Disturbia

As the silhouette in the doorway stepped into the light, Elias realized with a jolt of pure horror why the neighborhood felt so familiar. The wallpaper, the smell of lavender, the specific crack in the ceiling—it was exactly like his childhood home.

Suddenly, the feed flickered. A face appeared, filling the frame. It was Mrs. Miller, but her eyes were wrong—the pupils were square, pulsing with a faint, digital hum. She looked directly into the lens, her mouth opening unnaturally wide. Disturbia

"The lawn needs mowing, Elias," the silhouette said, its voice a discordant layering of his neighbors’ tones. "The symmetry is breaking." As the silhouette in the doorway stepped into

Elias leaned closer to the glass. Across the street, the Miller house was glowing. Not with the warm amber of a living room lamp, but a harsh, clinical ultraviolet. He pulled up his camera feed—a hidden lens he’d tucked into a birdhouse. A face appeared, filling the frame

"Elias," a voice whispered. It didn't come from the computer. It came from his own hallway.