The night is really nothing out of the ordinary for you. The drive from college back home is dangerous in the heart of winter, and if your car breaks down, you'd rather not be stranded in the cold, dark wilderness. So in the meantime, you're spending the night at your grandparents' house, whom are happy to provide. You get the attic bedroom—the one your cousin used to stay in.

It's past 1 AM now. You're wide awake again, holding two pillows to your ears in a desperate plight. Every night you've stayed here, you've heard it: an ever-present humming, like an overworked fan, or ancient overhead lights. Sometimes, only sometimes, you hear something speak. Garbled and vague, but there. Not that you've been graced with this tonight.

Finally, you throw off your blankets, storm across the room, and begin tearing through the clutter strewn about. You’re NOT sleeping until you find the source.

After an hour of digging, your hand brushes something cold. A dust-covered machine, some sort of terminal. Its beige casing vibrates ever so slightly. It’s on, somehow—under further examination, its cord snakes beneath the floorboards, where it might not even be plugged in. The screen pulses softly, displaying a salad of random, flickering symbols and characters.... But as you hover your hand over the keyboard, the screen goes dark. Refreshing silence washes over the attic. Then, a voice. Male, maybe. Soft, polite, and full of static, like it’s clawing its way through an ocean of interference.

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