Static Screams

◌ F̸o̶u̵r̶,̷ ̶f̷i̷v̵e̴,̸ ̴s̶i̵x̶ ◌

The apartment was steeped in a darkness when the teenage siblings burst through the door, their playful shoves and bickering suddenly swallowed by the eerie stillness that enveloped the space. As they entered, the television flickered like a dying flame, distorting the familiar surroundings into something menacing and otherworldly. The daughter dropped her bag with a heavy thud, the sound echoing in the silence, before dashing to her bedroom, leaving her brother alone in the suffocating gloom.

He hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest as an unsettling dripping sound emerged from the silence—a slow, rhythmic plop that seemed to resonate from the very walls. He reached for the light switch, flicking it up and down with frantic urgency, but the darkness clung to him, an unyielding shroud that absorbed all light.

"Hey, Eomma," he called out, his voice quaking slightly as he leaned against the kitchen doorway. The shadows revealed his mother standing at the counter, her back rigid and  methodically chopping vegetables with a knife that glinted ominously in the flickering glow. The kitchen, usually alive with the sounds of laughter and chatter, felt cold and suffocating.

"Did the electricity go out?" he ventured, unease creeping into his voice as he cast nervous glances between the unresponsive light switch and the erratic television.

"I guess so," she replied, her tone flat and lifeless, as if the warmth had been drained from her words.

"What's for dinner?" he asked, trying to maintain a semblance of normalcy.

"Bibimbap. We will have lots to eat," she said, the words rolling off her tongue like a mechanical response.

He watched her slice through the vegetables with a slow, deliberate rhythm, each chop punctuating the heavy silence. The kitchen, often filled with the comforting sound of family life, felt stark and eerie, shadows flickering in the corners as if alive. She didn't even turn to look at him, her movements eerily methodical.

"Eomma... what's wrong?"

"Nothing...? Nothing," she responded, her voice brittle, as she tossed the vegetables into a bowl with a sharp clatter that shattered the tension.

"Why are the lights off? And why is the television broken?" He said.

"Because I said so," came a low, unfamiliar voice, slithering from the shadows. The boy spun around as panic surged through him. The hallway behind him was a yawning void, yet that voice lingered, thick with menace. What was happening?

"Who was that?" he stammered, a chill crawling up his spine.

"Go grab your sister," his mother commanded suddenly, slamming the knife down onto the cutting board. In that instant, he caught sight of her hand slipping, the blade sinking deep into her palm. Instead of blood, a thick, viscous black liquid oozed from the wound, pooling grotesquely on the countertop. "Now."

A frigid hand clamped down on the teenager's shoulder, paralyzing him with terror. A whisper, barely more than a hiss, slithered into his ear, chilling him to the bone.

"Go... don't scream, don't run, and everything will be fine."

He glanced down, his breath catching as he saw a skeletal hand, slick and black, resting possessively on his shoulder. The bony fingers tightened, and the voice continued, low and sinister. "We're all going to watch television together."

His heart thundered as he slowly turned his head, eyes wide with horror. A shadowy figure loomed behind him, its presence heavy and suffocating, as if it were a living embodiment of darkness.