The Static Show

Table of Contents

When I think about my childhood, it always comes back to four o’clock. Not school, not birthday parties, not vacations. Four o’clock. Every day, my sister and I would drop whatever we were doing. Being homework, toys, even fights and plant ourselves in front of the living room television. We’d sit side by side on the carpet, legs folded, eyes wide, waiting. The moment the clock struck four, the screen flickered, and our show began. We loved it.

The host was strange, but as kids we didn’t think much of it. He had a pale, doughy face, with a smile too wide for his head and round, glistening eyes that never blinked. His clothes were always different: sometimes a red sweater, sometimes a suit that looked like it had been borrowed from an old man’s closet. His voice was sing-songy, lilting, always just on the edge of laughter.

He told stories, nonsense little parables about lost keys or talking shadows. He sang songs in a rhythm that stuck in your head for days, rhymes about hiding, waiting, and listening. And at the end of each episode, he’d look straight at us, wave with long fingers, and say the same line.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, my little eyes.”

We adored him. Our parents thought it was weird, how religiously we watched. They’d roll their eyes, mutter about kids and their habits, but they never interfered. At least we were home, safe, not causing trouble outside.

And then we grew up. It was years later, during a family dinner, when my sister brought it up. We were both in our twenties by then, long past those childhood afternoons.

“Hey, Mom,”

She said between bites,

“Do you remember that show we used to watch? Every day at four?”

Mom looked puzzled.

“What show?”

“You know,”

I added,

“the one with the guy. Pale face, big grin. He used to tell stories. Kind of creepy looking but… fun?”

She stared at us, fork frozen in midair.

“I don’t remember any show like that. You two would just sit in front of the TV, staring at static. White noise. Nothing was on.”

We laughed, certain she was joking. But she wasn’t smiling.

“No,”

She said firmly.

“There was never anything on at that time. Just fuzz. I thought it was strange, how you’d sit there glassy- eyed every afternoon. Gave me chills, honestly.”

My sister and I exchanged a look. We both remembered the host. The way his eyes glittered, the songs he sang, the way he waved goodbye. How could she not remember? We tried describing him. His clothes, his voice, even specific lines from his stories. With each detail, Mom’s face drained of color. By the time we finished, she looked like she might cry.

“Don’t talk about it anymore,”

She whispered.

“Please.”

That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The idea that we’d been staring at static was ridiculous. I remembered too much. The rhythm of the songs, the way the stories ended with questions, the way the host seemed to lean closer each day. So I posted about it online. Just a quick thread:

“Did anyone else have a favorite show at 4 p.m. as a kid? Pale faced host, wide grin, weird little stories? Our mom swears it was just static, but my sister and I both remember it clearly.”

The responses started slow. Then they snowballed.

“Oh my God, I thought I was the only one.”

“He used to wave at me too!”

“Do you remember the song about hiding under the bed?”

“Yes, yes I remember! He always said ‘my little eyes.’”

Hundreds of replies. Dozens of sketches, each one nearly identical to the figure my sister and I remembered. Pale, wide grin, round eyes. Always smiling. Always watching. But then came the other half of the comments. Parents chiming in. Skeptical uncles, aunts, older siblings.

“No. You were staring at static. There was never a show like that.”

“I remember thinking it was creepy, how transfixed you kids were by nothing at all.”

“We used to joke that the static had babysat you.”

No TV listings, no tapes, no records. Nothing. Just memories we couldn’t shake, memories everyone our age seemed to share, but no adult could confirm. It got worse after that.

One user uploaded a recording they’d found on an old VHS tape, labeled only with a date. They said it was from around the same time the show should’ve aired. The video showed nothing but static for several minutes… until the frame shifted. For half a second, a pale shape flickered in the fuzz. A grin. Round eyes. A hand waving. The file corrupted right after.

People started reporting dreams. The same dreams. Waking up at exactly 4:00 a.m. with the faint sound of static in the background, and a voice whispering, singing song,

“I’ll see you again, my little eyes.”

My sister doesn’t talk about it anymore. She says the memories have been getting stronger, clearer, sharper. She remembers things I don’t. Rules the host used to repeat, warnings disguised as nursery rhymes.

The last time we spoke about it, she told me he once leaned close to the screen and whispered something only she could hear.

“What did he say?”

I asked.She wouldn’t answer. She just unplugged her TV and told me to do the same. But sometimes, late at night, when the house is quiet, I swear I hear it anyway. A soft hiss. Static, faint and hungry. And beneath it, a voice,

“Sit down. It’s almost four.”