Mark’s breath hitched as the basement lights flickered again. The air thickened with the scent of ozone and something older—damp earth and rotting flesh. The television’s static hummed louder, filling the room with white noise that pulsed like a slow, sick heartbeat.
"Turn around."
The whisper slithered from the speakers, but also from behind him—just over his shoulder. His skin prickled. He didn’t want to look. But his body moved against his will, muscles locking as his head turned inch by inch.
The basement wall was gone.
In its place stretched an endless corridor of flickering studio lights, the same as in the tape. At the far end, Diane Cole stood in her blood-stained blazer, her jaw unhinged, her voice a wet gurgle:
"You shouldn’t have watched."
Mark stumbled back, knocking over his chair. The TV screen flashed—a rapid montage of distorted faces, screaming mouths, and a single phrase burned into the static:
"WE SEE YOU."
His phone buzzed again. This time, a video message. Trembling, he opened it.
The footage was him—right now, in the basement, filmed from above. As if something hung from the ceiling, watching. The video’s timestamp read 1987.
A choked gasp escaped him. The camera panned up in the video, revealing a shadow clinging to the rafters—long limbs bent at impossible angles, its face a shifting void.
Then his real-life phone screen cracked. Black liquid oozed from the fissure, dripping onto his hand. It burned.
The TV’s static reached a deafening shriek. Diane’s corpse lurched forward in the corridor, her movements jerky, unnatural. Behind her, more figures emerged from the darkness—crew members with hollowed-out eyes, their mouths sewn shut with thick wire.
Mark bolted for the stairs. The door slammed shut.
The basement lights died.
In the blackness, something skittered across the floor. Fingernails. Teeth. The whisper came again, this time from inside his skull:
"You’re part of the broadcast now."
The last thing Mark saw before the pain tore through him was the TV flickering back to life—his own screaming face now playing on the tape, joining the others lost to Channel 62.
And somewhere, in another basement, another curious soul slid a VHS into their TV.
The broadcast continued.
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