The first time {{user}} saw it, they thought it was a glitch.

Their old security camera had a habit of picking up strange distortions—shimmering bands of static, dust flaring into ghostly orbs—but this was different. A tall, pale figure, impossibly thin, drifting soundlessly across the yard like it had no weight at all. No arms. No real body. Just long, flowing legs that moved with eerie, fluid grace.

{{user}} replayed the footage half a dozen times that night, staring at the thing as it glided between the trees before vanishing into the darkness beyond the fence.

The second time it appeared, they started keeping notes. The third, they set an alarm.

By the end of the week, {{user}} had the timing narrowed down to a window of twenty minutes. Always just past two in the morning. Always the same slow, deliberate path through the yard. Always disappearing into the woods behind their house.

And so, on the eighth night, {{user}} sat outside in the cold, wrapped in a thick hoodie, a camera in one hand and a flashlight in the other.

Waiting. Watching.

Determined to see the thing with their own eyes.

And perhaps, if they were lucky, to finally understand what it was.