The radio in the kitchen didn't just turn on; it screamed.
It happened at exactly 3:14 AM. I was standing at the sink, glass of water in hand, when the silence of the farmhouse was shattered by a burst of white noise so loud it felt like a physical blow. I lunged for the dial, my fingers trembling as I twisted the knob to the 'Off' position.
Nothing happened.
The static continued, rhythmic and pulsing, like the breathing of a giant. I pulled the plug from the wall. The cord fell to the floor with a dull thud, but the radio stayed alive. The light behind the frequency display glowed a sickly, bruised purple.
Then, the static began to clear.
"Is anyone... there?" a voice whispered. It was thin, distorted, and drenched in a sound like rushing water. "It's so dark. I can't find my way out of the static."
My heart hammered against my ribs. I knew that voice. It belonged to my father—the man we had buried in the valley two weeks ago.
"Dad?" I whispered, my voice cracking.
"Don't look at the windows, Leo," the radio hissed, the signal growing sharper, clearer. "Whatever you do, don't look at the glass. It's not a reflection anymore. It's a door."
I felt a cold draft on the back of my neck. Slowly, I turned my head toward the kitchen window. The moon was bright, casting the backyard in a silver glow, but my reflection wasn't there. Instead, standing on the other side of the glass was a figure made of flickering grey lines, like a ghost trapped in a television screen.
It raised a hand. On the radio, the sound of a fingernail scratching against a metal grate filled the room.
"It's cold in the dead air, Leo," the radio sobbed. "Let me in."
The glass began to vibrate, and then, with a sound like a thousand whispers, it began to crack.