My mother always reassured me that the dark was just the absence of light, nothing more. Every night, after tucking me firmly under my princess duvet. She would linger by the door, promising a good dream, oblivious to the true, systemic terror that took hold the moment the hall light vanished.

"Just try to be brave, sweetie," she would whisper, closing the heavy wooden door with a quiet click.

I wasn't afraid of the dark., I was afraid of the screen.

In the corner of my room stood a large, flat screen television, heavy inert, and reflecting the faint street light outside. I would watch the reflection of the closed door, counting to twenty, waiting for the residual light in the room to fully dissolve into shadow.

On the count of twenty-one, the television screen did not turn on, but it glowed. Not with white light, but with a subtle, internal charcoal luminescence, just enough to etch the details of a single face.

It was a woman, perhaps in her thirties, with dark, slicked back hair. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, and looked directly at me. But it was the mouth that stole my breath: a smile impossibly wide, exposing too much gum and too much teeth. It was a smile of pure, serene malice.

Just as I felt my lungs seize, the image flickered and replaced itself, silent as a thought.

Now it was an older man, his skin the color of polished mahogany, his eyes crinkled in a cruel imitation of joy. He looked right at me, smiling.

Then a young girl with braids and unsettling vacant expression, smiling.

They came and went in rapid succession: faces of every race, age and description, like a flash card presentation of the damned. They were all distinct, yet bound by the same horrifying, direct gaze and the inescapable, soundless smile.

I was frozen, buried beneath my covers, my skin prickling with cold sweat. I knew I could simply squeeze my eyes shut, roll over or scream. But I couldn't. The silent glow of the screen compelled me, holding my gaze captive while the procession continued, each face a perfect, horrible echo of the last, until the television finally faded back into a sheet of impenetrable black glass, waiting patiently for the next night.