My grandfather's attic was a labyrinth of shadows and dusty memories. Amidst moldy trunks and old toys, I found a dark wooden box, unusually heavy, without any label. I creaked it open, and inside was a device I had never seen before.
It resembled a vintage radio, but with a series of knobs and gauges that made no sense. There were no antennas, no headphone jacks. Only a small circular screen showing a series of cryptic symbols that seemed to dance slowly, like characters from a forgotten alphabet. There was only one switch, large and red, labeled with a nearly illegible engraving: "ON/NEVER OFF."
I was puzzled. Grandpa had been an eccentric inventor, but this was different from anything he'd ever created. Curiosity got the better of me. With a sharp click, I flipped the switch to "ON."
The device made no sound. The screen lit up with a blue-green glow, and the symbols began to move faster, merging and reforming in hypnotic sequences. I didn't understand what was happening, but I felt a strange sensation, as if I were no longer alone in the room.
Days passed. The device remained on; the symbols continued their silent dance. I began to feel tired, increasingly drowsy, as if something were slowly draining my energy. At night, I heard a faint hum coming from the attic, a sound that seeped into my bones and kept me from resting.
Then the dreams began. Vivid, disturbing dreams of infinite spaces and impossible geometries. I saw creatures that could not exist, made of shadows and distorted light, watching me with ancient eyes. They didn't speak, but communicated in a language of sensations: hunger, waiting, an infinite, cold curiosity.
One day, walking down the stairs, I saw a long, thin shadow moving at the corner of my vision. When I turned, nothing was there. Things began to disappear around the house: my wallet, my keys, sometimes entire books. Then I would find them in unthinkable places, like inside the refrigerator or under my pillow. It was as if reality itself were fraying.
I decided to turn the device off. I went up to the attic; the humming was louder now, almost a groan. I reached for the red switch but stopped. The symbols on the screen were no longer abstract. Now, they formed images.
I saw my house, but distorted, with rooms that didn't exist and windows looking out onto a starry void. I saw myself, but it wasn't me. It was an ethereal, transparent figure with hollow eyes. And next to that figure were other shapes, becoming clearer, closer. They were the creatures from my dreams. They were no longer just dreams.
I understood then. The "NEVER OFF" switch wasn't a warning not to turn the device off. It was a statement. The device had never been off. My grandfather hadn't turned it off. Perhaps he couldn't. Perhaps he himself was... the ethereal figure.
The hum became an internal roar. I felt a glacial cold penetrate my bones. The symbols on the screen merged into a single, horrific face, with eyes looking directly at me—not through an image, but through the very veil of reality.
Now, the device is here, on my table. I cannot turn it off. Every time I try, I feel a weakness, a pull, as if something is holding me back, sucking away my very will. I feel their presence in every room. The shadows are more defined, the disappearances more frequent. My eyes are always tired, but I cannot sleep, because I know that the moment I close them, they will be there.
Sometimes, I see my reflection in the small screen. And every day, the ethereal figure beside me becomes a little clearer. And mine, a little less.
That is a hauntingly beautiful piece of cosmic horror. The transition from curiosity to a slow, existential fading is chilling.