I first noticed it a week ago. On Friday night, my boyfriend and I went out to dinner. When we got back to the car, I took a selfie of us.
It wasn’t until later that night, while Ted was getting ready to leave my apartment, that I actually took a closer look at it. At first, I didn’t see anything. Just Ted’s and my face, filling most of the frame, with little space between us.
But in that little space…
“Hey, Ted?”
“Yeah?”
“What’s that in the backseat?”
It looked like a white speck, in the darkness of the backseat. As if the flash were glinting off of something shiny. But the backseat was empty—at least I’d thought so. We’d gone in Ted’s car, which he keeps clean, to an obsessive degree.
“Huh. Dunno,” he replied, handing the phone back to me. “Maybe a bug?”
“I guess, it could be.”
At the time, I didn’t give it any more thought. There must have been something back there, like a soda can or a sweatshirt with a zipper, that was reflecting the light. No big deal.
But then it happened again.
The next night, I’d taken a picture of my cat, Thistle, playing on the bed. And when I took a closer look at the photo… there was that bright speck, again.
Underneath the bed.
I glanced at Thistle, still on the bed. Then I glanced at the shadows underneath. Nothing looked out of place. Frowning, I got on my hands and knees and slowly lowered my face to the floor. Looked past the floral comforter, into the darkness.
Nothing.
I turned my phone’s flashlight on and looked again.
Nothing.
I shrugged and sat back down in my armchair, mindlessly browsing Facebook. Thump!—Thistle started jumping again, attacking her mouse plushie in the cutest way. I quickly tapped over to the camera, ready to get an in-action shot—
I froze.
In the camera’s live video feed, there was the speck.
I glanced over my phone, at the darkness under my bed. Nothing there. Glanced back at my phone. The speck. I rubbed my finger over the camera’s lens. Still there. I moved my phone back and forth, slowly, then tilted and rotated it.
The speck stayed. In the exact same place, under the bed.
… What?
Some weird glitch? With the video processing or the lighting or something? I sat there, confused, staring at my phone.
Then I put it down. Turned on all the lights. Thoroughly checked every inch of space under the bed. But there was nothing there—only dust bunnies and cat hair and a few old bobby pins.
Must have been the bobby pins, I thought, as I turned off the light and went to sleep.
I woke with a start at 4:07 AM.
My heart was racing a mile a minute. My sheets were covered in cold sweat. I fumbled for the glass of water on my nightstand. Took a deep breath in, let it out.
I couldn’t even remember what my nightmare was about. I just remembered the fear. The need to run, as fast and as far away as I possibly could.
I took a sip of water and reached for my phone.
And then—I don’t know why I did it, but I did. I opened the camera. And then, hands shaking, I swept it across the room. From my shelves of history books, to my Le Chat Noir poster, to my closed closet door.
Nothing.
I let out the breath I’d been holding. Nothing’s there. You’re fine. Totally, completely fine. I took in a deep breath, then slowly let it whoosh back out. Nothing’s there. You’re safe. I reached my thumb out on the screen, to tap back home.
But I missed.
My thumb hit the front-facing camera button.
No no no—
On the phone’s screen, just over my shoulder. The glowing speck. Not a speck—an eye. Attached to the twisted, sunken face of a woman. Stringy black hair cascaded down her shoulders as she stared at me with one white, glowing eye. The other an empty, dark socket.
The phone fell from my hands. I turned around, screaming.
But there was only empty air behind me.