Page 28 of White Noise

Then the glass moves.

My mouth goes dry.

It pushes outward slowly this time, the center of the curved screen stretching toward me as though something behind it is pressing its weight against the other side. I take one step back before catching myself.

“No.”

A hand breaks through.

I don’t even understand what I’m seeing at first. The static folds around his wrist while real fingers curl over the outside edge of the television, solid enough to leave pressure marks in the dust covering the plastic casing.

My entire body goes cold.

Silas pulls.

His arm comes through first, then one shoulder. Static crawls over bare skin covered in black ink as he forces the rest of his upper body through an opening that shouldn’t exist. There’s no shattered glass and no hole in the television. The screen stretches around him like the rules of it have stopped mattering.

I should run, but I don’t.

I stand there like a fucking idiot and watch him crawl into my bedroom.

His second hand braces against the floor. His torso follows, then his hips, black jeans dragging through static before heavy combat boots finally hit the carpet. Interference snaps around his body as he straightens, little fractures of white noise skittering over his shoulders and disappearing beneath the tattoos covering his chest and arms.

And he keeps standing.

Six feet.

More.

Six-four.

Six-six, maybe.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He’s enormous.

Not bulky. Toned, broad through the shoulders and chest, built like someone designed a predator and decided subtlety wasn’t necessary. White hair falls messily across his forehead, and his eyes are exactly as wrong in person as they were through the television.

Black from edge to edge.

No whites.

Nothing human staring back at me.

Silas looks down at himself, flexes one hand like he’s testing whether the fingers work, then lifts his gaze to mine.

A slow smile spreads across his mouth.

“Aw. Look who finally fucking gets it.”

I realize I’m gripping the knife with both hands now, knuckles tight around the handle like the extra pressure is going to magically turn it into something more useful than a cheap utility blade. My pulse is hammering hard enough that I can feel it in my throat, but I refuse to take a step back.

Then Silas moves.

One step closer.

It’s slow. Measured, his eyes unwavering, and I move before I mean to.