I dart my eyes between the locked workshop door and my device, my trembling fingers flying across the screen to enter the password for the security camera. My injured hand screams at me, louder with each swipe.
I flatten myself against the wall, hoping and praying I’ll make it to the hatch on the other side of the room before they knock down the door. He’ll have men outside. It won’t matter how quickly I make it beneath the house. Someone will see me running.
Fuck, why didn’t I hide an emergency pack in the forest in case I needed to make a quick escape?
The alarm continues blaring through the house, pounding against my head as viciously as the Gallaghers will once they get their hands on me. They’ll want to keep me alive for what I’ve done, to exact their pound of flesh and the data I store in my mind.
I turn off the gun’s safety and point it at the door.
The application finally loads. Sixteen surveillance videos blink into view. A cold sweat skates down my spine as I click through each footage. Once. Twice.
Four more times.
Nothing.
No Tommy. No Gallaghers. No pirates.
No one inside or outside.
That can’t be right. The alarm wouldn’t go off by itself.
Maybe it was an animal, or a random thinking they could rob me while I’m asleep, or maybe a glitch caused during the assembly process because of my limitations.
The empty screens don't make me breathe any easier. The Gallaghers are out there. I know it. They’re watching, waiting, playing me for their own sick game.
I hit Rewind on the security tapes, muscles bunched, ready to see the ghost of the man who haunts my dreams.
I killed him. I know I did.
I think.
There was no social media covering his funeral, but he was removed from the company register. That’s all I have to go off.
That, and the lack of a heartbeat when I left him on the floor.
Someone’s out there. I can feel it. My short breaths make my head swim as I navigate the shitty, user-unfriendly app Deedee’s friend made.
A figure appears in the camera installed on the porch. I hit Pause, frowning. What the… I rewind the footage, watching him or her—orit—move in reverse, from the front of my house to the windows by my bedroom, circling my place before retreating into the woods.
The figure is nothing more than a giant blob of darkness that doubles in size in front of my bedroom window.
I scroll back, earlier into the night when the sun set and I had just gotten back home. On the screen, my face is as clear as day, as is the fly that landed on my leg and the puff of fumes from the exhaust.
How could anyone pull something like this off? This is far more advanced than anything I know exists. What would turn a person into a black blob on screen? At least two feet around them is blurred and distorted.
I scramble to the safety of my hiding spot to grab my laptop off the bench before scuttling back beneath the desk. With the gun in my clammy hand, and the device in my other, I pull up the tapes. Maybe there’s an issue with the app on my phone.
But no. All sixteen camera angles show the same thing.
I silently tap my foot on the floor. I don’t feel safe stepping foot outside to do an in-person check. I don’t feel safe inside either.
Cold sweat trickles down my back. I gnaw on the inside of my cheek, debating whether to wake Deedee up to send out an SOS.
It was probably a fucking poltergeist. Tommy’sactualghost, not a figment of my imagination.
Whatever it was, it can wait until morning. Until then, the Glock is never leaving my hand.
I lower the laptop to the floor, rise to my feet, then tiptoe to the door. According to my security cameras, the living room is empty. Still, I hesitate, a scream lodged in my throat, ready for any sudden movement.
