"Hey…" The familiar voice began. The glow of his computer catching his skin. There was a sharp exhale. The curtains were drawn, as to not draw any attention from outside. According to the article complete darkness was necessary for the ritual, but he couldn't find it in his heart to shut off his computer. If he was going to die, he at least wanted his last words down somewhere.

"It's just me tonight. On my own." He blinked at the clock in the corner. Watching it tick down. He wondered if this would be the night.

He groaned, struggling to keep his eyes open, "I don't know why I thought this would help." There was a small laugh, "uh… for first-time listeners, hi, I'm his-dude-friday. Normally, I'm in a duo. My cohost, Wes, formally known on this broadcast as Altas-dunked, he's made plans to spend some time with his girlfriend."

There was some canned studio laughter from the soundboard.

At the illusion that Dash wasn't completely alone, he smiled at this. He perked up slightly, "Shocked? Yeah, me too."

See! He could be funny! Just… when no one else was around. Okay, it probably didn't count. There was a void. Dash rubbed the pit of his elbow. This was the first night in quite while he had been alone. Dash's parents always worked nights or traveled. Why they even have a house at all was beyond him. They seem more acquainted with hotels and the like. Dash got away with so much because— what were his parents going to do about it? Oh yeah, he smashed a vase they barely care about. Too bad they're five thousand miles away. Why bother having a kid at that point?

Baxter had turned on the TV, flipped the channel to a sitcom he hated. The badgering wacky roommates and the fictional hijinks between two actors who looked like they'd rather be doing anything else did little to comfort him. He thought it would be like having actual warm bodies in his home, but no. The jock had near memorized the TV Channel guide, but there was no substitute. He wanted to talk to someone. He wanted to hear a reply. It was an undeniable need like if he didn't, he would suddenly burst.

Dash would typically find a friend to crash with or invite people over, even ones he didn't know very well to dull the silence. Wes had been at least consistent. It was nice having consistency.

"I guess we typically meet up every Thursday? I think? Anyway, it just felt kind of weird not having something out there."

In reality, no one was ever afraid of being alone. No one was ever really alone. The fear was something was with you. Just over your shoulder. In the corner of your eye. Always with you. Watching. Waiting…

It was a tightrope. Dash didn't care for most people, and most didn't care for him. Yet, he needed someone, anyone, to fill the silence of his home. The quarterback's fascination with the paranormal came from a place of trying to humanize the presence that perched on his shoulders. If he could understand it, as dumb as he was, then it couldn't be… that bad.

"I mean, there's like a hundred of you guys out there." He tapped his nail on the computer screen to see if the number would suddenly fluctuate from its triple-digit standing. Dash imagined this is how adults felt about their credit score. Bigger numbers meant better results. Dash didn't know a hundred people. He pretended to, but he didn't think that many people would care about two kids screwing around. At a bit of a loss, he fumbled through, "So… thanks. I think that's what I'm supposed to say. I'll be totally honest; I don't know why you keep coming back?"

Dash could see his laughter on the read-out. It was forced. It didn't hurt like real laughter did. It was a noise for noise's sake, "I promise to do my best."

"I don't really have much to discuss tonight. I'm trying to prove something…" He fell silent as if expecting someone to ask what he was doing. Dash had been conditioned to be interrupted. He had even turned to his right, predicting a voice. The plastic wheels of his chair squeezed together as he made the fluid motion. The clock down the hallway ticked.

Geez, either he was tired, terrified, or genuinely missed Wes.

Shaking his head for a moment, Baxter had taken another pause to wipe his eyes of the sleep he was forgoing. Chastising himself for being so stupid, Dash groaned, "See, there's this urban legend that paranormal activity hits a significant increase at three in the morning. Since I have trouble sleeping anyway, I just thought I would at least be useful."

An 'Awwww' emerged from the speakers. The soundboard buttons had that squishable vinyl texture that had a muted click upon each press.

Another small smile grew on his features.

"Yeah." Dash punctuated, not wanting to leave a gap in the sound, "I'm usually a night owl, don't feel too bad. I don't really like sleeping; I'm kind of bad at it." Leaning into the mike, he whispered, "Plus it would be cool to have proof to wipe that smug look off of Weston's face."

Checking the time, the jock reported, "We're about ten minutes away from three."

He did a double-take before yanking his digital clock towards his chest.

Oh shit, really? That's a long time. That's way too much dead-air.

"Uh… I guess I could tell you all a story. I didn't really have anything ready..." Under his breath, he remarked, "Super pro-fesh, Baxter."

… What was he supposed to say? He had to think of something to say— Dash hit his forehead with the side of his fist. He didn't have any of his notes on Sidney laying around; there was still follow-up there. However, Dash didn't want to be so engrossed in his talking points that he missed the hour. With so many thoughts running around in his head, it seemed like the first one that left his mouth would be the winner—

"Um, ha… I-I think I was possessed… once."

Ding ding ding, blue ribbon.

Dash's fingers fervently scratched at his scalp. Why? Why did he just say that?! This was live!

Reluctantly, he continued without provocation, "Well… I'm not an expert by any means— but I know I was possessed, once."

With his own weighty sigh causing a spike in the waveform, the athlete elaborated, "I get… these blackouts from time to time? It varies. The shortest one was like thirty seconds. I had apparently thrown my lunch on the girl I was going to ask for homecoming. At the time, I think I was just stressed out. So, I wrote it off as like… a muscle spasm or something."

"It happens every now and again. I just—" Dash snapped his fingers, "Switch off. Go offline. I don't know what causes it…"

"I— I just see black."

He had to stop looking at the clock. Leaning back into the chair until it creaked, the quarterback ran his hands over his face. Tracing every line and imperfection in his skin, "It's scary. It's really fuckin' scary. The idea that something else is piloting me. It's weird."

"After the blackouts, I would get these bad migraines, and I still do…" His shoulders bounced helplessly, "Occasionally."

"I would get the migraines— and I thought— whatever! I'm not getting enough water, yknow?" Resting his arms on his chest, he stared up at the smooth white ceiling, unable to discern it from the night sky itself. Faintly Dash could see the light from the monitor reflect off of the dome light that hung in the center of the room. That was his moon. It felt as far away as a heavenly body.

He repeated, "I'd get these migraines. I'd black out— come back, somewhere completely different."

What was so jarring was seeing the sun's position shift between the gaps in his memory. The time displacement. It was something he could never get back. The confusion between night and day— and then the desperation of finding out what day it was, it was complete vertigo. He was sleepwalking through his life.

"My mistake was that I didn't tell anyone. I didn't… I didn't want to make out to be a big deal, whatever. They would have put me on the bench— I-I didn't want that." Dash didn't realize how thirsty he was; the lump in his throat wavered. He swallowed down, "Then they got longer. Hours sometimes. The longer I was gone, the worse I felt after. I would wake up at school after it closed..." Dash decided some details best remain foggy. He'd rather he didn't know anything that he was doing, despite how much it clawed at the recesses of his mind.

"After the migraines, I'd get these shooting pains in my arms, and my… m-my heart would skip a couple of beats. That freaked me out the most. I kept imagining the thing inside me was… trying to tell me that it could end me whenever it wanted. I kept seeing this mental image of my heart literally enclosed in someone's fist, and they were holding it down."

Unconsciously Dash's arms were moving around his neck, protecting his vital arteries. His skin itched at the thought of it. The thought of that someone who resided just below the surface. If he couldn't trust himself—

Drawing his legs closer to the base of the chair, and with a shaky exhale from his nose, the jock ventured, "I would wake up in bed some mornings and— and I couldn't… I couldn't move my legs?"

"God…" He didn't want to recall the utterly hopeless feeling during one particular flare-up. Waking up to an empty house, screaming for help. Dash had lied in bed for a day or so before the effects subsided. He had fully accepted by that point that he was going to starve to death like that before his parents came home. Now the quarterback shuddered, "That was the worst."

That was rock bottom.

"A friend of mine…"

It was Kwan.

"He'd say I'd be in the middle of sentences and just stop. Uh… he was the one to force my hand an' call a doctor about it." Dash chuckled, feeling the heat of his face blend with his tears, "I don't want to say he saved my life or anything, but yeah, probably, he probably did."

"I remember the appointment was… kind of weird. I described my symptoms, and she, the doctor said what I was experiencing was aligned with people who've been— like struck by lightning?" Covering his eyes, Baxter cleaned himself up before pinpointing the right phrase, "Electrocuted. She said I was experiencing seizures related to mild electrocution."

Still in disbelief over it all, Dash gripped the coverings for his ears, "Safe to say… I— a high school freshman, am not fuckin' around on telephone poles."

"I thought she was a total quack, but the medication she suggested did help, so," Fitfully Dash resigned, "I don't know." he repeated even quieter, "I dunno."

He sniffled. Wiping his nose on the back of his hand, the jock excused himself, "Allergies are real bad this year."

Enough with feeling sorry for himself! Dash couldn't believe he was crying. He was supposed to be better than this.

Scooting forward in his chair, Dash's hands found his keyboard, and he began typing into the search bar, "I had read somewhere in Edna Wicket's journal that victims of ghost possession often take on symptoms that caused the ghost's death. And this testimonial I read. A ghost possessed this chick. She had described everything so vividly while under hypnosis, the blackouts, where she went during them, what her ghost looked like—"

The quarterback said, "I saw that reading up for this history assignment, and... it just clicked."

At that moment, he turned to his head to the right where typically another chair would be beside him—expecting something.

Dash… realized that he sounded total banana nut bread, "I, uh… obviously have no proof." He then amended his statement, " —and ignoring my symptoms for so long clearly didn't help, but going to a doctor did. So, score one for modern medicine."

He hit the applause on the soundboard.

"That…" Baxter sighed again, trying to stomp out the excitement rising at the top of his gut, "Was sort of the first time I was possessed, and even then, I can't say definitively that's what it was."

It felt good to have verbalized it after all this time. Even if there was no one there to pat his back, and walk him through it. Wes was a good influence on him, he'd hate to admit it, but it was almost comforting how he balked in the face of anything vaguely superstitious. It made his fears seem a lot smaller in comparison.

As pathetic as it was, he wheeled to his over to his closet, using his headset as a tether to navigate through the dark. The slatted doors needed a bit more force as the wheels got stuck on the track. Dash had removed one of his larger stuffed bears, before pulling himself back in front of his desk. He didn't feel better but certainly, he felt a lot stupider. There would be no way the protag of a horror movie dies while holding a plushie. If this was Dash's horror movie, he wanted to make it to the end.

The bear in question was a light lilac color, filled with sand it weighed closer to a barbell than a regular toy. It took up the space between his lap and clavicle. Its limbs were loosely stuffed for mobility. It was a good bear. The weight on his body acted as a grounding tool. The weight was real. Therefore this moment right now was real.

Barring his arms around the plush, Dash effectively pinned the bear to his chest and hunched over it. Burying his face in the soft fur. God, he hated being alone.

The clock in the hallway chimed on the hour. Three am. Showtime.

"Uh, shit, shit, shit. Uh okay, so I'm gonna turn off my computer monitor— "

There was a hard click.

It was pitch black. The complete absence of light.

There would be no way anyone would be able to see anything past their nose.

Dash sniffled again, "I'm gonna shut up now."

Sixty seconds didn't seem like enough time to prove one's existence, but Baxter didn't feel like risking it. Everything seemed heightened in the dark. The water settled in the pipes picked the hell of a time to settle. At the very edge of this oblivion, the refrigerator downstairs gave off a faint buzz. The wind churned outside the window… dead tree branches scraped the shingles of the roof and sides of the house.

Digging his molars deeper into the flesh of his cheek with every faint hint of another presence with him, Dash refrained from moving. Counting his breaths, he stammered out, "Is— Is anyone here with me now?"

He wasn't sure which would be worse. No proof, or the possibility that he was taunting a spirit in its natural element. He wasn't sure which would be more favorable.

…

…

Beep. Beep. Beep-Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep-Bee—

Oh, thank fuck. Dash's watch alarm chimed. Pressing all four buttons allowed the dace to glow for a few seconds. In this limit, Dash already turned on any available light within reach. Desk lamp, floor lamp, lava lamp. Ceiling light— wait, that needed a new bulb.

Flush with relief, Dash threw down his headset, "What a rush huh! Sitting in a dark room, Jesus— I am never doing that again! We're going to take a little break and we're going to go over the classifications of EVPs or something. Keep it classy Amity Park!"

Scrambling out of the room, the quarterback tripped over his make-shift friend. He had pushed the door open with so much force it hit the outside wall with a pronounced smack. Dash's heavy footfalls could be heard padding down the staircase.

…

…

The squishy vinyl buttons receded into the sound effect machine.

'Awwww.'

'Ooooo~!'

Applause.

'Gone so soon?'