This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Extra_Evening9354 on 2025-09-23 03:40:45+00:00.

I don’t really know how to explain this, and I don’t even know what it is.

Every night at around 1:18 my TV switches to channel 666. I wouldn’t even be using the damn thing if it weren’t for the circumstances. My grandma passed away a few weeks ago, and I inherited her house. I’ve been staying here while I fix the place up—patching walls, sorting through decades of her things, trying not to think too much about how empty it feels without her.

She never upgraded anything, not even the television. It’s one of those heavy old sets that looks like it belongs in a museum, with faux wood paneling and dials that only go up to 99. The first night I stayed here, I turned it on just for the background noise. I figured it wouldn’t even work without cable or an antenna. But at 1:18, the picture flickered, and the channel number jumped to something that shouldn’t exist.

At first, it almost looked normal. A grainy black-and-white feed, the kind of washed-out broadcast you’d expect to see if you dug up some old VHS tape from the seventies. A man in a dark suit stood behind a pulpit, sweat shining on his forehead, his voice booming even though the sound was fuzzy.

He was preaching. I couldn’t make out all the words at first—something about sin and salvation—but the cadence was unmistakable. Every so often, though, he would stumble. His mouth would keep moving but the words that came out didn’t make sense. One moment he was talking about the blood of the lamb, and the next he was saying:

“Revelation tells us: let him who has understanding reckon the number of the Beast, for it is the number of a man… six hundred threescore and six. Six six six. But I tell you, brethren, do not think of it as only a number. No, it is a sign. A mark upon the hours, etched into the turning of the clock. A signal, a light in the darkness, and it does not fade.”

Then, just like that, he snapped back into rhythm, quoting from John as if nothing had happened.

I actually laughed when I first heard it. Not out loud, but one of those nervous little huffs you make when something doesn’t sit right. I told myself it was just late-night paranoia, that I was mishearing it through the static. Old sermons get dramatic, and preachers use a lot of metaphors—“a mark upon the hours” could’ve just been flowery language, right? That’s what I told myself.

But the way he said it stuck with me. He didn’t fumble over the words. He didn’t pause. It wasn’t a mistake—it was smooth, rehearsed, like he’d been waiting to slip it in.

Behind him sat a congregation. At first, I didn’t notice anything strange. Just rows of men and women in their Sunday best, hands folded in their laps, staring straight ahead. But the longer I watched, the more it felt like they weren’t listening to him at all. They were looking through the screen. Their eyes were too steady.

And then I saw her. Third row, aisle seat. My grandmother. Or at least that’s what my brain told me.

I froze. I leaned closer to the screen, blinking hard, waiting for the image to blur or shift back into just some random old woman. But it didn’t. Same hair. Same glasses. The same slight tilt of her head she always had when she was listening to someone speak.

It couldn’t have been her. She was gone. I’d stood at her funeral. I’d carried the bag of her ashes home in the back seat of my car. My hands were shaking, and I actually muttered out loud, “It’s not her. It’s not her.” Like saying it would change what I was seeing.

The longer I stared, the more it felt like she was staring back. Not at the preacher. Not at the congregation. At me. Straight through the screen.

I don’t know how long I sat there before the picture dissolved back into static. All I remember is the hollow feeling in my stomach and my heart pounding against my ribs.

It hasn’t just been a one-off glitch. Tonight will be the fourth night in a row.

The first time I thought I was imagining things. The screen flipped at 1:18, the sermon played for maybe five minutes, then static. The next night, same thing—different sermon. Different passages. The preacher always looks the same, same suit, same sweat on his forehead, but the words are never the same. He stumbles every time, though. Each night there’s a slip. Something that doesn’t belong in scripture, something that sounds like it was meant for me.

I’ve timed it now. It lasts just under five minutes. I don’t touch the TV, I don’t change the channel—it just cuts out at 1:18 sharp, jumps straight to channel 666, then dies again like nothing happened.

I told myself I’d leave it alone, that I wouldn’t turn the TV on tonight. But I know I’m going to. I can’t not. That’s why I’m posting here before it happens again. Just so someone else knows this is real. Maybe someone can give some suggestions before it’s time.