Yesterday, right after showering, I went to grab a dress from my closet. As it slipped from the hanger and hit the floor, I bent to pick it up—only to freeze. Tucked on a low shelf was a phone, its camera light on, recording. The timer read over 18 minutes.
My hands trembled as I pressed play.
At first, the footage showed nothing unusual—just me, wrapped in a towel, humming, pacing, talking to myself like I always do. But at the eleven-minute mark, the screen went black. A whisper cut through the silence:
“You think no one is watching you… but I am.”
The voice was low, calm, chillingly unfamiliar. Not playful. Not a joke. A warning.
Panic gripped me. Who placed this here? How long had it been recording? How had it even gotten inside my locked apartment?
I live alone. No roommates, no partner—just me and my cat, Tofu. My third-floor apartment isn’t luxury, but I always lock my doors. Always.
With a tissue, I shut the phone off and called my cousin Zaria. Within twenty minutes, she was at my door, still in scrubs from her nursing shift. “Start from the beginning,” she demanded.
We replayed the recording together. Her jaw tightened. “That’s no prank.”
She dismantled the phone—cheap burner, reset, no apps but the camera. No lock screen, no SIM. “Whoever did this didn’t want to be traced.”
We decided against calling the police right away. No forced entry, no suspect—just one creepy video. Instead, we tore through my apartment, searching every corner. Nothing. Except… my jewelry box had shifted, like someone had touched it.
That night, I barely slept. Every creak in the floorboards sounded like footsteps.
The next morning, I took the phone to a repair shop. The tech, Sohrab, plugged it in. “Only one saved video. But the system logs… they show deleted folders. Dated. Weeks of them.”
My stomach dropped. “Can you recover them?”
He grinned. “Give me two days.”
Those were the longest two days of my life. I stayed with Zaria, her roommate, and their three barking dogs. I felt safer, but not safe.
Then Sohrab called. “I got something. You’d better come.”
He restored three videos. One from my kitchen. One from my bedroom. One from the bathroom mirror. All recorded weeks apart. Different angles. Different setups. Whoever was doing this had been inside my home more than once.
In one video, a shadow flickered across the kitchen.
Sohrab froze the frame. “Do you know him?”
The hoodie. The side profile. My stomach flipped.
Lachlan.
An ex I’d broken things off with two years ago after his behavior grew strange. He left roses on my car, showed up at my job. I blocked him everywhere. Eventually, he disappeared—or so I thought.
Zaria and I rushed to the police. We handed over the phone, the videos, Lachlan’s name. Days later, the officer called: “He denies everything. Claims he hasn’t seen you in over a year. Alibi checks out.”
So, no charges. No protection. Just my word against his.
That’s when Zaria said: “Then we’ll get proof ourselves.”
We installed hidden cameras in my apartment. Closet. Living room. Entryway. All cloud-stored. Then I moved back in. Nervous, but ready.
Three nights later, at 3:14 a.m., my phone buzzed.
Motion detected—Closet Camera.
I tapped the feed with shaking hands. The closet door opened. A hooded figure slipped in. He crouched. Placed another phone on the shelf. Turned—and the camera caught his profile.
It was Lachlan.
This time, police couldn’t deny it. They arrested him. In his apartment, they found multiple burner phones, notes about my routines, even a floor plan of my building.
But the biggest shock?
He hadn’t been acting alone.
His cousin, Moises, an intern with building maintenance, had been sneaking him in with keys—in exchange for cash and gifts. Moises claimed he thought Lachlan just wanted to “check on me.” He cried when questioned, wrote me a three-page apology.
Lachlan now faces charges and a restraining order. Moises lost his job. And me? I upgraded my locks, installed alarms, and learned the hard way to trust my instincts.
The lesson:
If something feels off, it probably is. Always listen to your gut. Always check your space.
And never ignore the smallest shift—because it could mean everything.