What You See Is What You Get by Scott C. Thompson

After about seven months of being alone, Beth began to see the ghost of her son. Or so she thought. The audience knew better, but she didn’t.

The experiment had always been designed for Beth. It’s not everyday that a colleague’s child dies mysteriously, creating a rare opportunity for “Science.” She, of course, didn’t know this. She believed she had volunteered and won the opportunity fair and square. The opportunity? To stay in isolation for one year in a submarine on the ocean floor to test the viability of long-term survival in similar crafts. That’s how it was sold to her by the scientists, anyway.

“Why don’t you tell her what the test is actually about?” some would ask. Something about the placebo effect, they would answer. “How will you monitor her?” A series of live video feeds. “Will the sub actually be at the bottom of the ocean?” No, it’s housed in an undisclosed warehouse designed to simulate the ocean floor.

Then the funding evaporated. But just before they pulled the plug on the experiment, someone suggested there might be money in watching. Watching how? Money where? A live feed was quietly connected to an internet site and, well, that was that.

The stream took off. Hundreds tuned in. Thousands logged on. When it hit millions, the major television networks got involved. The Show took on a life of its own. The scientists quietly faded to the back of the room and the PR team elbowed their way to the front. Promotions, interviews, nonstop.

Then it got nasty. No one remembers (or wants to remember) where the idea came from. Maybe it was innocent enough at first. Maybe it wasn’t. Either way, someone somewhere agreed. A Hollywood casting agent was hired. Only took him three days to come back with Blake Talbot.

Talbot was a classically-trained Shakespearean actor, or so he would tell people. He looked enough like Beth’s son—after Makeup had their way—that he might actually be able to torment a grieving mother as the ghost of her dead child. More importantly, he was willing to torment a grieving mother as the ghost of her dead child.

“This is FUCKED,” a headline read somewhere. “Sign of our Times,” another read. Talbot feigned sympathy for Beth during his TV spots. He would argue, though, that he was an actor—an artist!—and it was not his job to concern himself with the morality of his work. Give the people what they want.

And he delivered.

Millions of people tuned in to watch his initial appearance on the sub. Seven months in or so. Through a hidden hatch in the kitchen compartment. He waited until Beth was in bed in the adjoining room, and then he quietly squirmed through the small opening. In the darkness, he crept to the threshold between the two rooms. He stood there until Beth saw him through her hazy sleepiness. A ghastly figure looming in the darkness of her vaulted bedroom. A figure with an incongruous countenance (thank you, Makeup) who looked like her son?

Oh, the outrage. The next morning it seemed like the entire world took a side. “How could you do that to that poor woman?” “Could you believe the stupid look on her face?” Either way, they tuned in. Night after night.

The live stream was not live, of course. There was a delay so that Editing could cut the feed if Beth did anything inappropriate for a mass audience. No nudity, no sicko bathroom stuff. You get the picture.  

Of course we know now, but most didn’t know then (well, I knew), that there were true live streams still available to the paying customer in those dark corners of the internet. Only those who had been there before knew how to find them. They had full access to the entire Show. All the nudity, all the sicko bathroom stuff. You get the picture.

The networks made their money on Talbot’s visits. He would haunt her almost every night. He would get creative: some nights he would silently reach his hand toward her; others, he would wail in his shrillest voice, “Motherrrrrrr.” He would reenact the scenes on all the daily talk shows the following morning, for his adoring fans. He was a goddamn celebrity. Was.

Then came that night. We know now that Beth left her kettle a little closer to the edge of the stove than usual; we know now that Talbot’s sleeve brushed up against the kettle’s handle while he was making his exit.

I’ve thought about what it must have been like for Beth, to see what she believed to be the ghost of her dead son every night. Sleep deprived, grief stricken, curled up in bed, under the covers, rocking herself in an attempt to find a morsel of comfort. Night after night.

Until BANG. The apparent ghost makes a noise; the apparent ghost is clumsy. The kettle spins jerkily on the metal floor. Real ghosts don’t make noises. Real ghosts aren’t clumsy.

In a flash, Beth’s in the kitchen, just in time to see Talbot’s feet disappear. I guess she had had enough. She follows him into the hatch without thinking twice.   

The networks had the sense to cut the feed. But before they did, the whole world watched Beth confront Talbot. The whole world watched Talbot sputter, trying to explain himself. The sad thing was he knew he was still on camera: his actions, even in this moment, were slightly forced, performative. Shakespearean, my ass. But Beth’s shock, surprise, anger—they were as authentic as they come. The whole world watched Beth find the pipe, leaning against the wall. The networks had the sense to cut the feed.

But those tuned in for the live stream, in those godless internet corners, saw what really happened. Dark, rage-filled shadows dancing across an illuminated computer screen in an unlit room. It’s what you get.

Scott C. Thompson

Image: Broadcasting studio from above with bright lights and cameras – pixabay.com