Chapter 4: Static and Whispers

Chapter 4: Static and Whispers

The final thunk-clunk of the deadbolt locking the main entrance echoed through The Pit with the finality of a coffin lid shutting. Outside, the neon lights of the strip mall painted the parking lot in garish shades of pink and blue. Inside, there was only the emergency exit signs, the dim glow of the drink coolers, and the four of them, standing together in a vast, silent sea of dormant machines.

The silence was the most unsettling part. Ash was used to the noise—the constant, overwhelming symphony of digital explosions, chimes, and synthesized music. Its absence left a vacuum, a hollow space that amplified every tiny sound. The hum of a ballast in a distant fluorescent light, the squeak of Zach’s sneakers on the tile, the soft, rhythmic sound of their own breathing. The arcade had never felt so large, or so empty. For the first time, it felt truly dead.

“Okay,” Josh whispered, his voice unnaturally loud in the quiet. He was practically vibrating with a mixture of fear and excitement, clutching a high-powered flashlight like a weapon. “So… where do we start, boss?”

Ash swallowed, his throat dry. He was the one who had pushed for this, yet a primal part of him was screaming to unlock the door and run. He unzipped the duffel bag, the sound like tearing fabric. “The EMF meter first. We do a sweep. See if we can find any cold spots or energy spikes.”

“An Electro-Magnetic Field meter,” Maya clarified softly, more for Zach’s benefit than anyone else’s. “It detects fluctuations in the energy fields around us. Some theories suggest spirits disrupt these fields when they manifest.”

Zach snorted, though it lacked his usual sarcastic bite. “Right. Or it detects the faulty wiring in this fifty-year-old fire hazard of a building.” Still, he watched, his arms crossed, as Ash handed the small, black device to Josh.

It was a cheap piece of plastic with a single needle and a row of colored LEDs. Under normal circumstances, it was a joke. Tonight, it felt like a holy relic.

“Just walk the floor,” Ash instructed. “Slowly. Point it at the machines, the walls. Call out if you get anything.”

They moved like a small, nervous herd, sticking close together as Josh led the way. The meter remained silent, its needle resting placidly in the green. They swept past the prize counter, where Ash steadfastly avoided looking at the large glass panes. They walked by the Skee-Ball lanes where Maya had been standing when he’d heard her voice. Nothing. A creeping sense of anti-climax began to settle in. Maybe Zach was right. Maybe it was all in his head.

Then they neared the back of the arcade. As they approached the laser tag arena, the air grew noticeably colder, a pocket of deep-freeze that raised goosebumps on their arms.

“Whoa,” Josh breathed, his own breath misting in the air.

At the same time, the EMF meter let out a single, soft beep.

The needle twitched, and the first green LED lit up. They all froze, staring at the device.

“It’s probably just the power conduit for the arena,” Zach muttered, but he took a step closer, his skepticism warring with a new, raw curiosity.

Josh took another step toward the heavy, metal-plated door. Beep. Beep. The needle jumped into the yellow. Two more lights flickered on. He was five feet away now.

Beep-beep-beep-beep.

He was directly in front of the door, the same door that had shoved Ash, the same door from which Maya’s mimicked voice had called. He held the meter up to the cold steel.

The device shrieked.

It was a solid, high-pitched wail, every light from green to bright red flashing in a frantic, blinding strobe. The needle slammed against the far right side of the gauge and stayed there, quivering.

“Holy hell,” Zach whispered, his face pale in the flashing lights. He reached out a hesitant hand, pulling it back just before he touched the door, as if expecting an electric shock. “Okay. That’s… that’s not faulty wiring.”

The oppressive silence returned the moment Josh stepped away from the door, the meter’s wail dying as abruptly as it began. They stared at each other, the shared understanding passing between them without words. Something was in there. Or, at the very least, the energy it had left behind was palpable, a radioactive stain on the very fabric of the building.

“The spirit box,” Maya said, her voice steady despite the tension.

Ash nodded, his heart hammering. This was the point of no return. The meter was passive observation. The spirit box was an invitation. It was knocking on the door they were all terrified of.

They set up in the relative center of the arcade floor, sitting on the carpeted steps of a decommissioned dance machine. Ash placed the small, gray box between them. It looked like an old transistor radio, cobbled together with extra dials and a speaker.

“It scans AM and FM radio bands at high speed,” he explained, his hands trembling slightly as he turned it on. “The theory is… they can use the white noise and snippets of audio to form words.”

He flicked the switch. The speaker crackled to life, emitting a rushing, chaotic river of static, punctuated by fractions of a second of talk radio, music, and foreign languages. The sound was disorienting, a cacophony of shredded information. They sat in silence for a full minute, just listening to the noise, the hair on their arms standing on end.

“Is there anyone here with us?” Ash asked, his voice feeling small against the wall of sound. “Can you speak to us?”

The static hissed and popped. A fragment of a commercial for car insurance bled through, then was gone. Nothing.

Josh leaned in. “My name is Josh. What’s your name?”

The static seemed to thicken, the sweeping sound slowing for a fraction of a second. A voice, deep and guttural, tore through the noise. It was a single, clear word, assembled from the chaos.

“GET…”

They all flinched. Zach’s eyes were wide as dinner plates. “Did you guys hear that?”

Before anyone could answer, another word ripped through the static, formed with the same gravelly, inhuman quality.

“OUT…”

“It’s telling us to get out,” Josh breathed, a nervous grin on his face.

“Then what are we waiting for?” Zach shot back, already starting to get to his feet.

“Wait,” Maya said, her gaze fixed on the box. “Listen.”

The static churned. And then, a third word, a contradiction to the first two.

“STAY…”

The command hung in the air, confusing and menacing. It wasn’t just a simple warning. It was playing with them. It was enjoying their fear.

Ash felt a cold dread coiling in his stomach. He knew this feeling. He’d felt it once before, years ago, in a graveyard, his fingers resting on a plastic planchette. The sense of a vast, ancient intelligence, cruel and patient. His thumb instinctively rubbed the jagged scar on his left palm. He had to know. He had to ask the question that had haunted him for a decade.

He leaned toward the box, his voice barely a whisper. “What are you?”

For a long moment, there was only the rushing static. The sweeping sound seemed to slow, to struggle, as if the entity was gathering all its energy, forcing the chaotic frequencies to bend to its will. The air grew heavy, thick with ozone and a palpable malevolence.

Then, with a clarity that silenced every other frequency, the voice spoke its final word. It was not pieced together. It was whole. A resonant, terrifying sound that seemed to come from the very depths of the earth.

“DEMON.”

The word slammed into Ash like a physical blow, knocking the air from his lungs. It was the confirmation of his deepest, most secret fear. It wasn't Frank the ghost. It wasn't the spirit of a dead child. It was the same thing. The thing he had invited, the thing that had latched onto him all those years ago. The Pit wasn't its home. It was just its new playground.

CRACK-SHOOOOOM!

The sound was like a thunderclap inside the building. On the far side of the arcade, the main glass prize case—the very one where Ash had seen the reflection—exploded. Not inward, as if something had hit it, but outward. A shower of tempered glass erupted across the floor, raining down in a glittering, tinkling wave.

The spirit box went dead.

They sat frozen, staring in stunned silence at the gaping hole in the prize counter, the oversized plush dragon now lying amidst a field of shattered glass. The message was unmistakable. The conversation was over. They were not welcome. And they had just been shown a fraction of the power they had so foolishly provoked.