SCREENING nosleep

Have you ever heard of a hand cranked television? They're fairly small, they could fit quite well in the confines of a backpack, and aren't for those deficient in sight. They can only get the essentials, as you might have guessed; no satellite, no cable. Of course, you could plug in a disk player and watch a movie, but the screens on both are usually interchangeable. In a power outage, or while camping, a radio is much more useful, and can actually entertain. I find the hand cranked television makes a suitable source of light, if you're devoid of a flashlight; it can work if the brightness is turned up. Sometimes, the buzzing of the television can even soothe you to sleep, but for that you will need a partner. I received mine in a secret Santa, back in my hiking days, I don't know what they expected me to do with it. I work in an office now, so I keep the old hiking set in the bedroom closet. The television sits there, atop a deep blue sleeping bag, staring back at me if I leave the closet too packed. Living my solitary life, I never get the chance, nor a reason to discuss about the television. Searching online, I can't seem to find any models similar to it; though they're already a rare and clunky species, I believe it to be one of a kind. I'd probably sell it on eBay, if not for the terrible curse of sentimentality. Today I found the thing lying between two cardboard boxes, peering at the brick carapace of my apartment building. I hadn't lost it, for I had greeted its inquisitive eye this morning, and I generally avoid these shaded alleyways. My apartment isn't even on that side of the building. So, logically, this strange, previously thought one of a kind item, wasn't mine, though it could be. For lying in a cold, city alleyway, it seemed fairly intact, and I could probably scrounge a couple bucks from it, so I decided to take it. It was only a little while until I'd lose my home. Within my apartment was the common mediocrity, my couch stained and sullen, frowning in it's eternal torment. The living room was still permeated with the subtle smell of a refrigerator rotting from the inside-out. Even the bedroom seemed just as gray and bare as I had left it. The only problem was the closed closet door. Up and down the chipped paint ran cracks and creases, meeting in valleys and pulling ones eyes to the door knob. The brass was fairly pristine compared to the aged countenance of it's frame, completely devoid of fingerprints. At that moment, hand clasping the cold metal, I was baptized from head to toe in unease. It quickly turned to horror as the void of my closet opened up. Everything had disappeared, not only my old knickknacks and clothing, but the racks on which I placed them. Even the cobwebs and dust were swept away from the stark oaken panels of the closet. The implications of this series of events beat against the cellar of my consciousness. No longer did I feel comfortable in my own nest, all that surrounded me felt alien and toxic to my pink skin. I delved my hand into my uniform pocket, flipping up my little phone, and reporting the strange incident to the local law enforcement. The women on the other end seemed perplexed, but provided me the standard robbery protocol: stay in a hotel, a patrol car will come and check it out. I calmed my breath, ceasing my hyper ventilation, and attempted to calm my erratic heart. I slipped my wallet from the nightstand, grabbed a change of clothes, and on a whim, stole the crank television. I didn't think it was evidence, I had already informed the police of where I had found it. Besides, I intensely craved to hold onto something of my own. When I was a kid, my father hated me bringing it, as I always did. He said I was a 'televisionphile,' doping up on the goo oozing from my ears and eyes. Whether we were camping, or... squatting. I clutched it like my own soul. Sometimes I had to hide it, so he wouldn't sell it, or break it. One night, my father was drunk enough, and desperate enough, to steal it. He sneaked into my motel room, clumsily opening and closing the drawers and cabinets. Eventually, I think he realized that I had hidden it beneath my pillows. In silence, he slapped me awake, told me to leave the room, and stared at me until I left. I slept alone in the hallway, crying for about an hour before drifting away. I found it lying on the floor the next day, a thin crack along the surface of it's screen. I sat up on the bed of the dingy motel room, patting feet against the ground in complete anxiety. The air seemed coated with a layer of smog, for I could only breathe in a steady filter. Looking over at the tiny gray box of my companion, to it's larger counterpart installed in a wooden cabinet, I decided my best course of action was to call in sick tomorrow. “Jim,” I said into the ear of my college age boss. “I don't think I'll be able to come in tomorrow, someone robbed my apartment.” He said that was fine, unusually empathetic, perhaps he had experienced a burglary himself. “I'll just have Mandy cover your shift, she's been dying for extra cash.” He answered jokingly, casually counteracting my fear of confrontation. “Okay, bye...” I hang up and return to my activities. As a child, mother found my phobia quite annoying, but not very concerning. I take some pills for it now, but it still pulses rhythmically in any cramped room. Unless I open all the doors in the room, my lungs are left half full. Often times she would come in and meticulously close every single one. It's about one AM right now, I'm not tired; but there's no longer anything on television. I tap on my nightstand, waiting for something to happen; god, I wish I had brought my Ipad. Looking at the open closet, I feel somewhat strange, it's unnerving, and draws my mind to the previous events. I guess I'll just see what's on this thing. I notice now that it seems a bit banged up, but that's expected when you leave something in an alleyway. Checking the back, it seems to have batteries. So I pull the antenna up, and whirl the crank with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. The cold screen bleeds with static, occasionally ripping and tearing through the violent fog. It takes awhile, but I get the power steady, and the image seeps through. The noise of static has been abandoned, and now I am acquainted to a subtle moan and a dark image. This perplexes me, a cot lies in the corner of what seems to be a ravaged bedroom. A figure stirs beneath the covers, as if he can hear the buzz itself. I'm awoken by a piercing sound, muddled but still very intense. I sit up in my stained bedspread, trying to sort out what would come to disturb me. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust, but there I am... On the screen.

Submitted January 05, 2015 at 09:03AM by eldritchhat http://ift.tt/1D8EIp9 nosleep