Then, his sleep-self leaned in and whispered something. The audio was a distorted hiss, but Elias turned his speakers to the maximum. "Don't look behind the monitor," the recording rasped.
Slowly, his heart hammering against his ribs, Elias gripped the edges of his desk. He began to lean to the side, his eyes locked on the narrow, dusty gap between the back of his monitor and the cold brick wall of his apartment.
Elias didn't open this one. He didn't have to. He could hear the faint sound of footsteps clicking on the hardwood floor directly behind his chair. AndroVid_6316mp4
A notification chirped on his desktop. A new file had just appeared in the folder: AndroVid_6317.mp4.
The video opened to a static shot of a darkened hallway. It was his hallway, leading from the kitchen to the bedroom. The timestamp in the corner read 03:14 AM—exactly twenty-four hours ago. Then, his sleep-self leaned in and whispered something
In the grainy, low-light footage, a figure emerged from the bedroom. It was Elias. He was sleepwalking, his eyes open but vacant, reflecting the infrared light of whatever device was recording. He walked toward the camera, stopping just inches from the lens. For three minutes, he simply stood there, breathing rhythmically.
He didn’t remember filming it. As a freelance video editor, his hard drive was a graveyard of raw footage, but the naming convention was wrong. "AndroVid" was the default prefix for a mobile editing app he hadn't used in years. Curiosity, fueled by the late-night hum of his office, won out. He double-clicked. Slowly, his heart hammering against his ribs, Elias
There, taped to the plastic casing, was a second smartphone. Its camera lens was pointed directly at the back of his head. It was still recording.