Motion Alert
The motion alert showed a woman standing motionless in my backyard at 2:11 a.m.
The next notification showed the same yard empty because the camera was now recording from inside my kitchen.
Fear of being watched or stared at.
The motion alert showed a woman standing motionless in my backyard at 2:11 a.m.
The next notification showed the same yard empty because the camera was now recording from inside my kitchen.
My phone unlocked with Face ID while I was asleep alone in the apartment.
When I checked the security log, the successful scan came from the camera under my bed.
My sleep app congratulated me for finally getting eight uninterrupted hours.
The audio recording beneath the chart is eight hours of me whispering, “Do not let it know you are awake.”
I deleted my dead husband’s account because seeing his name online hurt too much.
A minute later it sent me a friend request with a photograph of me deleting it.
The hotel rules said never look through the peephole after three knocks.
After the fourth knock, an eye on my side of the door whispered, “Good, you listened.”
From the lunar base, Earth disappeared from every window at exactly the same time.
The thing blocking it moved closer.
My mother insisted the stranger appearing in every childhood photograph was just a developing defect.
At her funeral I finally met him, and he asked why I had taken so long to grow up.
The old Polaroid camera printed a picture before I pressed the shutter.
It showed me staring at the picture I had not taken yet, with someone standing behind me.
The police found no sign of forced entry after I reported footsteps inside the house.
As they left, one officer quietly pointed to muddy prints beginning beneath the stairs.
My neighbor texted to say someone had been standing at my upstairs window for ten minutes.
I was outside reading the message when the curtains moved.
I assumed the comments beneath my story were bots because every account posted exactly the same sentence.
Then every comment changed to “HE IS STILL READING.”
My livestream chat kept telling me someone was standing behind my chair.
I laughed until the viewer count dropped to one and the remaining account was named after me.
My dead sister’s chat window showed the typing indicator for the first time in four years.
The message that arrived said only that she could see what was typing behind me.
A stranger on the train kept sending me photographs of myself through AirDrop.
The final photograph was taken from inside my locked apartment.
During the video meeting, my coworker asked why someone was standing behind my chair.
I ended the call, but her frozen screen kept showing him getting closer.
My cloud account restored twelve photographs I had never taken.
Each one shows me asleep from a little closer than the last.
My smartwatch congratulated me for standing up while I was lying awake in bed.
The little figure on the screen was pacing back and forth beside me.
My daughter begged me not to turn off her night-light because the man in the corner only moves in darkness.
When the bulb burned out, something beside me whispered that she was right.
The playground swing beside my daughter kept moving even after the wind stopped.
She waved at the empty seat and asked why the little girl had no face.
After my shower, words appeared in the fogged mirror telling me not to turn around.
The handwriting matched the message carved into the back of the glass.
My laptop screen went black and reflected someone leaning over my shoulder.
When the display came back, the reflection stayed.
The hotel television had a channel showing a live feed of my room from the ceiling.
I unplugged the set and watched myself keep sleeping on the screen.
The whiteboard in my hospital room lists the names of the nurses assigned to me.
Someone added my mother’s name even though she died in this room fourteen years ago.
The ICU camera showed my unconscious father sitting up whenever the nurses left the room.
His chart says his spine was severed in the accident.
The receptionist asked for the name of the patient I had come to visit.
When I gave her my brother’s name, she quietly turned the visitor log around and showed me my own signature from every night this month.
I filmed myself sleeping to prove the figure from my sleep paralysis was not real.
The recording shows it waiting patiently until I open my eyes.
The research buoy began transmitting a heartbeat from seven thousand meters below the surface.
The heartbeat doubled when our ship moved closer.
The night dive instructor told us never to shine our lights straight down because there was nothing to see.
I did anyway and found thousands of faces staring up.
Our drone filmed what we thought was a whale surfacing beside the research vessel.
Then the ocean around it blinked.
Words appeared beneath the skin of my forearm one letter at a time.
They finished spelling OUT before something pushed against my elbow from inside.