Video_2021-09-07_23-09-48.mp4

Elias didn't open it. He didn't have to. He could already hear the rhythmic thrum-thrum of windshield wipers starting up somewhere inside his own house.

The video opened to a shaky, low-light shot of a rain-slicked street. The audio was mostly the rhythmic thrum-thrum of windshield wipers. The camera was sitting on a dashboard, pointed toward a lonely intersection. For the first thirty seconds, nothing happened. video_2021-09-07_23-09-48.mp4

The timestamp on the screen ticked to . At that exact second, the reflection in the window turned its head and looked directly into the camera lens. The video didn't end; it simply froze. The progress bar continued to move, but the image remained locked on those silver, digital eyes. Elias didn't open it

It sat in a forgotten folder labeled “Temporary” on a drive belonging to a woman who had gone missing three years prior. The date on the file was the last night anyone had seen her. Elias double-clicked. The video opened to a shaky, low-light shot

On the screen, the reflection began to move again, even though the video was still "frozen." It reached out a hand toward the edge of the frame—toward the edge of Elias’s monitor.

Elias felt a chill crawl up his spine. He tried to close the player, but his cursor wouldn't move. He reached for the power button on his monitor, but his hand stopped mid-air.