Yesterday, after my shower, I went to my closet to reach for a dress. It slipped and fell to the floor. Bending down to pick it up, I was shocked to see a random phone placed on a lower shelf, recording for over 18 min.
Holding back my fear, I decided to play back the video. At first, it was just me. Me walking in and out of the room, humming, wrapped in a towel, talking to myself like I always do.
But at minute eleven, the screen went dark, and a voice whispered something I couldn’t quite catch. I turned the volume up. “You think nobody sees you… but I do.”
My heart dropped.
The voice wasn’t familiar—low, raspy, calm. It didn’t sound like a prank. It sounded like a warning.
I set the phone down on the edge of the bed like it was poisonous, then backed away, wrapping my towel tighter. My brain was buzzing with questions. Who put it there?
How long had it been recording? And how the hell did it get into my closet? I live alone.
No roommates, no live-in partner, just me and my cat Tofu. My apartment’s on the third floor of an older building with creaky floors and a quirky layout. It’s not some high-security place, but I always lock my doors.
Always. I grabbed the phone with a tissue and powered it off, heart pounding. I couldn’t decide if I should call the police, the building manager, or my cousin Zaria, who lived just 15 minutes away and had a knack for handling chaos.
I chose Zaria. She showed up within twenty, still in her work scrubs, her curly bun now more of a nest than a style. “Okay,” she said, stepping in and locking the door behind her.
“Start from the beginning.”
I replayed the video for her. Her face tightened when we heard the voice. “Do you recognize that voice?” she asked.
“No. I’ve been wracking my brain.”
Zaria took the phone apart. “No lock screen, no password, and no apps besides the camera.
Looks like it’s been reset. This is either really amateur… or really intentional.”
We decided not to involve the police just yet. No forced entry, no known suspect, and just a creepy video wasn’t much for them to go on.
Instead, we checked every inch of my apartment. All the closets, under the bed, behind the couch, even the kitchen cabinets. Nothing else out of place.
But something was off. My jewelry box was shifted slightly. Not open, not missing anything… just moved.
Like someone had touched it. That night, I barely slept. Every creak felt like a footstep.
Every shadow looked like a person hiding. The next morning, I took the phone to a local repair shop. The tech guy, a kid named Sohrab, plugged it in and started digging.
“There’s nothing on here except that one video. But this model—cheap burner. You can buy them in packs.
No SIM, no Wi-Fi used. Whoever put this here didn’t want to be traced.”
Then he paused. “Wait.
There’s a weird file in the system logs.”
He turned the screen toward me. A series of folders labeled with dates. Each one a few days apart, spanning back nearly a month.
“But you said there was only one video,” I said. “There is only one saved file,” he said. “These folders suggest something else was here before.
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