It was one of those nights that suspense/thriller novelists dream to capture on paper. One of those nights that mad scientists rush finish their evil world domination plans and prepare to be defeated at the last moment by some young and sexually frustrated hero intent on ravishing the sexy heroine of dubious morals and a shady past. At the time in question though, it was mostly wasted on me.

It was late by the time I got to my little apartment, bolted down the last slice of leftover pizza and slumped into bed.

Story book etiquette would demand that it was midnight when I was startled awake, probably by the rumbling bell of a distant clock tower but it wasn’t midnight and it wasn’t a clock tower. The time was closer to two in the morning – I was startled awake by the sounds of chatter and moaning from my living room. Now, normally soft eerie noises in the middle of the night are an expected part of the paranoia of living alone. Ones psyche reopens its doors to the childhood possibility of ghosts, spooks and vengeful jello. To add to the effect, I often leave the sliding door to the living room balcony partially open and the night breeze whistles through the gap giving the entire night a Scooby-Dooesque ambiance.

You know, just to mess with the mind.

But this was no wind whistle. I could distinctly make out the voices – they were female voices… and the moaning – it sounded like someone was in a lot of pain. The gurgling moans sounded like the muffled screams of someone choking on their own blood. And it was getting louder.

I don’t want to brag about my bravery or careless disregard for personal safety but I trembled only very little and flashed back only the very significant highlights of my life before venturing into the next room, armed with nothing more than a bathrobe (thank you Sheetal).

Now those of you who have had faulty TV remotes in the past have probably already guessed what was going on. The volume control on my remote has been short circuiting for the last umpteen weeks – which generally speaking is not much of a problem. But this particular time, probably blown on the floor by the wind, it had ended up turning on the television (which turns on if any button on the remote is pressed) and was slowly and scarily raising the volume and craftily loosening my grip on sanity.

And the ghostly moaning? Well apparently TV4 plays ads for adult chat phone lines in the wee hours of the morning.