Sit back from the set! You'll ruin your eyes — what's left of them.
Here they are, the three of them, cross-legged on the rug at the wrong hour with the lamp turned down and something coming through the static that the station never scheduled. A witch, a burning skull, and one wearing a pumpkin. Not one will admit to being frightened.
And the thing on the screen is screaming. Screaming and reaching out into the room, which is a great deal to ask of a console television, and the three of them lean in closer.
There's a whole night of it. There always is, in this house, at this hour.
Nobody moves. Nobody blinks. Somebody's mother is going to be very cross.
