Page 23 of White Noise

Mmm. There it is. That little rush of panic you keep trying to swallow. Fuck, you really are stubborn.

My grip tightens around the knife.

“Still here, asshole, and I’m not scared. Just really fucking annoyed.”

A beat passes.

Liar. Your body’s already telling me something different.

I force myself toward the closet anyway. Because turning around and running now would feel like giving him exactly what he wants, and fuck that.

The television sits where it always has, shoved against the back wall with the thick power cord coiled uselessly beside it. White noise jumps across the curved screen while the speakers spit out that dry, ugly hiss.

Behind me, the keyboard starts again.

I don’t turn around. “You’re really committed to this creepy psycho bullshit, huh?”

The typing stops, and a second later I catch his words reflected faintly in the closet mirror.

And you’re really committed to pretending that knife stands a chance against me.

I look down at the blade, then back at the screen.

“Go fuck yourself.”

The reply comes almost instantly.

I’d rather fuck you.

Another line follows before I can answer.

Especially like this. Scared enough to shake, pissed enough to keep mouthing off, and still pretending you don’t feel what I’m doing to you.

My stomach tightens.

Fuck, little echo. Your fear does ugly things to me. Keep feeding me that shit and see how long I stay behind the screen.

The static on the Tv shifts and something dark moves behind it. I stop breathing for a second, but the shape disappears before I can make sense of what I saw. “Cheap trick.”

The keys click again behind me.

Then why are you backing away?

I look down.

Fuck. I am.

I stop immediately, mostly because I know he’s watching and I’d rather die than let this psycho think he can make me move without even being in the room. “Maybe I just don’t want tetanus from your haunted antique.”

The static changes again, but this time the shape stays.

A man slowly becomes visible beneath the interference. White hair comes first, then the dark lines of tattoos climbing his neck. His face clears in pieces until all that remains wrong are his eyes.

They’re completely black, like ink.

My stomach drops as he looks directly at me.

Not vaguely toward the camera. Not through me.