The text message glowed on the screen of my actual phone, the blue light cutting through the dimness of my half-unpacked living room.
Don’t look behind you…
My thumb hovered over the glass. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it pulsing in my throat. I stood frozen beside the freshly cut square of drywall near the baseboard—the hole where, ten minutes ago, I’d found the cheap, burner-style smartphone tucked between two wooden studs while trying to install new outlet covers.
The burner phone, still resting on the dust-covered floorboards, gave a harsh, tinny ping. Another text message.
I looked down at the old phone, then back at my own screen. The notification read: 1 New Message from [Unknown Number].
I swallowed hard, forcing my lungs to draw in air. The absurdity of it fought against the cold dread pooling in my stomach. I had bought this fixer-upper three weeks ago. The house was built in 1984. I had spent the last fortnight painting, tearing out carpet, and assembling IKEA furniture. The couch sitting against the north wall—the precise yellow velvet sofa featured in the impossible video—had only been delivered yesterday afternoon.
Slowly, carefully, I picked up the burner phone from the floor. Its screen was cracked diagonally across the top, but the battery icon showed a solid two bars.
The video app was still open. I tapped play again, my hand shaking so violently the phone nearly slipped from my grip.
The footage was shot from a high angle, near the ceiling corner by the dining room archway. It showed my living room. Not a generic room—my room. The faint paint smudge on the baseboard I hadn’t cleaned up yet, the open cardboard box of books by the radiator, the exact position of my coffee cup on the side table.
In the video, a figure stepped into the frame from the hallway. Tall, wearing a heavy dark coat with the hood pulled tight over its face. It didn’t look around. It walked with a strange, methodical stiffness straight toward the center of the room, stopped, and looked directly up at the camera lens.
Then the video cut to black.
My own phone buzzed again in my left hand.
I said don’t look.
A knot of pure panic tightened in my chest. I ignored the warning and whirled around, my back slamming against the cool plaster wall.
The living room was completely empty.
The front door was deadbolted. The windows were locked shut against the summer heat. The only sound was the low, rhythmic hum of the refrigerator in the adjacent kitchen and the rustle of dry leaves outside.
“Is this a joke?” I shouted, my voice cracking in the quiet house. “Who’s in here?”
Silence.
I took a deep breath, trying to anchor myself in logic. I’m a rational person. People prank new homeowners all the time. Maybe the previous owners left a hidden camera? Maybe they were watching me right now through some Wi-Fi feed and sending texts from an automated web service to mess with me?
