On screen, Mr. Aris reached out a hand, his fingers stretching toward the lens until they seemed to press against the glass of my monitor.
Suddenly, the video glitched. The colors inverted, turning the sunset purple and the shadows neon green. When the image stabilized, Mr. Aris was standing directly in front of the camera. His face filled the entire screen. The glare was gone from his glasses, revealing empty, black sockets. "You're late for class," he said.
The boy didn't move. The camera zoomed in on the back of his head. I noticed a small flickering at the edge of the screen—a digital artifact that looked like a barcode.
The screen went black. In the reflection of the monitor, I could see the silhouette of a tall man standing in the corner of my room, holding a piece of chalk. I haven't looked back since.
The file was buried in a folder named RECOVERY_2012 on an old external hard drive I found at a yard sale. Amidst blurry vacation photos and dead links was a single video file: .
"I can't hear you, Leo," Mr. Aris said, his voice dropping an octave.
"Don't worry," he soothed, his voice now coming from the space right behind my chair. "I give everyone a passing grade... eventually."
"Good evening, class," he whispered. The audio was crisp, unnervingly clear against the grainy visual. "I’m so glad you stayed late for the extra credit."
