A shadow traced its way across the screen for the fourth night in a row. I brought my knees down and quickly documented everything that was happening. 

What was this shadow that cast itself on the TV screens at night? What did it want?

Whatever it was didn't frighten me. In fact, the small town I lived in was famous for its "Connection to the Dead". I personally despised that title that the media gave us. It brought unwanted tourists who claimed to be looking for their lost ones.

Every five years, a strange static filled the TV and radio stations. For a week, we couldn't access news from the outside world unless someone from outside of town told us. 

No one had ever worked out what the strange static was, or the mysterious, high-pitched squeal that pierced the air when you turned the radio on. But I was determined to work it out, once and for all.

The shadow had gone from the left to the right and had now disappeared. After turning the TV off, I quickly dropped my pen and ran to the nearby radio, sitting on a shelf. Turning up the volume, I walked back down to my journal, pen at the ready in case anything unusual came up. 

The squeal went on and on, threatening me to go insane. But even as it got louder, more desperate and demanding, I kept waiting. And waiting.

Seconds turned to minutes, and minutes turned to hours. 

Until it stopped.  

Silence filled the house and not a single noise could be heard outside. The blearing noise of TV static replaced the haunting silence. 

Wait a minute. Didn't I turn the TV off? I thought. I could have sworn I did so...

My heart started to thump against my chest. In all the years these strange occurrences happen, not once has the TV done this. Never has it turned on by itself. 

I stare, wide-eyed, at the phenomenon occurring right in front of me. I feel my journal and pen slip from my hand, making a soft thud on the carpeted floor. 

My body and hand slowly reach towards the TV remote on the coffee table and I desperately try to turn it off. 

"Failure," a sing-song voice says behind me, ", is not a nice thing."

Slowly, I turn around and another soft thud reaches my ears as the TV remote hits the ground. After a 180° turn, my breath leaves my lungs as I stare at the person–no, monster– in front of me. 

Her hair is long, stringy and oily and her clothes look like rags. She doesn't have eyes, she has coal instead. Her lips are painted with the blackest night and her skin as pale and silvery as the moon.

"You may think I'm a monster," she said, ", but deep down, aren't we all?"

I backed away slowly but found myself getting closer to her. 

"See you soon."