The Electronic Onslaught
I escaped the clutches of the monster anchor in the Ghost Story Apartment, gasping for air and hacking up a storm. “Cough, cough!” I’d come this close to dying.
I shoved aside the anchor’s arm, coiled around my neck like a noose, coughed to catch my breath, and the students rushed over with sighs of relief.
Of course, I’d taken down the anchor, but no ghost story resolution message appeared. From experience, ghost stories like this one had a core element powering the entire setup—destroy that, and it ended. Until then, nothing. The TV anchor was just one cog in the machine.
“...We’ve only cleared room 906, and I’m already wiped out.”
That’s when it happened. The wall-mounted TV flickered back on. The desk was drenched in bloodstains instead of the anchor.
He wasn’t dead yet!? And as if responding to his ravings, the kitchen appliances lit up one by one.
Damn! Come to think of it, he’d warned about more than just the TV!
I yelled a frantic warning to the students. “Next attack incoming! It’s not just the TV—watch the other appliances too! Get ready!”
I swung my flashlight at the nearest TV. Bang! The frame crumpled with a thunderous crash, the screen shattering. It went dark, belching black smoke, and stayed off. The TV had reverted from a ghost story-infested gadget to a plain broken one.
“Teacher! The TV... it’s smashed!”
“Physically destroying them turns ghost story junk back to normal!”
“But... it’s too late!”
We’d figured out how to handle possessed appliances, but it didn’t matter much. There were way too many for just the four of us.
From the kitchen came a low whirr as the fridge door rattled open. Frigid air billowed out, dumping icicles like spears alongside mystery frozen food scraps from who-knows-when.
In the corner of the living room, the microwave’s interior light flashed, high-pitched tones whining as the door snapped open and shut repeatedly.
From the balcony, thud, thud! as the washer shook violently. In the bedroom, static crackled from the computer monitor as an unidentified shadow rose from it.
Every damn appliance in the house was convulsing, lunging at us.
“Rone! Block the icy ones! Rozaria, keep eyes on the thing with the creepy door-flapping noise! Elaine, handle anything coming in from the balcony!”
I barked orders and charged without pause. Straight at the purifier in the living room center, spewing water like a waterfall. The same boiling torrent that had swallowed Rone last loop. Leave it, and the room would flood, shoving us off the ninth-floor balcony. No interest in testing survival odds from that height.
I endured the scalding burns, hammering the purifier with my flashlight. Had to stop it before the water rose further.
The others weren’t faring much better.
“Nngh! Ice...!” Rone swung knives and spatulas at flying food scraps and icicles, but there were too many. Wounds started blooming on her skin.
The microwave flashed again, door flapping with eerie whines, pulsing unsettling light. “H-Have to dodge this! My head’s ringing!” Rozaria screamed, ducking behind the sofa. But exposure had already drawn a nosebleed down her face.
Balcony: Thud, thud! The washer bucked, laundry twisting into a massive arm that lashed at Elaine. “Kyaaah!!” She got grabbed—pathetic ambush skills, overwhelmed.
We’d struggled with one TV. An army of appliances? No chance. Even unblocked ones like the computer were closing in.
Damn! End of the line this loop! Then, mid-swing at the purifier, my thumb slipped on the flashlight button. Click! The beam turned purple. UV mode.
No time to care about a color change...!
But suddenly, hidden things appeared. English scrawls filled room 906. Floor glowed with massive UV paint: DANGER, NOT SAFE HERE. Walls screamed ELECTRONIC IS TRAP.
And amid it all, a huge arrow on the floor pointed to the entryway.
What the hell? First thought: another trap. But no choice.
Screw it. Worst case, die and loop back.
“Kids! Fall back! We’re pulling out!”
“But if we don’t smash these possessed things, running won’t...!!”
“Trust me!! What’s the worst—dying?!”
“That’s reassuring!!!”
I herded the fighting students toward the entryway, dodging assaults. At the arrow’s end: the fuse box. Classic old-apartment breaker panel, locked. But beside it, UV-visible password glowed clear.
I punched it in without hesitation. Click! Lock opened.
No need to overthink. ELECTRONIC IS TRAP + power cutoff = obvious.
I flipped the main switch down. Lights died, noises ceased. All appliances powered off, frozen.
Microwave silent, fridge still, purifier dry.
House wrecked, but we lived.
“We survived...!”
“Teacher for the win!”
“Knew you’d pull through!”
They collapsed, exhausted. Shattered TV shards everywhere, floor soaked from the purifier, fridge ajar, microwave and washer twisted out of place—like a mini tornado hit.
They were banged up too, but relief lit their faces.
Mine? Grim.
Ghost story axiom one: They exist only to torment and kill.
Even “manual” ones twisted safety rules to lethal ends.
But UV hints? Clear survival guides? Felt prepared for me.
Ghost stories didn’t hand out helpful clues like candy.
These screamed: messages from another survivor, for any who followed.
Was this really my subconscious creation? Doubt crept in.
And a gut feeling: deeper, weirder secrets lurked here than I’d imagined.