I Saw You in the Static

The old television hadn't worked properly in years. It sat like a relic in the corner of the living room, bulky and dust-covered, with dials that clicked and stuck. My father never got rid of it. Even after he upgraded to a flat screen, the old set stayed. He always said, "She liked this one."

“She” was my twin sister, Jenna.

She died when we were fifteen. A rainy night, a forgotten umbrella, and a streetlight that flickered out at the wrong moment. A hit-and-run. I was supposed to walk with her to the corner store. She asked. I stayed back to watch some late-night show.

I never forgave myself.

When Dad passed, I came back to clear out the house. The air smelled the same: old paper, lavender, and something faintly metallic—like time left sitting in a closed jar. I didn’t plan to stay more than a few days. Just enough to pack up, sell, and move on.

That first night, I couldn’t sleep. The bed creaked, the pipes groaned, and every corner of the house whispered memories I wasn’t ready to face. Around 3:00 AM, I wandered into the living room and sat in Dad’s old recliner, just… thinking.

At exactly 3:17 AM, the television clicked on.

Not the new flat screen.

The old one.

It buzzed to life with a sudden burst of static, white noise filling the silence like a scream underwater. I jumped. There was no remote for it. It wasn’t plugged in.

Goosebumps lifted across my skin.

I walked over, my steps slow and measured, like the floor might betray me. I reached behind and confirmed—it was definitely unplugged. I stared at the screen.

And that’s when I saw it.

Between the lines of static, something flickered—fast, too fast to catch clearly. But I swear it looked like a face. A girl’s face. Pale. Eyes wide. Lips moving as if speaking.

Then it vanished.

I turned the set off. This time, I plugged it in, just to make it feel more logical. I told myself it was a fluke. Old tech acting up. Power surges. A leftover timer maybe.

The next night, I was asleep on the couch when it happened again.

3:17 AM.

Click.

Static.

This time, I sat up and watched. The face returned—clearer now. Still shifting in and out, like she was trapped between two layers of light. The lips were definitely moving. Whispering something I couldn’t hear.

I froze. I couldn’t look away.

I knew that face.

I had known it my whole life.

Jenna.

The third night, I left my phone on the coffee table, recording. When the static came again, I didn’t move. Just stared into the screen, trying to catch any word, any shape.

At one point, a single word buzzed across the screen in shaky, pixelated text:

REMEMBER.

That was it. Then darkness.

I played the recording back. The word wasn’t on the footage. Just white noise and shadows.

I didn’t sleep.

The next day, I tore through Dad’s attic. I didn’t know what I was looking for. Proof. A message. Closure. Anything.

I found an old box of letters, stuffed behind a trunk. Inside was one envelope addressed to me. The handwriting was hers—Jenna’s.

It was dated two days before she died.

Inside, a short note:

"Hey dummy. You’re probably glued to the TV right now, but I need to tell you something. Meet me at the corner after dinner. I have a secret."

I never went. I never got the note.

I sat there on the attic floor, the letter trembling in my hands, and something inside me cracked.

That night, I didn’t wait. I sat in front of the old TV, letter in my lap.

At 3:17, the static returned.

Her face appeared.

And this time, I whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m here. I remember.”

Her mouth stopped moving.

For a few seconds, the static cleared. The screen turned black, and her face—calm, eyes full of something deeper than sadness—looked directly at me.

Then the screen went dark.

The TV never turned on again.

Now, every year on the night she died, I sit in that same chair, letter folded neatly in my lap. I keep the old television, dust and all.

It never flickers.

But sometimes—just sometimes—I feel the faintest warmth in the room, like a breath, like a presence.

And I whisper, “I remember.”

Because maybe that’s all she wanted.

To be remembered.