My wife spotted a tiny red pulse on the Airbnb’s ceiling unit. I climbed a chair, popped the plastic cap, and froze: a pinhole lens stared back. No words—just the thud of two hearts. We stuffed clothes into bags and fled into the night, tires spitting gravel.
Two towns away, in a neon-lit diner lot, I posted a scathing review from my laptop. Ping—a message from the host:
“Idiot, that wasn’t a camera. You smashed our security transmitter. They’ll come for it.”
They? Ice shot through my veins.
“Idiot, that wasn’t a camera. You smashed our security transmitter. They’ll come for it.”
They? Ice shot through my veins.
I scrolled the photos I’d snapped for evidence. Behind the curtain in one frame: a second red dot, laser-thin, tracking us. The “cozy cottage” dissolved into a stage set—watching, harvesting, waiting.
We drove until the city lights swallowed us, then I destroyed the burner phone that booked the stay. A police report felt like paperwork against ghosts. That night, in a hotel bed, I learned the hardest lesson: five-star gloss can hide razor-sharp teeth. Comfort, sometimes, is just the bait.