Whispers from the TV
When Emily told me that they talked about her on the news, I was excited. This was my chance to live through someone else's moment of fame. But when I saw the clip, it wasn’t really about her. They were talking about a new art exhibit downtown, and Emily had just happened to be standing next to the artist, nodding her head in agreement with everything he said. It was barely a second of screen time, and I thought it was the end of it.
“Did you see it? They mentioned me!” Emily's eyes were wide with excitement as she replayed the clip on her phone.
I squinted at the screen. “Emily, they didn’t mention you. You were just in the background.”
She shrugged. “Still, I was there.”
Over the next few days, Emily’s obsession with being on TV grew. She started coming into work with stories about how the newscasters were talking directly to her. It started subtly enough.
“I swear, last night, the anchor looked right at the camera and said, ‘Remember to mind your manners and don’t put your feet on the table.’ I did just that! My feet were on the coffee table!” she said one morning.
I laughed it off. “Sure, Emily. That’s just good advice. Everyone is watching TV with their legs up. It helps the blood flow to the heart and lowers the heart beats”
But Emily was insistent. Every day, she had a new story. “The weather guy mentioned how much he loves the color green. You know that’s my favorite color, right? He’s definitely talking to me.”
It was odd, but I dismissed it as Emily’s overactive imagination. She had always been a bit eccentric.
“They know what I’m doing, you know. Last night, I was watching a cooking show, and the host said, ‘Careful with that knife, it’s sharp.’ And guess what? I had just cut my finger!”
I blinked. “Emily, these shows are pre-recorded. There’s no way they could know what you’re doing in real-time.”
But Emily was undeterred. “I’m telling you, they’re talking to me. It’s not just the news, it’s every show, every commercial. They’re giving me instructions, warnings.”
Then it got stranger.
Her stories became more specific. One day, she told me, “I was watching a talk show, and one of the guests said, ‘It’s time to stop biting your nails, Emily.’ They said my name!”
I raised an eyebrow. “Emily, are you sure you’re not just hearing things? These shows are made for a general audience.”
“No, they’re definitely talking to me. Last night during a commercial, the voiceover said, ‘Emily, don’t forget to lock your door before bed.’ I checked, and my door was unlocked.”
My concern grew. “Emily, maybe you should talk to someone about this. A professional.”
She looked at me with a mixture of desperation and anger. “What professional deals with the TV talking to me? A doctor? A director? Maybe the radio!”
“Emily, please, I’m worried about you. This doesn’t sound healthy.”
She shrugged it off, but her paranoia continued to grow. She started coming into work looking disturbed, her eyes wide and frantic.
“I can’t sleep,” she confided in me one morning. “The TV won’t stop talking. Even in the middle of a movie, the characters will suddenly break the fourth wall and talk to me. Last night, a cartoon character told me to check the shower sink. I hadn’t turned it off properly.”
I tried to stay calm. “Emily, maybe you should unplug the TV for a while. Give yourself a break.”
She shook her head violently. “No! You don’t understand. They’re always watching, always talking about me. Last night, they said, ‘Emily, you need to be careful. They’re coming for you.’”
A chill ran down my spine. “Who’s coming for you?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. “But they know everything. They talked about my childhood, things I’ve never told anyone. They mentioned the scar on my knee from when I was seven. How could they know that?”
I had no answer. Emily’s paranoia was spiraling out of control, and I didn’t know how to help her. Her work started to suffer, and she became increasingly isolated.
One night, Emily called me in a panic. “You have to help me! They’re outside my window, talking about me. They’re saying things... awful things.”
I rushed to her apartment, my heart pounding. When I arrived, Emily was huddled in a corner, her TV blasting. The news anchor was on, but it was just a regular broadcast.
“Emily, there’s nothing there,” I said gently.
“No, listen!” she cried, pointing at the screen.
I tried to hear, and then, faintly, I caught it. The anchor’s voice seemed to change, almost with no notice, as if layered with another, quieter voice. “Emily, we see you.”
I froze. The voice was barely audible, but it was there. “Emily, you need to stop watching this,” I said, reaching for the remote.
She slapped my hand away. “No! They’re trying to warn me!”
Desperation and fear mixed in her eyes. I knew then that this was beyond my ability to help. “Emily, please, you need help.”
She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “They won’t stop. They’ll never stop.”
As I left her apartment that night, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Emily’s paranoia had seeded into my own mind, and for the first time, I wondered if there was something more to her story. Something that lurked behind the static and the screen.
For the next few days, Emily didn’t show up for work. Her phone went straight to voicemail, and no one had seen her. I went back to her apartment, but it was empty. The only thing left was her TV, still on, the news anchor smiling kindly. As I stood there, alone in the silent apartment, I could almost hear it—faint whispers beneath the polished news report. Whispers that chilled me to the bone.
“Emily, we’re waiting.”
I turned off the TV and fled, my heart pounding. Emily was gone, and I was left with a creeping fear that maybe, just maybe, she was right all along.