In the shadowed corners of Reston, New York, where the everyday grind hides secrets that could unravel a soul, the TV series Impulse Retcon delivers another gut-punch in its episode “In Memoriam.” As a horror writer who’s spent years plumbing the depths of human darkness—like the kind that lurks in small towns where folks smile through their nightmares—I’ll tell you straight: this one’s got that creeping dread Stephen King fans crave. It’s not about monsters under the bed, but the ones inside us, amplified by a supernatural twist that makes you question what’s real. Teleportation powers? Sure, but they’re just the spark for the real terror: broken families, shattered dreams, and the lies we tell ourselves to survive. Let’s break it down, easy as pie, without spoiling the marrow.

We start with Townes, that awkward STEM whiz kid who’s more at home in the glow of a computer screen than under the fluorescent lights of his high school. He’s got this online girlfriend, Zoe, and they’re deep into Divinity of Sin, a multiplayer brawl fest that’s basically League of Legends with sharper edges—teams clashing in virtual arenas, spells flying like curses in the night. Townes hides behind his persona, Leroy Jenkins, that reckless alias screaming for attention. He swears he loves Zoe, but love in this show? It’s a test of endurance, the kind where you suffer quietly, bite your tongue through the glitches, and wonder if kindness or respect will win out—or if it’ll all crash like a bad connection. Time will tell, as it always does in these tales, ticking like a bomb in the background.

Then there’s the whisper of a sitcom within the chaos, a twisted family yarn that hits like a fever dream. Picture Henry’s dad, a wandering ghost of a man, mentally unraveling while hopping through space with his teleportation curse. Henry’s got it too—seizures that twist her body before she blinks out of existence and reappears somewhere else. It’s funny on the surface, like a bad joke at a funeral, but underneath? Pure horror, the inheritance of madness that no one asked for.

Clay Boone’s story is where the episode sinks its teeth in, slow and painful. The basketball team honors him at a ceremony, retiring his jersey like he’s some legend frozen in time. But Clay’s paralyzed from the waist down, his future a dim hallway with no doors. It’s no honor; it’s a mockery, a reminder of what he lost. We see him struggle with the basics—changing clothes becomes a nightmare when his waste bag rips, spilling mess everywhere, forcing him to clean up and start over. It’s the small horrors that King nails best: the indignity of a body betraying you, day after day. Clay escapes into memories, reliving his glory as a star athlete, primping for the mirror, curating his social media like a king on a throne. In those flashbacks, he’s happy, alive—but snap back to reality, and it’s all ashes.

Henry, our reluctant teleporter, channels her wild energy through art, spraying murals and graffiti like a writer pouring demons onto the page or a bodybuilder heaving iron to keep the rage at bay. It’s her outlet, but in this episode, the absences scream louder: missing dads everywhere. Henry’s father is gone, lost to his own fractured mind, and Josh’s dad is just as vanished. Families? They’re the real casualties here, splintered like wood under an ax, leaving kids to fend off the void alone.

Townes Linderman shows a different side, too—prioritizing heart over brains. As a top STEM student, he’s up for an award at the basketball event, but he blows it off, lurking in the hallway for Zoe’s promised meet-up. Science be damned; love’s pull is stronger, and it’s eerie how quickly priorities shift in the face of something intangible.

Clay gets one shining moment amid the gloom: that jersey retirement, etched into school history forever. Not everyday stuff—it’s the kind of immortality that haunts, especially when you’re stuck in a wheelchair wondering if it’s pity or praise.

Things get stranger with Josh urging Henry to run away with him, no more pretending to munch sandwiches in far-off lands. If only he knew her secret—the blink-and-you’re-gone teleportation. It could open his eyes, or shatter everything, turning escape into entrapment.

There’s a poignant sting when Henry rediscovers something lost: the simple closeness of a sleepover with Josh in a dingy hotel, that forgotten connection warming her like a fire in the cold. It feels good, real—but trauma crashes in with a nightmare, ruining it all, leaving her hollow.

Cleo’s got her own hell brewing, one the undercover sheriff Anna doesn’t grasp. Cleo’s slinging cars at Bill Boone’s Motors, the town’s greasy hub for illegal drugs, just to afford Henry’s life-saving meds. Anna’s meddling threatens the job, blind to the desperation, turning survival into a high-stakes game of cat and mouse.

The episode peaks with Henry’s confrontation of Clay—raw, odd, and laced with deceit. She accuses him of crossing lines during a heated make-out, forcing himself on her, sparking her rage-fueled paralysis of him. But wait—it’s a lie. Clay’s innocent, and Henry’s revelation twists the knife. Why the fabrication? That’s the horror: the lies we weave to cope with guilt, powers gone wrong, and the monsters we become.

“In Memoriam” isn’t just an episode; it’s a mirror to our frailties, wrapped in supernatural chills. Impulse Retcon keeps evolving, blending King’s everyday terror with sci-fi edges—teleportation as a metaphor for escape we can’t control. If you’re into stories where the real scares come from within, this one’s a keeper. Watch it late at night, lights low, and feel the unease settle in.