickly white. He swallowed dryly.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“Listen, I don’t have much time,” he whispered, drawing closer to the screen, his face almost filling it up. I sat up fully in bed and leaned forward. His hushed voice crackled through the speakers. “You need to help me.”

I blinked, not understanding. Questions swirled through my head, I struggled to pick one to ask.

“Why?” I whispered.

“I’m stuck in here.”

“In the TV?”

“Yes, on this channel. If I’m still here when they turn it all off I’ll—” his breath caught. His face seemed to get paler, eyes glazing over as he let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know. I don’t know what will happen. I’ll probably disappear. Forever.”

“Forever?” Forever was a long time. Only people who died, like Grandpa, would be gone forever.

“Yes, forever. Please…help me out.”

“How?” I asked softly.

“You gotta break the screen. That’s the only way I can get out.”

I swallowed, my mouth dry. Grandma would be mad that I was even messing with the TV, she’d be furious if I broke it. My parents would be too, they’d probably take even longer to come and get me. They were always fighting about money and things breaking.

“Please Seb,” he begged. “Don’t just leave me in here. I don’t wanna be stuck in here. I don’t wanna disappear.” His hands were clasped together, knuckles white. His voice sounded like he was on the brink of tears.

“I want to help….” I trailed off. I didn’t want him to be stuck in there any more than I wanted to be stuck at Grandma’s house. I just didn’t know how to explain that I couldn’t. He sucked in a deep, shaky breath. He leaned away from the screen and smoothed out his dress shirt.

“Okay. I get it. There’s one day left. I can wait one day,” he said, attempting to regain his composure. “Can you promise me you’ll be back tomorrow to help me? And you’ll bring something to break the screen and let me out?” His voice was squeezed tight in his throat. His eyes searched beyond the veil of glass that sat between us. I looked away, guiltily.

“Okay. I promise.”

“Thank you,” he exhaled. I got up and flicked the off switch on the back of the TV. The room was engulfed in the oppressive darkness and silence. Just then, the grandfather clock tolled, striking out twelve harsh rings. I scrambled back into bed like something was chasing me and curled up under the covers.

The next night I sat at the foot of the bed, staring at the blank TV screen in the gloomy darkness of the bedroom. In my lap was a claw hammer, its rusty head cold and heavy in my palm. I had taken it from Grandpa’s work bench in the garage while Grandma was on the phone with somebody, hiding it away under the covers until night fell and Grandma went to bed downstairs. I gripped the smooth wooden handle tightly in my right hand and stood up, slowly reaching to turn the TV on.

Light flooded the room, casting long, dancing shadows across the wall behind me. The image took a second to come into focus as it faded in. There was no music, just the gentle hush of dead air. Clay sat in the same room he’d been in the night before, hunched over in a folding chair that faced away from the screen. I only noticed it then as I strained to look into the flickering image, but the wall he sat in front of was covered in dozens of minute tick marks. His leg bounced up and down as he sat, hands clasped and head bowed as if in prayer.

“Mister Clay?” I whispered.

He stopped and turned around. His eyes were bloodshot, face red and puffy like he’d been crying. He unclasped his hands and stood up, a weak, fearful smile on his face.

“Seb! You came. Did you….”

I nodded and raised the hammer up, thought I was unsure if he could see it. The weight of it felt strange in my hands. I had never actually held a real hammer before then. Clay stood, waiting expectantly. His dress shirt was untucked, the collar ruffled.

“All you’ve gotta do is just hit the screen. That’s easy, right? Go on.”

I raised the hammer up over my head, locking my elbows in place. The rusty metal glinted in the light. It was hard, almost impossible, to imagine swinging it into the TV screen. Hard to imagine feeling the head of it connect with the glass and shatter, to have the screen explode into sharp fragments of glass all over the floor and the dresser. Hard to imagine having to explain to Grandma why the TV was broken, why I had Grandpa’s hammer, why I was the one who broke it. Hard to imagine hearing her on the phone, telling my parents that I broke it. The tool wobbled dangerously in my hands.

“Come on, you’re not gonna break your promise, are you Seb?” Clay said, fists clenched at his sides. Clamping my eyes shut, I unlocked my elbows and let gravity guide the hammer towards the screen.

Tink.

It struck the glass. I opened my eyes. A spiderweb of cracks spread from a perfectly circular mark in the center of the screen. Clay was visible behind it, his lips starting to curl into a manic smile.

“Yes! That’s it! Again, harder!”

A tidal wave of guilt washed over me. The hammer perfectly matched the indent. There’s no way I could have passed it off as something else. Grandma would be so angry with me. My parents would be so angry with me too, they’d never come back to get me. I was in so much trouble. I couldn’t bring myself to lift the hammer up again, the tears already starting to cascade down my cheeks.

“No, no, no! Why did you stop? Why are you stopping?!”

“I’m sorry Mister Clay, I– I can’t–,” I heaved the words out between the sobs that started to wrack my body.

“NO!” He rushed up to the screen with his fists balled. I recoiled, holding the hammer up defensively. “You promised me! You can’t go back on a promise!”

“I’m gonna be– be in– so much trouble,” I choked out.

“They’ll understand! It’ll be okay! You’re just helping me out because you made a promise. Please, just one more time!” As I kept crying, his face contorted into a scowl. “Do you want to be the reason I stay stuck in here, huh?” His words dripped with venom.

“N-no,” I whimpered.

“Then stop wasting time!”

“B-but, what if my grandma hears? What if–”

Your grandma?! I don’t care about your grandma! If I die in here, it’ll be your fault. All your fault. You want your grandma to know about that?”

“N-no, I’m sorry.”

“Then do what I say!”

I squeezed my eyes shut as tears fell onto the floor. The hammer felt far too heavy in my hands to lift again. It fell to the floor as it slipped from my weakening grip. I rushed for the switch behind the TV. He slammed his fist against the screen and the TV jumped on the dresser. I pulled my hand away. The cracks spread out a little further on the glass.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he growled. “Pick it back up! If you don’t swing that hammer one more GOD DAMN time I’ll show you some real trouble!”

I whimpered while he kept yelling and slamming his fists against the screen, the TV shifting on the dresser with each strike. The glass cracked further towards the edges of the screen. His face was red and shiny with sweat, neck muscles straining as a raspy roar escaped his throat.

“Am I gonna have to knock some sense into you? Let me out! LET ME OUT!”

I ran from the room and slammed the door behind me. Sinking to the floor in the darkness of the hallway, I heard him banging on the screen through the door. Bang. Bang. Bang. Then a crash. The sound of glass shards skittering across the hardwood floor. It was silent, only the steady march of clockwork gears coming from somewhere in the dark. Then, I heard laughter.

No longer filtered through the aged speakers of an old TV set, Clay Giordano’s giddy chuckling came crystal clear from the bedroom. I slowly cracked the door to see. The sour smell of burnt electronics stung my nostrils. The TV lay on its side on the floor, rivulets of static flowing from an open screen. Bordered by points of jagged glass, his head emerged from it, his pale face covered in cuts, bright red blood dripping down and swirling together with the puddle of TV static. His arms emerged from the TV, bent at odd angles and searching for hand holds as he tried to pull himself through the hole in the screen. His eyes met mine in the darkness, and a toothy smile spread across his face.

His bloody hand grabbed hold of the bed frame, his arm flexing as he pulled one shoulder through, dragging his chest across the razor tip of a point of glass. It sliced his dress shirt open. His other arm struggled to grab the leg of the dresser, the rest of his body barely fitting through the jagged opening as he lifted himself up. Needles of glass dug into his bare torso, threatening to puncture the flesh. He strained, gritting his teeth as he pulled himself as hard as he could, but he couldn’t emerge past his hips.

I trembled, watching as he did all he could to keep himself held up against the jagged teeth of what remained of the screen. His strength faltered. A fang tip of glass sank into his abdomen, a gush of blood flowing down the screen and mingling with the static as he moaned in pain.

“Seb…,” he groaned, reaching out a shaking hand. I looked away, following the snaking power cord that ran from the back of the TV and into the outlet behind the dresser. I inched into the bedroom, keeping as far away from the TV set as I could. The smell of blood and burst capacitors made my eyes water. As I reached for the cord, the grandfather clock struck twelve. Each ring crashed through my body as it echoed through the hall. The pools of static quivered and hissed. Suddenly, Clay’s hand shot out and gripped my arm tightly.

“It’s trying to pull me back in,” he rasped, blood and static dribbling out of his mouth.

His hand felt horrible on my arm. There was no warmth in his grasp, his hands were dead and cold. The tips of his fingers felt like pins and needles, like static electricity drilling hundreds of microscopic holes into me. His nails dug into my skin, desperate, clawing. He struggled against the maelstrom of static drawing him back in, the shard of glass twisting in his guts as he screamed and writhed in pure agony. I tried to wrench my arm away from the cold fire of his grasp.

“DON’T TURN IT OFF!” he cried, flecks of bloody spit flying from his lips. The glass point snapped, burying itself inside him. He let go of my arm and sank his nails into the wood floor, dragging himself forward against the riptide of white noise.

I rushed to grab the cord and pulled as hard as I could, stumbling backwards as the plug ripped from the outlet. The light from the TV died with its distinctive buzz, and the room plunged into darkness, only puddles of glimmering static casting a dim glow. I heard Clay groan and writhe on the floor, his hands struggling to find a place to grab onto and pull himself up. The air made my throat burn, heavy with the smell of copper and burning plastic. I felt a pool of something warm seep into my socks.

“No…what did you do?” he gurgled. “No no no no no–”

My eyes strained to see in the dark. The faint outline of his upper body was braced against the bedframe, but everything below his stomach was missing. An indistinct mass of dark red flesh peeked out from under his blue dress shirt. Short tendrils of dark hair were plastered to his ghost-white forehead. His wide, frantic eyes stared in disbelief at where his legs should have been. The only things I could hear were his labored breaths, the ticking of the clock, and the sound of Grandma’s footsteps coming up the staircase.