06 Dec The Color of Television Tuned to a Dead Channel
βThe Color of Television Tuned to a Dead Channelβ
Written by The Vesper's Bell Edited by Craig Groshek Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek Narrated by N/ACopyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).
π§ Available Audio Adaptations: None Available
β° ESTIMATED READING TIME β 13 minutes
Nash paused for a moment to look up from the unlit, pothole-ridden street to the crumbling shell of an office building towering over him, just to make sure heβd really seen it.
And there it was again; a flicker of white and grey light from a window on the fifth floor, unmistakably recognizable as the comfortingly familiar and wholesome glow from a television.
That didnβt make any sense though. That building had been one of the first to shut down when it became undeniable that his Rust Belt cityβs hay day was behind them. It hadnβt had electricity since before Nash was born. Even if someone was just squatting or doing drugs up there, they wouldnβt have brought up a whole television and power supply with them, would they?
Nash glanced around to see if there was anyone else to see what he was seeing, but the street was deserted. He looked back up at that strobing, mesmerizing light, the only light on the entire building and seemingly the only light within view at all. It was like a campfire burning on top of the highest point in all the realm, broadcasting its location to everyone for miles around.
Not a smart thing to do, considering what a very unenchanting realm it was.
Smart or not, something was making and powering that light, possibly something worth pawning. It was possible, probable even, that the people who put it there were still around, and not at all unlikely that they might be dangerous. But Nash wasnβt exactly a pushover either, and it was also just possible enough that the people watching that television were too starved or strung out to put up much of a fight.
Reaching into his hoodieβs pocket and concealing his butterfly knife in the palm of his hand, Nash moved in to investigate.
The buildingβs front door was unlocked, and in fact, didnβt seem capable of closing properly to begin with. Nash didnβt risk giving away his own position with his phone light, and made his way using only what meager starlight managed to slip through the filthy windows.
As difficult as it was to move quietly through a near-pitch black building that heβd never been in before, he somehow pulled it off. He made his way to the nearest staircase and climbed up to the fifth floor. From there, it wasnβt hard to find his quarry.
The hallway he found himself in was illuminated by the same white and grey flashing light that he had seen from below, only far brighter. It poured out of an open doorway less than halfway down the hall from where he was standing.
He listened cautiously for a moment before approaching, but heard no sign of human life. Hugging close to the wall and creeping as silently as he was able, he made his way towards the beckoning light. He very slowly peeked his head into the doorway, and saw a room completely devoid of human occupants. It was completely devoid of anything, actually, other than the television.
It was a beauty, though: an old-fashioned boxset that looked like it was from the fifties, though its apparent name of βIn Glorious Retrovisionβ’β indicated it may have been a recreation. It had a dark wooden exterior with a convex screen on top, speaker on the bottom, and a pair of dial controls. It even had a pair of rabbit ears for picking up extinct analog television signals.
The screen was on, displaying nothing but static snow. This was perplexing, however, since the television didnβt appear to be plugged into anything.
βWhat in the hell?β Nash murmured as he stood over the antique device, staring down at it in befuddlement.
Without warning, the snow flickered for a few seconds before displaying a black and white title card, accompanied by the speakers playing dramatic music.
Nash took a step back in surprise, before actually reading the screen.
βUnderage Serial Killers, In My Neighborhood? Itβs More Likely Than You Think! A Public Service Announcement From The Ophion Occult Order.β
Nash only had time to read it once before the title card was replaced with the black and white image of a young man standing on a picturesque suburban street. He looked to be about twenty years old with lean, feline features and slicked back black hair. He wore a dark suit and held a lit cigarette in his hand.
βMothers, Fathers, Iβd like to speak with the little ones for a moment if I may,β the man said in a soft tone. Below him flashed the words βJames Darling β Master Adderman, Planeswalker, confirmed Demi-Eldritch (but donβt tell anybody)β. βHey there sport, sportette. If youβre anything like me when I was a boy, you probably canβt wait to go out into the world and do your civic duty by depopulating it of a few undesirables. Itβs a fine thing to be sure, not to mention fun, but if youβre young and unprepared it can also be very risky. But you donβt have to take my word for it.β
βWhat the fuck is this shit?β Nash asked with a bemused smirk, sitting down in front of the old television to watch the surreal show. The scene cut to an image of a young woman the same age as the man, with the same feline features and dark hair, worn in pigtails as if trying to project an air of innocence. She was in a 1950s dress, matching the overall feel of the show, though her face was less somber than the manβs had been. She seemed elated, actually. Almost expectantly so.
βMary Darling, do you remember why you started killing at such a young age?β the manβs voice asked from off-screen.
βOf course, James Darling; it made me feel powerful,β she answered chipperly. She held out a cigarette for him to light, to which he kindly obliged. As she took her first puff, the words βMary Darling β Mistress Adderman, Planeswalker, Confirmed Demi-Eldritch (seriously, donβt tell anyone! Itβs a secret!)β appeared at the bottom of the screen. βItβs not easy being a little girl, you know. You feel so small, so helpless, so frightened; so dependent on those bigger than you and yet always scared that the same size and strength you depend on might be used against you. I didnβt like being scared. I wanted to be feared. I wanted to be the scariest thing walking on two legs so that I would never have to be afraid again.β
βAnd how did you go about doing that, Mary Darling?β the man asked.
βWith knives,β the woman smiled. The scene cut to what looked to be a prepubescent Mary slowly pulling out an artisanal butcherβs knife from a wooden block stuffed full of knives, staring at it with an ear-to-ear smile. βYou remember what a beautiful set of kitchen knives Mommy had, donβt you, James Darling?β
βOf course I do, Mary Darling.β
βSo many beautiful knives, and you werenβt allowed to touch them because you were a boy. But I had to learn how to cook. Thatβs all Mommy ever used them for though, making us food. But every time I held those knives, I felt safe. Every time I cut or sliced something with them, especially meat, and especially when it was juicy, I felt powerful. So long as I was holding one of those, all it would take was one well-timed, well-placed thrust to end someoneβs life, no matter how much bigger they were.
βI know you understand how emboldening holding even a small knife can be.β
She said this last sentence staring directly at the camera. Nash glanced down at the butterfly knife still in his hand, unable to suppress the unsettling thought that she had been addressing him directly.
βBut suppose they had a knife?β the man proposed. βWhat then?β
βKnives only empower those willing to use them for that purpose; Mommy proved that,β the woman replied, her cheerful expression fading out slightly, momentarily distracted by some bitter memory. βBut even if someone else did have a knife and was willing to use it, it wouldnβt matter.β
βAnd whyβs that?β
βBecause nobody, and I mean nobody, handles a knife like me,β she grinned. βI knew that if I had a knife with me at all times, Iβd never need to be afraid. But Mommy would notice if any of her knives were missing, and she wouldnβt have approved of me running around with them.
βSo, I had to get my own knife.β
The scene cut back to young Mary, this time gleefully looking over a glass display case of hunting and pocket knives, as happy as a kid in a candy store.
βYou were with me, I think, when I bought my first knife. Yes, you definitely were, because I remember making you promise not to tell Mommy or Daddy that I had it. And of course, you talked the salesman into selling it to me and keeping his mouth shut about it. You always were better with people than I was.
βIt cost me two whole dollars, two whole months of allowance money that I saved up and paid for all in quarters, but it was worth it. It was such a beautiful folding knife, perfect for keeping secret. I kept that knife on me at all times. I even slept with it, and no one was ever the wiser.β
βAnd how long before you took your first life with it?β the man asked.
The scene cut again to young Mary, this time repeatedly stabbing another young girl in the torso. Weeping and screaming, the girl begged for mercy as she impotently tried to fight back. Blood and bits of viscera soaked her dress and splattered onto a cackling Mary, whose eyes and smile beamed with psychotic, manic delight at what she was doing.
βWhoa! What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck?β Nash shouted as he crawled backwards from the television and stumbled to his feet. βThatβs it, Iβm out of here.β
He turned around, colliding with the now-closed office door.
βWhat the fuck!β he shouted again. He hadnβt closed it, nor had he noticed if there had even been a door to close. He frantically turned the knob, but it was locked from the other side. He slammed the door with this shoulder once, twice, three times, but it wouldnβt break. He spun around with the intention of picking up the television and throwing it through the door, but froze when he saw Mary staring at him from the other side of the screen with an annoyed expression.
She and James had paused their interview, but the footage was undeniably still playing.
βWe werenβt done yet,β she said, her tone firm and commanding. βSit down, Ducky, and let us finish.β
Nash swallowed nervously, but obeyed. He didnβt know exactly what was going on, but he couldnβt deny that Mary was clearly addressing him directly, and that he was in no position to refuse her demands.
Mary smiled as he sat down, and then turned back to her twin.
βYou were saying, James Darling?β
βHow long was it before you used that knife to make your first kill?β he asked, the same scene replaying as before, this time Nash remaining still for its duration.
βNot long. Thatβs why I got it, after all,β she shrugged. βI never started with animals, you know. I started with people straight away. Seeing people writhing in agony because of me, begging me for their pathetic lives, helpless as I end them with the final thrust of my knifeβ¦ itβs orgasmic.β
She repositioned her head slightly, making sure she was looking Nash right in the eye.
βAnd addictive. Iβm a binge killer, and Iβve gone up to three months in between binges, but my binges are wild, let me tell you. Iβve killed thousands of people in my time, for no other reason than that I enjoy it and they canβt stop me.β
βAnd Iβm sure thatβs the part that has our audience a little confused right now,β the man interjected. βHow can a little girl with a knife be so unstoppable?β
Mary smiled widely and blushed, demurely averting her eyes from the camera.
βItβs because we had a secret playroom, you and I. When we wanted to, we could turn our closet door into a portal to get to it. We werenβt just little kids in there. We were gods. It was a good place to hide stuff too; stuff like cigarettes, or bodies. When the timing worked out, weβd lure people over to our house without anyone knowing, show them our playroom, and kill them there. We took who we could get, but we both liked killing girls the best. They just scream better, and back in those days especially they tended not to fight back as much.
βThatβs how it was for the first few years, but eventually the high rate of disappearances started attracting some undesirable attention that made us nervous. I didnβt want to end up like Great Uncle Lawrence. Luckily thatβs when you, clever boy, figured out how to change our playroomβs portal to any door or hole we wanted, and the world was our oyster.β
βOkayβ¦ what?β Nash asked, rubbing his eyes that the Retrovisionβ’ seemed to be putting an unusual amount of strain on. βI thought I walked in on some sort of snuff film, but now youβre babbling about portals and pocket dimensions? I donβt get it. What do you people want with me?β
βIt seems we have our first audience question, Mary Darling,β James said. βHow would you like to answer it?β
Mary again made direct eye contact with Nash, a wickedly eager grin spreading across her face.
βWith a demonstration,β she beamed. Without warning, she lunged forward, passing through the screen like it wasnβt there. She grabbed Nash by the wrists, and before he could offer even a token display of resistance, she had pulled him through the screen and onto the other side.
There was no color there, on that side of the screen. All was black and white, but Nash was so confounded by what had just happened he scarcely noticed. He took in his surroundings in a confused, frantic blur, trying to make sense of it.
Above him the entirety of the sky was overcast with the same static snow he had first seen on the Retrovisionβ’βs screen, only now the ever-shifting black and white dots formed the most unsettling and repugnant patterns if he gazed at them for any length of time.
Around him was a neighborhood of identical houses with identical lawns and identical fences, either as a satire of the monotony of suburban planning or just a genuine lack of creativity on the part of its designers.
Nash sincerely hoped it was the latter.
Over him stood the Darlings, James and Mary, looking exactly as they had on screen, cigarettes in their hands and a predatory sparkle in their eyes.
βStay back! Stay back!β Nash screamed as he wildly waved his butterfly knife through the air. The twins exchanged smug glances with one another.
βDo you want to take this one, James Darling?β Mary asked politely. βI did make a bit of a pig out of myself on our last hunt.β
βAlready forgiven, Mary Darling,β James assured her. βBesides, youβve been the star of this little documentary of ours so far. It would be a terrible creative decision to shift focus now.β
Mary smiled, sharply turning her head towards Nash, her gaze steely and shark-like.
βYou call that a knife?β she asked quietly. βThis is a knife!β
She pulled out a ten-inch butcherβs knife with a clipped point from the sash of her dress. With a well-honed aim, she threw the knife, impaling the palm of Nashβs right hand with it. Dropping his own blade, he screamed in agony, clutching his injured appendage as close to his chest as he could without impaling himself further.
βYouβre welcome,β Mary said. She held out her right hand, and the fallen butterfly knife flew into it as if her possession of the blade was an inviolable law of physics in this world. βRemember what I said about knives only empowering those who are willing to use them for that purpose? Youβve got a knife now, a proper knife, so if you canβt use it to protect yourself, thatβs your own fault.β
βYou fucking psycho bitch!β Nash wailed, crimson blood dripping onto the mono-colored ground below him. Mary took a deep inhalation, savoring the scent of it.
βSo beautiful. Too beautiful not to show in all its glorious Technicolor,β she mused. βYouβve got two options here, Rambo: fight or flight. If you pick flight, Iβll give you a head start of thirty Mississippies, starting now. One Mississippi, Two Mississippi, Three Mississippiβ¦β
With a sharp cry, Nash pulled the butcherβs knife free from his hand, letting it fall to the ground as he tried to stem the flow of blood. Mary was still counting, her voice taking on a notable tone of irritation at Nashβs casual disregard for such a lovely knife.
He wanted to punch her, to beat her into a bloody stain on the pavement, he really did, but some primal instinct told him that Mary was not wholly human and that his best chance for survival was to run and hide.
So he did, leaving the only weapon he had behind.
Mary stopped counting, and she and her brother glared down at the abandoned knife with disdain.
βVery poor tactical decision on his part,β James said with a shake of his head. βThatβs going to cost him.β
βSeverely,β Mary growled, breaking into a sprint and snatching up the knife as she chased after her prey.
As Nash ran, he dripped a trail of blood behind him; itβs brilliant, vibrant redness amidst the otherwise grayscale world creating an all too obvious path for his tormentor to follow. He didnβt bother trying to break into any of the houses. Even if they werenβt locked, Mary would just follow the blood and heβd be trapped.
So, he just ran. He didnβt know what else to do. He kept his head pointed forward, not daring to look up at the abominable sky. When he heard the sound of Maryβs feet pounding against the pavement as she chased after him, he didnβt look back. His eyes glanced side to side just enough to see that the houses he ran past were not vacant. Forlorn, barely discernible silhouettes stood in the windows, observing the outside spectacle with a fatalistic but morbid curiosity.
When he dared to stare at them for more than an instant, he saw that they were made from the same television static as the sky.
That static seemed to be setting in like a fog now, obscuring everything around him, growing thicker and thicker by the second. He could feel it as a tingling on his skin, and hear it as a buzzing in his ears. Worst of all, there was no avoiding the patterns now. The patterns in the snow formed a mutating Rorschach test of impossible, alien shapes before his eyes and incomprehensible whispering in his ears. They werenβt threatening in the way that Mary was threatening, but through the mere act of being they implied an existential horror far greater than being slaughtered like a lamb.
The static itself soon overwhelmed his senses, blinding and deafening and numbing him to all else. The dread sapped his limbs of their strength, sickened him so horribly that he began to vomit. He didnβt even know if he was still running anymore or if he had fallen to the ground, but he did have a vague awareness that he was weeping and screaming, desperately trying to block out the static.
He was only snapped back to reality by the sensation of Maryβs butcher knife carving into him.
Β
*Technical Difficulties β Please Stand By*
βWell boys and girls, I hope you all learned something today. Sure, hunting your fellow man for sport can be a hoot, but it can also be downright dangerous. Mary and I were fortunate to have a secure killing ground and larder, but many of you probably arenβt so lucky. And I certainly hope none of you are lucky enough to have a pet Voggathaust to fall back on if you find yourself in a tight spot.
βRemember, if your quarry gets away, or someone finds their bodies, youβll get caught, and then itβs game over, bucko. Itβs best to wait until youβre old enough to be licensed and registered β eighteen to twenty-one depending on your jurisdiction β so that you can kill safely and sustainably. I know that may seem like a long time, but with a little patience, one day youβll be able to kill with the same skill, gratification and impunity as Mary here.β
Mary laid naked upon the ground, at some point in her frenzy having discarded her dress and taken the opportunity to bathe in Nashβs blood. Nearly every inch of her was crimson now, her body the only patch of color amidst the grey that surrounded her. Her chest rose and fell as she panted heavily, her belly gorged with her favorite cuts of meat.
The shredded remains of Nashβs body were strewn about her in a haphazard manner, Mary having done to his flesh what the thing in the static, the Voggathaust, had done to his mind. She slowly raised the knife to her mouth and licked it clean, ruby rivulets dripping down her throat as she savored every last instant of her kill.
βStay Sanguine, America. Goodnight.β
James knelt down to his sister and extended a sweet martini garnished with a maraschino cherry.
βThank you, James Darling,β she said as she accepted the refreshment. βMmm, sorry about the mess. Should we clean it up before the next take?β
βLetβs leave it in. An Easter egg for the more eagle-eyed viewers, like the Munchkin hanging himself in the Wizard of Oz,β James smirked as he sipped an Old-fashioned cocktail. βOh, looks like the Retrovisionβ’βs got another bite. Is our leading lady ready for an encore?β
βCan I do the whole interview like this, but just act like itβs completely normal?β she asked excitedly, pulling the cherry off of its skewer with her teeth. βItβll freak them out so much!β
A slow and sadistic grin spread across Jamesβ face. His naked, blood-splattered sister on the black and white Retrovisionβ’ was the most salacious idea theyβd had in a while.
βI think a little splash of color is exactly what this production needs.β
π§ Available Audio Adaptations: None Available
Written by The Vesper's Bell Edited by Craig Groshek Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek Narrated by N/Aπ More stories from author: The Vesper's Bell
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Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).