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.
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. AndroVid_6316mp4
Elias froze. The video ended, the screen snapping to black. The reflection of his own pale face stared back at him from the glossy finish of his 27-inch display. Then, his sleep-self leaned in and whispered something
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. There, taped to the plastic casing, was a second smartphone
A notification chirped on his desktop. A new file had just appeared in the folder: AndroVid_6317.mp4.
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.
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.