Good evening, it’s Spooky Boo coming to you from the lighthouse in Sandcastle, California. Tonight I have for you stories about being watched. These stories will make you check your windows and cameras at night to make sure no one is spying on you or your home. You never know when someone has their eyes on you!
First I’d like to thank the listeners and Patreon members including madjoe, Ivy Iveryson, John Newby, P.A. Nightmares, Patrick, and 933TheVolt.com. I’d also like to thank the DependableBrokers.com, bringing in listeners from the H20 network where you can get a cell phone at a great price and a top monthly payment plan.
Someone’s Watching You
Have you ever had the feeling that someone was watching you?
Alone in your house, on the street, sitting at your work desk, tapping your toes in impatience at the prickling feeling on the back of your neck as you turn around to see the eyes you know are piercing your very soul, boring into your head…and there’s nothing.
Of course there’s nothing. It’s always nothing. But you turn your head for just a second all the same, just to reassure yourself that this time it isn’t something all too real. Something observing you without your knowledge. Something causing your hair to stand on end, giving you that inexplicable feeling that you should run. Far, far away from here and now and anything that could ever see you or watch you again. You don’t know what it is that’s watching you or looking for you but you just know you don’t want to be seen, that whatever it is if you ever catch it glancing at you that it would be the worst mistake you ever made.
Run. Run as fast and as far as you can. You know it’s watching you, you can feel it, you’ve always felt it. How could you be so naive? It’s always been there, you know it has, why is it just now that you’re running? Sprinting? Flinging your body across the earth faster than you ever thought humanly possible, knowing that you can’t let it see you. No matter what. It must not see you.
But everywhere you go you see them, eyes glancing, staring, watching you. Human beings observing you, judging you, determining your worth, absorbing your soul through their terrible, beady eyes. And even when they aren’t there they have their screens, their cameras, their eyes that run without the need for a human body, eyes that are eyes and only eyes. Eyes that can capture your form forever.
You cannot be seen. If they see you, if they catch even a glimpse, they can find you, they can hunt you. You can destroy these soulless, metallic eyes but the human eyes are much harder to remove, and much messier. You can’t possibly eliminate all of those, you’ll need to hide from them. They’re getting closer. You can’t see them but they can see you, you can feel them on your neck, constantly watching and observing your every breath, waiting for the one hiccup in your breathing before they pounce out and strike. Don’t stop running now.
But of course. You don’t need to hide. You can fight. You can catch them first. Not looking at you, don’t meet their eye, but looking away, stealing a glance at some other poor victim. They can’t be looking at you all the time. The only trick is to find them, and you can do that too. The same way they hunt for you you can hunt for them. Metallic eyes and ears, organic eyes and ears; lock yourself in a dark room alone, make sure they can’t find you, can’t sneak up on you. This is your chance, your way to fight back, millions of screens watching billions of people, observing each and every one as they try not to show you, try not to let you know that they are watching you. But when you catch the one, the one that’s looking for you you’ll make him pay. You can watch every person in the world from this chair and you will catch him and make him pay for what he’s done to you.
Have you ever had the feeling that someone’s watching you?
The round red button starts it all.
A lens; an all-seeing eye.
A flashing light blinks as the display shows the souls of the innocent, the guilty and the deceptive.
One can see all the little movements, the subtle muscle impressions made by the face that we don’t always see; the tiniest hint of discomfort, joy or perplexion.
One is omniscient behind the eye of a lens, always watching; hidden in plain sight.
The hilarity and ironic value of these facts is realized when the wider perspective is shown; once you ‘zoom the camera out‘ so to speak. For when you do, you will see more than the video camera situated on a tripod. You’ll see me.
If I were to tell someone about what I’m actually doing behind my camera, they’d likely call me a voyeur; some sort of deviant. I would be little more than a fiend to them. But they’d be terribly, terribly wrong. The ignorance of such words is funny, because a single glimpse into what I see would be more than enough to quell the comments.
The irony presents itself in that one might expect those who like to spy, to pry and peep, to invade privacy and to learn more about people than they know of themselves; to be in prison, or at least to be in the darkest depths of society where they cannot act out these fantasies as brazenly. But again, they’d be so utterly wrong.
I get paid for it.
Even more bizarrely, people trust me in public settings.
So I would implore one to truly assess the situation with me.
Here I am, standing at the back of the dining room of a wedding reception; my little blinking light documenting everything that goes on. I’ve been allowed in this place, hired even. It’s wondrous how easy infiltration is. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, the newlyweds, are currently on the dance floor; drunk and disorderly.
The ceremony was rather interesting. I videoed that, too; drinking in each and every little expression they made as they said their vows. My zoom captures so much, it’s utterly fascinating. Every blemish was in full focus as I slowly zoomed inwards to rest on Mrs. Anderson’s face. Outside of the camera, she’s a woman in her prime, twenty five and earning five figures; truly a role model and a striking person. But the camera doesn’t lie, and I could see it all.
I saw the wincing she made as the vows were recited in front of her; I saw as she slipped the ring on, how her fingers shook. Underneath it all, she’s a rusted and worn has-been; the soul of an old maid inhabits her youthful body.
And Mr. Anderson, the personal trainer. I saw that twinkling smile as they were pronounced husband and wife; the one he likely wears when he hits her, too. I know he’s a sadist; it takes one to know one.
That chiseled, brown haired man is a façade; a caricature of masculinity threatening to crumble.
They show their true colors to me persistently, and I intend to capture it all.
They’re doing it now, as they celebrate their marriage to the tune of Losing My Religion on the dancefloor. My lens is trained on them; the subtle discomfort when he touches her waist; that desire to peel away. He wishes she was more drunk; maybe then she’d make him excited. I pan away for a few moments, surveying the guests at their tables, analyzing their movements; their gestures making for interesting pieces of this puzzle.
Sarah, the sister, sits to my left; arms expressing a story she’s recounting. I can zoom towards her made-up face, watching the intricacies of the laugh lines upon her face move. It’s focused with her in frame now, and separate from the other hubbub in the room. I watch her lips; hearing the sounds when I really concentrate on her.
She’s talking about a childhood story. Her and Mrs. Shirley Anderson had an altercation, some sort of comedic value involved when the former fell over while arguing as children. The words don’t matter though, not as much as her face. The twitch as she mentions her sister’s name; small tiny lip movements when accepting compliments about her sister’s husband.
She knows quite a lot.
Next, the blinking recording device shifts to the table to the right, where Mrs. Anderson’s close friends are all situated, settling on one particular. A lean man, mousy-haired, mild-mannered and polite as he shares a joke with his peers. As I zoom, I notice his eyes flitting to the newlyweds on occasion, struggling to engage with his fellow friends as his focus is drawn elsewhere.
Marcus is his name.
His words are caught by my ears as I watch his lips with intense interest as he talks once more.
Something about the Andersons being drunk, that he’d like to go for another drink soon; that perhaps he might dance soon. It seems the idea of being up on that dancefloor makes him happy; his expression seems to soften as he moves his gaze once more aimed at the dancefloor; towards the new Mrs. Anderson. And that fleeting hint of apprehension as his eyes move from bride to groom.
I know quite a lot now
Of course, they’re none the wiser; I’m just here to document their event.
At long last, the party is over. I begin to pack my things away, ready to head home; alone in the room, but for one.
He comes up to me, the groom. Paul Anderson in his navy suit, red tie and brown shoes. Even without the lens I can see his grandiosity is but an illusion.
“You did just as I asked, well done for not getting in the way too much.”
I nod and smile, replying as I continue to put my things away.
“No problem, I’m just an observer, that’s all, right?”
The man returns with a jovial smile, and heads out of the room; the tapping of his feet audible as he goes.
I wasn’t lying.
I am simply just an observer.
My laptop displays the contents of the video, ready for editing, displayed in full.
I watch intently at the screen, eyes fixated on each and every change in expression, reveling in the documentation I have of each interaction. I playback the scenes like a movie, stitching together my narrative. I have created a fall from grace, the ceremony with the snapshots of the couple, all smiles and the fragility they both bring. Next, the meal, morsels swallowed down in small mouthfuls. Mrs. Anderson’s apprehensiveness to eat in full view; her husband looking a little too intently at her as she swallows, just for a second.
And of course, the dance.
The dance is the best part yet.
The trailing of his hands up her body as they dance to the rhythm, her face full of tell-tale reluctance and tolerance. That’s what she is really, a woman of tolerance. The music just masks it all in a shroud of celebration; eyes locked as she tries to break away, his arm keeping her firmly in place.
Why do I care so much about people I hardly know?
Their plight is the most interesting part. The fascination lies in their unspoken language, the words they share with no sounds. I know so much about them through my third eye. And they hired me, so I must finish their story.
The last part has yet to be completed. The fall from serenity to boiling point is there, but their ending has been untold.
I don’t usually break my own rules, but the Andersons have really enthralled me today.
And so, as I switch tabs to my camera feed monitor, a small sigh escapes my lips.
They’re sleeping so soundly, not a single peep. Naturally, they’re not embracing, but it’s serene sleep nonetheless.
I switch them off as I leave, my long coat following me as I go.
This ending requires more than just watching; a more personal touch is required.
Strolling through the darkness is where I enjoy life. The cold air on my face as I trudge along the hard sidewalks of the sleeping city. I cast my mind back to the pre wedding meeting. Miss Shirley Roberts, as she’d been known before Paul became her husband, sat in front of me in their nice tidy lounge; discussing the details of their celebration, what I’d need to bring; pricing and such. I’d had the measure of them before they’d even started talking. The touching and locking eyes were too performative, as if both were trying to fool one another.
Their story was begging to be told.
And here I am, once again, at the abode they’d allowed me into, both knowingly and unknowingly. I creep into the backyard, duplicate house key in my left hand, and the other key in my right.
Advancing up the stairs is a slow process; every sound I make risks waking the two slumbering protagonists in my narrative. I make my way, ascending with careful footing. I hear soft breathing as I near the top, a mumble and a shift in position. Good, they’re still asleep.
I’m inside the room now, inches away from my muses. My hand is shaking a little as I place the folder in my right hand in between the two sleeping subjects.
I switch my eyes and ears in their house on before I retire to bed, the anticipation of what’s to come making sleep difficult; whoever wakes first will finish my story.
I am not disappointed, not at all.
I’m in utter, unadulterated wonder.
The camera feed displays blood-soaked sheets sprawled on the floor, fresh from a morning struggle. Two equally disorganized bodies lie parallel to each other, with a blade by Shirley’s hand; cadavers leaking the very same liquid the bed is coated with. And just to their left, lies an open folder; a picture of a slight, mousy-haired man, and a note scattered not far from it.
I begin to look over the footage from the beginning of the morning, watching the resulting skirmish that the two could not have ever foreseen. The awakening of Paul Anderson, his hands opening my gift; the realization, and of course, the mad rage induced onslaught with the now discarded blade.
I have outdone myself; my predictions were once again correct. I know these people better than they know themselves. I know their thoughts.
I finally allow myself a smile. My work is almost done. Now all that’s left is to finish the video; to complete the happiest day of their lives.
My ending couldn’t have gone any better.
Video Camera
by ChaoticFame
A few years ago, there was a young man named Bryan who went to university. He didn’t have enough money to live in the campus accommodation, so he had to rent an apartment on his own in the city. After he had been he began to notice some strange things happening. Often, when he came back from college, the curtains in his bedroom would be drawn, when he distinctly remembered having left them open when he left that morning. At other times, some of his belongings seemed to have been moved and other possessions were nowhere to be found.
These strange occurrences started to creep Bryan out, so the young man decided to talk to his friends, Trisha and Alex, about the situation. They met him at a local diner and, over coffee, he told them all about the strange things he had noticed.
“Maybe I’m just being paranoid,” said Bryan. “But I just get the sneaking suspicion that someone is breaking into my apartment during the day, while I’m at university and…”
“And what?” interrupted Alex, “Rearranging your curtains and moving your stuff around? Who in their right mind would bother doing that?”
“It sounds crazy, but you might have a stalker,” said Trisha. “It’s a possibility. If it’s true, I think the best thing to do is contact the police.”
“What can the police do?” asked Alex. “They’re not going to spend their time keeping your apartment under surveillance. Besides, there’s no damage to any of your things. There’s no sign of a break-in. In short, there’s no evidence.”
“So what options then?” pleaded Bryan, “I can’t just do nothing.”
“I know how you can put your mind at ease,” said Trisha. “It’s easy. Just get a video camera, set it up in your bedroom and leave it running when you go to college. If you really do have a stalker, you can show the tape to the police as evidence.”
“You know, that’s a great idea,” said Bryan.
“And if you’re really just paranoid and crazy, you can show the tape to your psychiatrist,” joked Alex.
That night, Bryan borrowed Trisha’s video camera and brought it home. The very next morning, he hid it discreetly under some folders on his desk. Before he went to college, he pressed the record button and left the running.
During the day, while he sat taking notes in lectures, the young man forgot all about the video camera. It was not until he arrived home and went into his bedroom that he remembered his plan.
Taking the video camera out of its hiding place, he pressed the stop button. Then he took out his mobile phone and called his friend.
“Hey, Trisha”, he said. “I just got home. I’m going to watch the video.”
“Cool,” said Trisha. “Don’t hang up. Tell me if you see anything.”
He pressed play and watched the recording on the video camera’s tiny screen. He saw himself leaving for the university in the morning and closing the bedroom door. Then, there was nothing. He pressed fast forward and scanned through the video. The room was empty.
“Still nothing,” he said.
“I can wait,” replied Trisha. “Anyway, there’s nothing worth watching on TV at the moment.”
“OMG!” cried Bryan as he pressed play on the camera.
“What? What?” Trisha begged excitedly.
“The door’s opening!” said Bryan. “It’s a woman…”
“What’s she doing?”, asked Trisha.
“Just standing there… Closing the door… Walking around…”
“OMG! SO weird! What does she look like?”
“Can’t see her face… Long, black, stringy hair… Tattered dress…”
“Do you know her?”
“No, don’t recognize her at all… She’s carrying a knife… A big kitchen knife… She’s going through my trash… Now, she’s picking up my clothes and sniffing them.”
“Ugh! Gross! What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s going over to the closet… She just got into the closet.”
“Fast Forward and see if she does anything else.”
He scanned through the video for a while, but the room was empty.
“You know what this means”, said Bryan. “I have the evidence now. I can go to the police and they’ll take me seriously.”
“I know”, said Trisha. “They’ll have to”.
“Alex is totally going to freak when he sees this.”
“No doubt. He didn’t believe you, but I did.”
“I know. You’re a good friend… OMG!”
“What? What?”
Bryan pressed play again.
“The door’s opening again”, said Bryan.
“Who is it?”, asked Trisha.
“Oh, it’s OK”, said Bryan. “It’s just me coming home from college.”
He watched himself on the screen, shutting off the camera.
“Let’s go to the police now,” said Trisha. “I’ll go with you. We can show them the tape.”
“OK. I’ll meet you at the diner in fifteen minutes,” said Bryan as he grabbed the video camera.
“OK… Wait a minute”, said Trisha. “You said she got into the closet. Did she ever leave? Bryan, did she ever get out of the closet?”
A chill ran down Bryan’s spine. Behind him, he heard the closet door creak open.
“Bryan! Get out of there!” screamed Trisha, but it was too late. The phone went dead. When she tried to call him again, there was no answer.
Later that evening, the police found the body of the eighteen-year old college student lying in a pool of blood. He had been stabbed twenty-one times. The video camera was clutched in his cold, dead hands. When the police examined the camera, they discovered that the memory card was missing.
No trace of the woman was ever found.
By the way, are you wondering why this is in third person? Well, I was someone who had been watching all this. I am that crazed girl. By the way, your closet is nice and warm. >:)
Someone is Watching Me Sleep at Night
He was there again tonight. Watching me through my window as I pretended to sleep. He’s been coming to my window every night since I came to this place. He thinks I don’t know he’s there, he thinks he’s clever, but I see him. I feel him.
When he watches me, I’m stiff as stone. My heartbeat races, I start to sweat, and my blood runs cold. But I never move a muscle. Sometimes, he puts his hands on my window, his breath fogging the glass. Sometimes, I can hear him crying.
His intentions are sinister, I know it. He’s started to come in my room now. He sits in a chair by the foot of my bed, breathing heavy breaths, polluting my air. Sometimes, he will mumble things. Sometimes, he hums lullabies. Sometimes, he just cries.
Recently, he took a big step. He came into my room and looked at my paintings, touched them. He touched my paintings! Then, he pulled up a chair and sat at the foot of my bed, just watching me. I never look at him directly, I know if he sees me open my eyes, he will get me.
I’ve started to hear his whispers. They’re too faint for me to understand, but I know they’re there. I feel the pure evil in his voice. It scares me. And I hate being afraid. Something must be done.
I started to leave him messages. I would place them at the foot of my bed for him to find:
“LEAVE.”
“NO MORE.”
“STAY AWAY.”
But when I wake up, my messages are gone, and replaced by his own sick, demented words:
“I’M HERE FOR YOU.”
“I WON’T GO.”
“I NEED YOU.”
This man is twisted. This man is vile. This man wants my blood. He wants me dead, I know it! I won’t allow that to happen. I cannot. So, I leave more messages:
“NEVER RETURN.”
“STOP COMING HERE.”
“I HATE YOU.”
Again, I wake to his disgusting responses:
“WHY?”
“I LOVE YOU.”
“I’LL NEVER LEAVE.”
It burns my stomach that this man will not understand. It gnaws at my bones that he still chooses to come to my room every night. He thinks he can just get away with it.
But I grow tired of this little game we play.
Last night, I made sure to steal one of my art scissors and brought it to bed. I hid it under my pillow, pulled up my covers, and closed my eyes. Listening. Waiting…
He came to my window. He put his hand on the glass. He cried for a moment, then he entered my room.
He looked at my paintings, touched them again. He pulled up his chair, he sat and watched me. I waited. He started humming lullabies again. He stood and paced around the room, sobbing. He walked to the side of my bed, leaned down, kissed me on the cheek, and I drove my scissors deep into his throat.
I didn’t look at him. I knew he could still get me. But I heard as he choked on his own blood. I heard him fall to the floor grasping his neck, gurgling and gasping for air. Before he went still, he said one thing:
“Why…?”
Large men broke down my door. They ran to the dead evil man, and took him away.
Then they took me away.
They strapped me down and put me in a padded room. I don’t understand why. I can’t paint, I can’t hang my art in here.
Eventually, a man who said he was a doctor came in. He sat at the edge of my bed like the man at my window. He pulled out his clipboard and spoke:
“Mrs. Rutger, I’d like for you to explain to me why you did what you did. What brought you to your actions? Do you recall your thought process?”
Wasn’t it obvious…?
“I stopped the evil man from coming into my room and watching me. I saved myself from being taken by him.”
The doctor stared at me for a moment.
“Mrs. Rutger, I’m afraid you’re not quite understanding what’s happened to you. You’ve been in a terrible car accident in which you lost your three children. Because of this, you had an extreme mental breakdown, and were admitted to Shining Pines Mental Health Facility. You’ve been here for quite some time. In fact, your husband has been the only one in your family to come see you since you arrived.”
I stared at him blankly.
“Mrs. Rutger… I don’t know how to say this… But your husband was the man you’ve just murdered.”
