“The Last Broadcast”

At exactly 2:17 a.m., every television in the small town of Ashvale turned on by itself.

It didn’t matter if it was unplugged, broken, or decades out of date. Every screen came to life in the darkness, flickering with static before displaying the same grainy footage: a single figure standing in a field beneath a black sky, unmoving, back turned to the camera.

No one knew where the signal came from. The footage lasted exactly one minute. Then the TVs shut off.

By morning, fourteen people were missing.

Among them was a news anchor named Tessa Lane, whose final broadcast the night before was interrupted by a sudden seizure on live TV. Her last words, uttered in a voice not her own, were:
“He sees us now.”

The next night, it happened again. Same time. Same footage. But this time, the figure in the field was closer. Facing the camera.

Its face was a blank expanse of stretched skin. No eyes. No mouth. Yet everyone who watched it claimed they could feel it staring into them. Listening.

Thirty-nine more people vanished by dawn. Doors locked from the inside. No signs of struggle. Just gone.

Authorities tried cutting power to the entire grid. Didn’t work. They tried smashing the televisions. The footage simply appeared on reflective surfaces instead: microwave doors, windows, water.

It was spreading.

Now, Ashvale is empty. Houses rot. Clocks are frozen at 2:17. But sometimes, at night, the town hums with electricity. If you walk past its border, your phone picks up a signal from a nonexistent station — Channel 0.

And if you answer the static, a voice you almost recognize will whisper:
"He’s behind you."