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Backyard. Side gate. All empty. Then⁠—

Movement. A figure crosses the front porch. Too quickly to identify. The image tears into digital fragments. The same figure appears on the backyard camera. At exactly the same time. Then beside the garage. Then at the side gate.

One person. Four locations. Simultaneously.

Every screen fills with static. The DVR emits a high-pitched whine before shutting itself off. Silence.

None of us moves. Finally, Rhett exhales.

"I've officially run out of reasonable explanations."

"You had some left?"

"One."

"What was it?"

"Equipment failure."

"And now?"

He looks at the dark monitor.

"Not anymore."

Sayer quietly backs away from the television.

"It was here."

Rhett turns.

"What was?"

"The thing."

A chill spreads through the room.

"What thing?"

"Whatever this thing is."

He presses a hand against his forehead and with the other flails as if he’s unsure where to point or what to point at.

"I never saw it."

"You just said⁠—"

"I felt it."

He closes his eyes.

"It watched us."

The house creaks softly. Old wood settling. Ordinarily I wouldn't think twice about the sound. Today…

I do.

My phone buzzes. No signal. Nothing. Not even emergency service.