It started innocently enough; my ancient tube television flickered to life during the nightly news. A static interruption, nothing more. But the strangeness wasn’t the sudden break in transmission; it was the content that followed.
As soon as the anchor’s composed face disappeared, the screen displayed an empty wooden chair in what looked like an old-timey recording studio. The only light source was a single, harsh spotlight, casting long, grotesque shadows on the walls. Then, without warning, a man appeared in the chair. He was of indeterminate age, his features obscured by shadow. He wore a crisp suit, straight from the 40s, and a fedora that hid his eyes. He looked straight into the camera, a faint smile playing on his lips.
“Good evening, viewers. I am your Host,” he began, his voice mellifluous yet menacing. “You’re tuned in to the Only Channel Left.”
I wrote it off as a bizarre prank or a local station’s odd attempt at experimental broadcasting. But then, it happened again the next night, and the night after. It became a pattern - a slice of unpredictable madness in my otherwise mundane life. The Host would share tales of inexplicable occurrences, encounters with the supernatural, the unspeakable. These stories were oddly enthralling, almost hypnotic. They were certainly unsettling, but I found myself waiting for them each night, unable to resist their magnetic pull.
The only thing more terrifying than the stories was how real they seemed. The Host was a master storyteller, each tale more unnerving than the last. He had an uncanny knack for digging into your deepest fears, unearthing them with an unsettling grin. Every night, I would sit, glued to the screen, oscillating between sheer terror and morbid fascination.
As the nights turned into weeks, my life became consumed by this otherworldly broadcast. I would stay awake, waiting for the static interruption, that bizarre switch from the predictable world of late-night television to the chilling realm of the Host.
And then, one evening, something changed.
“Tonight’s story,” the Host began, leaning forward as if sharing a secret, “is about a man who’s been watching us.”
The blood in my veins froze. He was talking about me.
“He’s been with us from the beginning, every night, like clockwork,” the Host continued, his unseen eyes seemingly peering straight into mine through the screen. “But he’s not just a viewer; he’s part of the show now.”
Suddenly, the television screen flickered, and I was looking at my own living room, from the TV’s point of view. It felt as if the icy hands of fear itself were closing around my throat.
The Host’s voice rang out, louder than before. “Remember, dear viewer, this isn’t just a show. This is the Only Channel Left.”
That night, I didn’t sleep. I unplugged the television, but the Host’s words echoed in my head: “You’re part of the show now.”
Ever since, every sound at night feels amplified. Every shadow seems to hide a lurking terror. I can’t shake the feeling of being watched, monitored, broadcast. But worst of all, I can’t resist the inexplicable urge to plug the TV back in, to tune in to the Only Channel Left. The fear is unbearable, but the curiosity? That’s even worse.
Now I’m caught in a nightmarish reality where I am both the viewer and the viewed, the storyteller and the story, waiting for the static to interrupt my life once more. Waiting for the Host to share tonight’s tale - my tale.
If you find a strange channel appearing on your old TV set, heed my warning. Ignore the magnetic pull of the stories. Ignore the allure of the Otherworld. Because once you tune in, there’s no tuning out. You’re a part of the show - the Only Channel Left.