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 associated with being alone or isolated.
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.
At midnight my smart lock notified me that the front door had been opened with my fingerprint.
I looked down at my hand and heard the bedroom closet click shut.
I held my breath when I heard slow breathing beneath the bed.
The breathing stopped too.
I woke up to find my closet door open, although I always lock it before sleeping.
The key was still in the lock on the inside.
Every night I hear my upstairs neighbor drag furniture across the floor at 2 a.m.
I live on the top floor.
The dispatcher calmly told me the intruder had already left my house.
Then she whispered, “Do not react; he is listening on the other line.”
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.
Every night at 2:17 someone knocks three times on my apartment door.
Tonight the third knock came from inside my bedroom.
I asked the chatbot to write a horror story about the room I was sitting in.
It described the closet door opening before I heard the hinge move.
My smart speaker answered a question I had only thought about.
Before I could unplug it, it whispered that the other voice in the room had asked first.
My phone had been dead for hours when the flashlight suddenly turned on beneath my blanket.
The lock screen showed one percent battery and a new contact named DO NOT MOVE.
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.
The location app says my missing husband’s phone has been following me home every night.
Tonight the dot stopped moving because it is already inside the house.
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.
I woke alone and found the other side of the bed warm enough to leave a body-shaped impression.
The impression slowly sat up.
I closed my eyes for a twenty-minute nap and woke to silence outside.
Every calendar in the house says I slept for eleven years.
At low tide I found a line of barefoot tracks leading from the ocean to my beach house.
The tracks stopped beside my bed.
The basement light turned off every time I reached the bottom stair.
On the fourth try, someone in the dark pulled the chain before I could.
The chest freezer in the basement began humming after I unplugged it.
Something underneath the lid started matching the rhythm of my breathing.
The washing machine started a cycle by itself after midnight.
Through the little glass door, I saw a hand slap against the inside.
I heard someone unlock the front door while I was home alone, but the chain kept it from opening.
A hand reached through the gap from my side and unhooked it.
I live alone and never use the attic, so I noticed when one of the folding stairs was down.
Someone had written WELCOME HOME in the dust above it.
Every morning one kitchen chair is pulled away from the table even though I live alone.
Today it was facing my bedroom door.
I heard my shower turn on while I was watching television alone downstairs.
Before I could move, wet footprints appeared on the ceiling above me.
Someone whispered my name through the mail slot at two in the morning.
I live on the twelfth floor of a building with no exterior hallway.
A second wet toothbrush appeared beside mine in the bathroom cup.
The mirror fogged from a shower that had never been turned on.
I folded a shirt from the laundry basket that was far too large to belong to me.
It was still warm.
The thermostat keeps lowering itself to the temperature of a morgue while I sleep.
This morning it displayed BODY DETECTED instead of the room temperature.