Infinite Loop Psychological Horror Jump-Scare Script

First-person POV video, dimly lit abandoned room in an old house at night, 1990s aesthetic, viewer (the protagonist) kneels in front of a dusty wooden dresser with a hidden drawer half-pulled open, camera hands reach in and pull out a worn, unlabeled black VHS tape covered in faint scratches and cobwebs, close-up on the tape as fingers brush off dust revealing a handwritten label in faded marker reading something cryptic like "WATCH ALONE", camera shakes slightly with nervous breathing audible, cut to inserting the tape into an ancient top-loading VCR on a low TV stand, static snow flickers on the bulky CRT television screen as the machine whirs and clicks to life, tracking lines roll vertically before stabilizing into grainy black-and-white security camera footage timestamped in the corner (e.g., 03:17 AM, date obscured), the footage shows the exact same room from a high corner-mounted camera angle—wide shot including the dresser, the TV, the spot where the viewer is currently sitting/kneeling, and crucially, the back of the protagonist's own head and shoulders as he watches the screen in real time, the recursive loop creates an eerie infinite mirror effect, camera (POV) slowly tilts and leans forward in confusion, breathing quickens, then subtle movement in the footage draws attention: a tall, translucent, humanoid silhouette—pale gray-white, vaguely female or androgynous with elongated limbs and indistinct features—materializes silently standing right beside the seated protagonist in the video, inches from his shoulder, unmoving at first, head tilted downward as if staring at the back of his neck, faint static distortion pulses around its form like bad reception, the POV hands in real life freeze on the remote, camera jerks back in shock as realization hits that the ghost is standing in the exact same position now, just off-frame to the right in the current reality, the on-screen ghost slowly raises one ethereal hand as if to touch the protagonist's shoulder, screen glitches harder with horizontal tearing and audio warble, POV whips around frantically to look beside himself—room empty in real life but the TV footage now shows the ghost's hand almost making contact, building dread as the footage loops the moment endlessly, ash-like video noise thickens, low electronic hum rises, photorealistic with heavy VHS degradation—tracking errors, color bleed, scan lines, chromatic aberration, muted greens and grays clashing with the warm amber glow of the CRT illuminating the protagonist's stunned face reflected in the glass, continuous handheld tremor, mounting terror through recursive impossibility, sense of being watched from both past and present, no jump scares but unrelenting psychological unease.