The camera wasn’t supposed to catch anything.

That’s what made it worse.

It sat perched at the foot of the bed, its red recording light faint against the darkness, watching a room that looked completely ordinary, two people asleep, sheets tangled, the soft rhythm of breathing filling the silence. Nothing out of place. Nothing wrong.

At least, not at first.

Katie shifted slightly in her sleep, her brow tightening as if something unseen brushed against her thoughts. Beside her, Micah lay still, unaware, the quiet rise and fall of his chest steady and calm.

The clock ticked forward.

2:13 AM.

That’s when it started.

A low sound crept into the room, not loud, not sudden, just . . . there. Like a breath that didn’t belong to either of them. The bedroom door moved a fraction, slow enough that it could’ve been imagined, yet deliberate enough that it wasn’t.

The camera kept rolling, because it always did. Katie’s eyes opened.

Not fully, just enough to show she wasn’t really awake. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stared into the darkness at the foot of the bed, like something had called to her without a sound.

Minutes passed, or maybe longer. Time didn’t feel right anymore.

Then, without warning, she sat up. Too quickly and too stiff.

Her head tilted slightly, as if listening, like someone standing just out of frame was speaking to her, saying something only she could hear.

The room stayed silent, but the feeling didn’t.

It pressed in from every corner, heavy and unseen, watching through the lens just as much as the camera watched back.

And whatever it was - it wasn’t leaving.