What If the Cameras Lied?

The cameras in your house are supposed to make you feel safer. Mine showed me I was never alone.

Not because the locks failed, or the dog didn’t bark, but because the feeds began showing me what shouldn’t exist.

One night, I glance at the doorbell cam. A man is standing on the porch, staring straight into the lens. No movement. No knock. Just watching. I run to the door, flip on the light — nothing. Empty steps, empty yard.

I check the recording. There’s nothing there. No timestamp, no notification, no face. Just silence.

A few nights later, the backyard camera flickers. I see someone slip between the trees, a figure moving like it knows the angles. I grab a flashlight, step outside, and find the grass untouched. The feed jumps forward three minutes I can’t account for.

The third time, I don’t even bother going outside. I just sit there, staring at the screen, watching an empty frame, wondering if I’m losing my mind — or if something is learning my patterns.

And here’s the part that gnaws at me: the worst thing isn’t seeing what shouldn’t be there. It’s being the only one who sees it.

Maybe the cameras aren’t malfunctioning. Maybe they’re showing me something real. Something that doesn’t belong. And if I’m the only one who can see it… then I’m the only one who can do anything about it.

Deep space is supposed to be empty. Infinite. Safe in its vastness.

Station 13 proved otherwise.