Static danced between squiggles of rainbow color. Through the glitch art, a figure spoke over televised snow.

“What you see before you is a shell.”

Valerie didn’t need to see his face. She’d know that raspy voice anywhere.

“Did we lose the feed?” Gloria yelled at the First AD. “Are we still on the air?”

Her questions were met with shrugged shoulders and blank stares.

“God damn it, we lost the mother fucking feed!” Gloria placed her hand on Valerie’s knee. “Don’t worry, hon. We’ll have this fixed in a jiff.”

She raged off set, storming towards video village, screaming at a PA and startling him enough to spill a tray of coffee. Pointing at the First AD, she belted out, “You! Shit for brains, get us back on the air!”

The stranger’s voice hissed through the studio, drowning out the shuffling commotion.

Valerie closed her eyes. Though everyone was privy, she knew the attack was targeted. The voice was a guided missile, singling her out. These people were collateral damage in the path of the assailant’s message.

“Valerie Von Medvey ceased to exist the moment she met me.”

Heat rose, poring over her in rivulets of condensation. She shuddered, choking down deep breaths, and opened her eyes. Her arms were tightly crossed against her chest. Her hands balled into fists.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

She looked down, startled that her body was reacting outside of conscious choice.

As much as she had tried to avoid it, the police interrogation, the reporters, the interview, they all echoed the same message.

This wasn’t the end.

No.

It never would be.

No.

There was no end.

“Valerie,” the raspy voice cooed.

Panic swarmed her in clouds so thick, she felt its tickle against her skin, giving rise to gooseflesh, setting the hairs on her arm on end. She pulled her arms tight against her chest, tucked her hands under her chin, and closed her eyes. Ignoring the chaos around her, she searched for a silent unspoken prayer, and discovered solace in the hissing monitors. She built her confidence into a wall, barricading her fears, knowing that her panic was confined to the eyes and ears inside of KCAL 9.

A red light illuminated, and her confidence was toppled with the force of a sledge hammer. Once again, they were on the air. There was no hiding. On the other side of the monitors, broadcast to the nation across a network of satellites, millions upon millions watched her terror with agonizing delight. She could see them glued to their vidscreens, unable to change the channel, waiting in sickening anticipation for the finale. They sat in their living rooms, slack-jawed, mindlessly shoveling popcorn into their collective mouths, hungrily waiting for the horrible climax to the Valerie Von Medvey show.

The hissing static dwindled to unpleasant white noise. A darkened figure appeared on the studio monitors.

“You cannot not escape me, Valerie. In every darkened corner, I will always find you.”

Fighting tears, she shouted, “What do you want?!”

“I am here to finish what we started.”

The darkened figure disappeared, and she saw herself on every monitor: frightened, though she tried to hide it. The same image millions across the country were seeing.

What was he waiting for?

White hot electricity surged through her. Red faced and exhaling hurricane force, she screamed, “Do it already!”

As if upon request, a black cord looped her ankle and hoisted her off her feet. In the blink of an eye, she vanished into the overhead catwalk.