Neil scrolled through his camera roll, half-listening to Hamilton drone on about quarterly targets. He needed the photo of the mockup—bloody ironic—from yesterday’s client meeting. Where was it?
Holiday snaps from Cornwall, a screenshot of train times, his nephew’s birthday cake. Come on! The deadline loomed, and his thumb flicked faster through the images.
There—no, that was Tuesday’s design. He scrolled back. Tuesday evening, definitely. He’d taken the photo because the client had scribbled notes in the margins.
Neil froze.
The image showed him at his kitchen table, laptop open, printouts scattered across the surface. But he was in the shot—head bent over the documents, completely unaware. The angle was impossible, as if taken from the living room doorway.
Hamilton’s voice sharpened. “Neil, are you with us?”
“Sorry, yes… the project.” He closed the phone and grabbed his notepad, but his mind was elsewhere. Who could have taken this? He lived alone. The door had been locked all evening.
The meeting dragged on. His phone sat face-down on the table, suddenly heavier than it should have been.
The lift doors closed with a soft chime, and Neil was finally alone. His thumb was already swiping before the floors began counting down. He scrolled backwards through Tuesday’s photos.
A selfie from lunch. The mockup shot. Then—
His breath caught.
The photo showed him in his car, hands on the wheel, indicator flashing as he turned into his street. The image was taken from outside the driver’s window, as if someone had been standing in the road.
The timestamp read 7:23pm. Tuesday night. He remembered it—the careful turn, the narrow street.
The lift jolted to a stop at the third floor. Three colleagues pushed in, chatting about lunch plans.
“Neil! You coming to the pub quiz Thursday?” Sarah from Accounts squeezed past him.
He slipped the phone into his pocket. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Come on, we need someone who actually knows things.” Laughter filled the small space.
Neil forced a smile, but the image seared in his mind. Who could have taken the photo from outside his car? And how the hell did it end up on his phone?
His flat felt different when he unlocked the door that evening. The familiar space seemed to watch him as he dropped his keys on the counter and loosened his tie.
He poured a whisky, sat on the sofa and opened the camera app.
Wednesday’s photos, then Tuesday’s. Past the driving shot. Monday looked normal—a receipt for expenses, a funny coffee shop sign.
Then Sunday.
The shower photo made his stomach lurch. He was under the streaming water, eyes closed, naked. The angle—Christ—it was from inside the cubicle, as if someone was pressed up against the glass.
His hands shook. He scrolled further back.
Saturday night. A video, timestamp 2:47am. His thumb tapped play.
The footage showed him asleep in bed, face peaceful on the pillow. The camera was close—so close he could see the rise and fall of his chest. In the background, beneath his breathing, came the soft sound of footsteps moving around his room.
A notification banner dropped down:
Facebook Live: Someone is broadcasting near you.
He tapped it.
The stream showed his street from pavement level, moving steadily towards his building. Viewer count: 47. It ticked up to 52.
The camera reached his red front door—the one he’d locked twenty minutes ago. It didn’t stop. It passed straight through.
His hallway. His kitchen counter where his keys still lay. The lens moved with purpose towards the living room.
Neil lifted his head. The room was empty.
He glanced back at the screen. The stream showed his sofa from across the room. There he was—sitting exactly as he sat now, phone clutched in white hands, face drained of colour. The viewer count had climbed to 73.
The camera moved towards him.
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