Living with Kyle was like living inside a never-ending livestream. He was a streamer—a loud, obnoxious one—who thought his commentary was the pinnacle of comedy. Every day, I was serenaded by the sounds of rapid keyboard clicks, explosions, and Kyle shouting things like, “Chat, W or L? Let’s get some pogs in the chat!”

Kyle’s streaming rig was absurd. Three monitors, a high-end mic with a pop filter, and a camera setup that made it look like he was about to broadcast from the International Space Station. The LED lights in his room glowed so brightly I swore planes could see them from overhead. “It’s for the vibe,” he’d say, whenever I complained about the electricity bill.

One night, though, something changed. Kyle was mid-stream, yelling at his audience about some new first-person shooter. “Alright, chat, here we go—final boss, let’s clutch this!” he hollered. But then his voice caught.

The screen flickered.

“Uh… chat? Did you see that?” he asked, his voice suddenly quieter. His chat exploded with messages. “What was that glitch?” “Bro, is this a horror game now?”

From my spot in the living room, I glanced toward his door. The lights in his room were still cycling through their obnoxious rainbow pattern, but the sounds from his stream had shifted. It wasn’t just gunfire anymore—it was whispering.

And it wasn’t coming from his speakers.