A Momentous Night

The TV screen goes black. Something knocks on the glass, from the inside. A thin hand and round eyes can just barely be discerned in the blackness. I remove a curtain from a window and drape it over the TV. The floral pattern is more pleasing to view than what I saw of the thing in the TV, in a glow slowly brightening behind it. I can still hear it knocking on the glass but there isn’t much I can do about it. It is late. It is too late. These things will not let me be. It is unfortunate the TV stopped working. The floral pattern on the curtain is not as interesting as the program I was watching before the screen went black, about dishwashing soap. Still, the couch is comfortable, which is something I often bring up in conversation. In fact, perhaps I should tell the thing in the TV about it. Its knocking is becoming monotonous. A description of the sense of ease the couch is capable of bringing on might sooth it into inactivity. Although, I think it knocks because it wants out. My speaking of comfort might worsen the situation. The space behind the glass is probably unpleasantly hard and glassy. I don’t want to share the couch. I also am not willing to break the screen to let it out, at least not before having a repairman look at the TV. If it is determined it is not repairable, maybe I will help. The knocking is relentless. It is late. I want to go to bed. The knocking is insistent. It is too late. I know I will not be left to my own devices. I pile cushions on and around the TV, sacrificing the comfort of the couch and several chairs. The knocking was momentarily muffled, but now the thing seems to be knocking with more force to compensate for the dampening effect of the cushions. I gather blankets from the closet and drape them in layers over the cushions. Again the knocking evidently increases forcefulness. I am worried it could crack the glass or further damage the TV in some other way, so I don’t pile anything more on. It wants to be heard. Maybe it caused the TV to stop working. Maybe it also wants to be seen. I feel I have done all I can for the time being. So, to the bedroom. Climbing into bed, the realization astonishes me that the thing in the TV does not knock more forcefully to make itself heard more clearly by me in the bedroom. Maybe it does not know I have left the room. Even so, I can still hear it well enough. I am unable to sleep. It is not the noise that keeps me awake. It is the knowledge of what the knocking means. Those who manifest in certain strange ways, that in the TV being the latest, will not take direct action. They never have. From a distance, they persuade and suggest nothing in particular, maybe subliminally more than I realize. They present a form that should contain a message but does not. They compel without specifics. There is a light at the window. I can see it not only by what it illuminates, but also in the luminously occupied air. I do not know what this means but I know what it will eventually mean if I do not take preventative action. I sit up and throw the blankets off. I flip the catch above my left ear and open the little door. I reach inside and mix things around. I draw a handful of blue, bristling lichen out through the door. I close the door. I regard this lichen as something that blocks their influence, but then why did they plant it in my head? Despite my uncertainty, I stuff the handful into my mouth. I let it melt. It is cold. Removing it from my head dimmed my head, as expected. Consuming it will keep me aware enough, and I hope not in such a way that will allow for their presences to take root and convert everything to stark, spacious, unreal, hollow forms. The lichen-melt is getting colder. I do not swallow until it begins to numb my tongue. The light at the window now seems a threat of less depth. It is ominous, but deliciously so. A slightly more ominous appearance to it might even be more enjoyable. It is an ominous entertainment, but is entertainment nonetheless. Watching the thing in the TV might be even better. I remove the blankets and cushions from the TV. Unexpectedly, the knocking does not sound any louder with the cushions and blankets removed. I restore cushions to the couch. I remove the curtain from the TV. There is bright light behind the thing, putting it mostly in silhouette, but its face can just barely be discerned. It is a cold face. It knocks on the glass with the end knuckles of two long, thin fingers. Abruptly, there is light at the door to the bedroom. It fills and seems contained by the doorway. It mostly stays within. It projects little illumination. The thing in the TV stops knocking and begins scratching at the glass. Its round eyes appear communicative but conversely convey nothing. I think it’s getting through. It’s getting through the glass, which I see falling away in flakes. It’s getting through to me. I must act fast. I open the door above my left ear and tip my head sideways, letting lichen in a variety of blue, bristling shapes drop onto the floor. I am like a computer winding down into low power mode. My thoughts are becoming sparse and slow. But still I feel presences in here. I feel an impulse to leap into the bedroom doorway.