A Short Story from Existential Fred

  Fred didn’t hate his job. In fact, he’d go so far as to say it was one of the least insufferable parts of his life.

  As a content editor for a popur social media personality, he had the luxury of working from home, setting his own hours, and, most importantly, avoiding people. His job mostly consisted of cutting footage, adding captions, and making sure Noah’s internet antics looked polished enough to go viral.

  It was easy. It was quiet. It was fine.

  Except today.

  Today, Noah needed him in the studio.

  Fred sighed deeply, rolled out of bed, and prepared himself for whatever nonsense awaited him.

  Stepping into the studio, Fred immediately regretted every decision that had led him here.

  The space was pure chaos. People rushed around in every direction, adjusting lights, testing cameras, and shouting over each other. A production assistant banced a coffee in one hand and a light reflector in the other, looking dangerously close to a nervous breakdown. Somewhere off to the side, a heated argument over color grading filters was reaching life-or-death intensity. A ring light crashed to the ground. No one reacted.

  And in the center of it all—Noah, the human embodiment of an adrenaline overdose.

  "FRED, MY MAN!" Noah beamed, throwing an arm around his shoulders like they were long-lost brothers. "You ready for some ABSOLUTE CONTENT MAYHEM?"

  Fred inhaled slowly, mentally preparing himself for whatever nightmare Noah had pnned today.

  "No."

  Noah ughed, cpping him on the back. "That’s the spirit!"

  Fred stared directly into the nearest camera.

  Noah’s setup was simple. His videos usually involved mildly dangerous stunts, over-the-top reactions, and chaotic editing. As far as influencer garbage went, it wasn’t the worst.

  Fred settled in at the editing station, expecting the usual routine: scrub through footage, clean up audio, remove the occasional curse word when Noah remembered to stay brand-safe. But as soon as he pulled up today’s files, his stomach twisted.

  Something was wrong.

  At first, he thought it was just a corrupted clip. Noah’s shadow wasn’t moving quite right—lingering a half-second behind him like bad motion capture. The audio was slightly distorted, stretching Noah’s words just enough to sound off.

  Fred repyed it, frowning.

  Okay, weird.

  He switched to another clip. Noah was talking to the camera, hyping up some ridiculous stunt. The lighting was bright, the framing was fine, but—

  Fred paused.

  The pyback had changed.

  Noah hadn’t moved, but his shadow had shifted positions.

  Fred blinked.

  The footage flickered.

  A shape, something dark and jagged, briefly glitched across the screen.

  Fred pushed his chair back, forcing a deep breath.

  “…Hey, Noah?”

  Noah, currently debating with a PA about whether doing a backflip off a table would be “sick or cringe,” barely gnced over. "Yeah, buddy?"

  Fred gestured at the monitor. "You see this weird glitch effect?"

  Noah leaned in, squinting. "Oh yeah, that’s wild."

  Fred nodded. "Right? It’s like—"

  "Looks glitchy as hell," Noah muttered.

  The studio lights flickered.

  The air vibrated.

  A low, distorted voice whispered from the speakers.

  "Glitch…eeee?"

  Fred’s entire body locked up.

  Noah, still staring at the screen, shrugged. "Yeah, some glitchy shadow effects. It looks cool, though."

  The monitors glitched violently.

  The air buzzed, thick with static, and a warped, digital voice boomed through the studio.

  "GLITCHEEE."

  Fred’s soul left his body.

  Noah nodded approvingly. "Oh, sick. It named itself. That’s dope."

  Fred slowly turned to stare at him, despair carving itself into every fiber of his being.

  Noah patted him on the shoulder. "Make it bigger."

  The lights flickered ominously.

  Fred dragged a hand down his face. He needed seventeen drinks and a nap.

  Now that Glitcheee had a name, it had power. And it really wanted Fred’s attention.

  It started small. The cameras glitched every time he looked away. Noah’s shadow warped in the pyback, moving unnaturally. Then the whispers started, threading through the audio in ways that made Fred’s skin crawl.

  "Notice me, Fred."

  Fred stared at the screen, gripping his mouse like it was the st thing tethering him to sanity.

  Noah sipped an energy drink, nodding at the corrupted footage. "Dude, this effect is next level. You edit this in?"

  Fred forced a tight-lipped smile.

  "Sure."

  "Nice. Make it louder."

  The lights dimmed.

  Fred considered simply dying on the spot.

  By the time Glitcheee fully manifested, Fred was so done.

  The studio monitors glitched violently.

  Noah’s recorded footage began distorting in real-time.

  Then—

  Noah’s face on the screen turned.

  It was not Noah.

  Fred froze.

  The corrupted version of Noah grinned, too wide.

  Then it spoke.

  "Hello, Fred."

  Fred stood up immediately.

  "Nope."

  Noah blinked. "What?"

  Fred grabbed his bag. "Nope, I’m done. Have fun with your haunted studio. Bye."

  "Wait, dude, we still have to—"

  Fred walked out the door.

  Noah called after him.

  "DOPE EFFECT, THOUGH! YOU’RE A GENIUS, BRO!"

  Fred did not stop.

  He walked into the apartment, let the door swing shut behind him, and immediately colpsed onto the couch, face-down.

  Ben, curled up with a book, looked over. "Rough day?"

  Fred, voice muffled into the cushions, groaned.

  "Work is haunted now."

  Ben blinked.

  "Like… more than usual?"

  Fred slowly lifted his head, eyes dead. "I think I have an eldritch glitch ghost now. It calls itself Glitcheee."

  Ben took a slow sip of tea. "Nice."

  A long pause.

  Ben stretched. "You want takeout?"

  Fred did not move.

  "Yeah. Takeout."