Page 31: “If the picture rolls backward in time (e.g., showing last Tuesday’s news), reverse the polarity of the horizontal oscillator and do not, under any circumstances, look directly into the screen. The images look back.”
The last page of the manual was a single, hand-typed paragraph: “Congratulations! You have repaired the Elfunk Banshee. You will now notice three things: 1) Your house will always smell faintly of ozone. 2) Shadows will no longer obey the direction of light. 3) On quiet nights, if you stand three feet from the screen, you will hear a knock. Do not answer. That is the service call from the other side. Elfunk does not cover afterlife repairs. Warranty void where prohibited by reality.” Arthur closed the manual. He looked across the room at his own modern flatscreen, dark and mute. For a moment, he could have sworn the reflection in the glass was not his living room, but a basement—a basement with a single, humming CRT television and a small, grinning elf wearing a hard hat.
He put the manual in the fireplace and struck a match.
Arthur’s blood cooled. Leo had died of a heart attack at fifty-two. The official cause: stress. But Arthur remembered the paramedics saying Leo’s eyes were open too wide, like he’d seen something impossible. Elfunk Tv Manual
From inside the cold, dead screen of his brother’s Winnebago’s rear-view camera monitor.
He never turned it on again.
He found the manual wedged behind the fuse box. It was a thin, stained booklet, the size of a passport, with a curling plastic spiral binding. On the cover, a crude cartoon elf in a hard hat held a soldering iron like a sword. Above him, in a cheerful, 1970s font, it read: Elfunk: Television & Electronic Repair – Manual No. 7. Page 31: “If the picture rolls backward in time (e
The first pages were normal: safety warnings (“Do not touch the anode cap while the chassis is open unless you wish to meet God personally”), schematics, parts lists (Model 2200 “Goblin Chassis,” Model 4400 “Sprite Deflection Yoke”). But by page 23, the language shifted. “To calibrate the vertical hold on a Model 8800 ‘Banshee,’ one must first listen. A healthy set hums in B-flat minor. A failing set will whisper the name of the last person who repaired it.” Arthur chuckled. A joke. Repairman humor.
Three times.
That night, alone in his own silent house, Arthur opened the manual. You will now notice three things: 1) Your
Arthur Finch did not believe in ghosts, but he did believe in bad wiring. That’s why, at seventy-three, he was flat on his back under the dashboard of a 1978 Winnebago, tasting dust and regret. The RV had been his late brother’s pride, and now it was Arthur’s problem.
The Last Page of the Elfunk Manual
The paper burned. The flames were blue. And as the last corner of the cover curled into ash, Arthur heard a faint, clear knock.