月が昇る

I shouldn’t have watched it. I know that now.

But after last night, after hearing that whisper, I had to see the tape again. Had to make sure I wasn’t imagining things.

I put it back in the VCR. The static started immediately, the warped footage rolling in like a bad dream. But this time, there was something new.

A title card.

"The Lovesick Episode."

I don’t remember this episode. No one does. It’s not in any archives, not in any episode guides. But there it was, flickering on my screen in faded white text.

The show began as usual, with the host—a puppet with wide, unblinking eyes—standing in the middle of the set. The colors were still muted, the audio still scratchy, but there was something wrong with the way the puppet moved. The strings jerked awkwardly, its felt mouth opening and closing as if speaking, but no words came out.

Then, the music started. Slow, droning, like a warped music box struggling to play.

A new character entered the scene.

I didn’t recognize this puppet. It wasn’t one of the regulars. Its head was too large, its limbs too long, its fabric too old. It swayed slightly, as if struggling to stand.

The host turned to it and finally spoke.

"Oh dear, you look lovesick!

The new puppet twitched. Its head tilted too far to the side. The screen glitched for a second, and when it stabilized, the set looked different. The bright, painted houses were now… rotted. The colors bled down like water-stained paper.

And then, the puppet began to change.

Its felt face stretched, the seams pulling apart. Its button eyes rolled unevenly in their sockets. The sound of heavy breathing filled the audio—ragged, wet gasps.

The host stood still. Watching.

The tape skipped.

Now the new puppet was alone on the screen. It was staring directly at the camera.

Its mouth opened.

A voice, barely more than a whisper, spoke through the speakers.

"Why did you forget me?"

I hit eject. The tape didn’t budge.

The puppet moved closer.

The screen cuts to static.

I yanked the tape out, nearly breaking the VCR. My hands were shaking. The room felt colder. I swear I heard a faint, distant humming—like the warped melody from the episode.

I don’t know what I saw. I don’t know how this tape even exists.

But I do know one thing.

I don’t know why I watched it.

The tape was in a dusty cardboard box at the thrift store, buried under stacks of old VHS tapes—mostly bad ‘90s romcoms and forgotten action flicks. But this one… this one had no label. Just black plastic, no stickers, no markings. It felt heavier than the others when I picked it up.

Curiosity got the better of me.

I dug out my old VCR, the one I hadn't used in years, and popped the tape in. At first, nothing but static. Then, a flicker of something—grainy footage, like an old home video. A room I didn’t recognize, dimly lit by a single, swaying lightbulb. The walls were covered in something dark, maybe mold, maybe something worse. The camera panned slowly, almost too slowly, like someone was forcing themselves to film.

And then I saw it.

A figure standing in the corner. Still. Watching. Its face was blurred, shifting like bad reception, but I could feel its eyes. The tape glitched. The screen cut to black.

I thought that was it. But then my TV turned off on its own. And a moment later… the screen came back on. Only this time, it was showing my living room. From behind me.

I turned around.

Nothing was there.

I ripped the tape out of the VCR and threw it back in the box. But now, every time I close my eyes, I see that room. I see that figure. I hear the faint hum of the swaying lightbulb.

And just now, as I’m writing this—my TV turned on by itself again.

It’s playing the tape.

Of course, I'd tag you.

Sorry for the late reply!

OF COURSE, ID LOVE TO SEE!