The Tape

Wren Mercer fixes broken electronics because machines are easier to love than people — and because the camcorder she can't put down was her dad's, and he's been dead two years. Then a VHS tape turns up in a donation box at the shop where she works, labeled in her father's handwriting with tomorrow's date. She plays it. It's her. Tomorrow. Doing things she hasn't done yet, exactly the way she ends up doing them. A new tape comes every morning, each one a day further ahead. At first the footage is mundane. Then it shows the inside of locked rooms. Then her dreams. Then her mother, and something that hasn't happened yet but is going to. And in the corner of every frame, a little closer each day, a man made of static is turning to face the camera. Deviate from the tape and it gets worse. Obey it and she's being slowly recorded over. To find a third option, Wren has to learn what her father knew about the dead cable-access station on the edge of town — and what's been broadcasting from behind the signal since 1994.