White Noise

  "Pete , I told you to turn the television off before coming to bed."

  "I turned it off!"

  "Then what is that I hear?"

  You're big mouth! he wanted to say. Grumbling under his breath , Pete sat up on the edge of the bed , switched on his night stand lamp , and eased his feet into his slippers. "Son of a bitch!" he muttered.
  "What was that , Pete?"

  "Nothing ," he said. He shuffled to the door and listened. "I don't hear a thing."

  "If you bothered to clean your ears out once in a while , maybe you would hear something."

  "Are you implying that I'm deaf?"

  "I'm saying that you never listen to anything I say ," Sally said. "All you do is sit in front of that television , belching , farting , and drinking beer. And whenever I ask you to do anything , it goes in one ear and out the other. Either that , or you pretend to be asleep when I want you to do something.
   "Now , are you going to turn the television off , or are you going to stand there looking like an idiot?"
   Pete hadn't realized that he had been looking like an idiot , or that  his mouth had been hanging open the whole time. He quickly shut it , and shuffled through the door.  When he got to the bottom of the stairs , he could hear the faint hiss of static coming from the television. The volume was so low , he could barely hear it. He wondered how Sally could hear it. That woman must have hearing like a dog.
   The room was awash in a ghostly blue light. He stood in front of the television , staring at the screen , imagining that he was seeing patterns in the snow.
   "I know I turned it off ," he said. The remote was on the seat of his favorite arm chair. Pete reached for it , but hesitated. There came a faint sound in the darkness. It was the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He thought that Sally was coming down to see what was taking him so long , but when he looked  toward the stairs , she was not there.
   "Hello? Is someone in here?"
   When he spoke the footsteps ceased. He picked up the remote .... and heard the sound again. Footsteps on the stairs. But there was no one there! What the hell was going on? Was someone playing a practical joke on him? Was it Rollo? Rollo was his next door neighbor. Pete knew that Rollo liked to play jokes , because Pete had  too often been the butt of his jokes. But Rollo had never staged anything this elaborate.
   "Rollo , is that you?" As soon as Pete spoke , the footsteps ceased abruptly again. Jesus! He was starting to get spooked. "How did you get in here , Rollo?  Did Sally give you the key?"
   If it was Rollo , how was he doing it? How was he making the footsteps on the stairs sounds? And where was he hiding?
   "Alright , you son of a bitch! You better show yourself now , before I lose my temper! You hear me , Rollo?"
   A faint sound of laughter , so faint he had barely heard it. Pete whirled toward the television , his heart racing. He stared into the snowy pattern. It felt as if every hair on his body was standing up. He knew that was where the laughter had come from. The television. But how?
   He felt around the back of the set , thinking maybe Rollo had placed some kind of transmitting devise there. But there was nothing. He looked back at the screen. The snowy patterns mesmerized him. He imagined he could see faint images , figures moving among the snow. Faces. People laughing. People crying. Eyes widening in terror. Eyes frowning with hatred. Eyes as deep and black as a fathomless pit.
   And then he heard the voice.
   It was not Rollo's voice. It was a voice that no human ears had ever head.... until now. It was neither male nor female , a voice as timeless as time itself.
  "I need ," it said. "I neeeed! I neeeeeeeed! I neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed!"
  Pete stared at the television , unable to comprehend what he was hearing. He was mesmerized not only by the images he was seeing , but the voice was even more hypnotic. It drew him toward the screen , like a moth is drawn to a bright light. Inch by inch , his face drew closer , until his nose was pressed up against it. Then a ghostly hand emerged from the screen , and wrapped itself around his throat. Pete struggled to dislodge the hand , but his efforts to free himself were weak. The hand was like a vise around his throat. He was unable to utter a sound.
  Slowly , the hand pulled him through the screen. Pete passed through as easily as if he were passing through water.

  Sally came down the stairs a few minutes later. "Damn it  , Pete! I told you to turn the Television off! Is that too much to ask?"
  She stopped in front of the television. "Pete? Pete!! I'm not playing games with you , Pete! I'm going back to bed. Are you coming , or are you going play your childish games?"
  She looked at the screen. For a moment she thought she could see images moving among the snowy patterns. Then she picked up the remote and turned it off.