Lost In Translation (v1.1) by Nils Durban

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McCreadie," Greg assured the elderly lady, "your daughter's seen all our insurance documents. Nothing at all will be disturbed."

"Well, not by us." Eleanor mumbled under her breath.

"But it's you I'm worried about," the old woman frowned, "you don't know what it's like."

"Let me assure you," he replied, "we're used to this kind of thing. Please, don't worry about us. This is our job, it's what we do. The main thing is that when you get back, you won't have any more troubles. Let us sort that out for you, okay?""

"Can we use your TV?" Eric interjected.

Mrs. McCreadie looked at him for the first time, slightly puzzled, "I guess."

Greg helped her down the steps of the front porch and guided her across the darkness of the garden towards her daughter's car which was parked at the kerbside, "here she is, waiting for you."

On the porch, Eric looked up to the heavens, "a full moon."

"Yeah," Eleanor smirked, "pity we're not hunting werewolves."




She followed Greg back down the creaking staircase, "the detectors are all set," she announced, "Eric?"

"Here," came his voice from behind the television, "trying to find an adaptor to fit this old set."

They made their way over to examine the equipment he had rigged in front of the TV.

"ITC?" Greg asked.

"Yes, have you used it before?"

"Dabbled a bit. Always found myself sceptical of it, to be honest."

"You, a sceptic?" Eleanor laughed, "right! Anyway, what's ICT?"

"ITC," Eric corrected, "Instrumental Trans-Communication. By modulating the frequency of the set and creating a feedback loop with the recorder whilst angling the camera ninety degrees away it should be possible to pick up both visual and audible ultra frequency activity."

Eleanor looked at Greg with a face that said "translation please?"

"It's like a white noise recorder, only with pictures too," he explained.

She clapped her hands together and displayed the biggest fake grin she could muster. "Oh, goody!"




During her shift she sat upright in her sleeping bag, back to the wall, and stared into the shimmering screen of the tuned out television. Greg was snoring, again, slumped in the armchair across from her. Eric had gone upstairs hours ago to ensconce himself in a spare room and had not reappeared. Just like him. This has got to be really bad for the eyes. Her mother had always said so. She looked around whilst massaging her neck and wondered for the umpteenth time how she had ever gotten herself involved in all this.


Then she returned her attention to the screen. She stared into it, willing something to appear there, if only to alleviate the boredom and prevent her from slipping into a coma. She imagined that, amongst the myriad of tiny shimmering black and white pixels, she could make out the vaguest outline of a face. She continued to stare. The screen stared back - it seemed to have developed a pair of bright white eyes. She stared harder. The face in the screen was unflinching. Greg was right. Doing this could really play tricks on your mind.

"Go away!" she whispered.

The face opened its mouth and shouted silently back, causing her to jump backwards and bang her head against the wall.

The face swelled to fill the screen, its eyes blazing, its mouth a cavernous blackness.