I Found a Livestream of My Own Living Room

I Found a Livestream of My Own Living Room

The blue light of my laptop was the only thing keeping the shadows of my apartment at bay. It was 2:14 AM. I was scrolling through an obscure forum dedicated to "unexplained internet glitches" when I saw a link titled: 02:14: LIVE.

Being a fan of digital mysteries, I clicked.

The screen flickered to life. The video quality was grainy, washed in the sickly green of night-vision. At first, I didn't recognize what I was looking at. It looked like a standard living room. There was a worn-out velvet sofa, a coffee table cluttered with half-empty coffee mugs, and a bookshelf with a broken top shelf.

A cold shiver raced down my spine, landing like a block of ice in my stomach.

That was my velvet sofa.

Those were my mugs.

That was my bookshelf.

The camera angle was high, tucked into the corner of the ceiling—exactly where my smoke detector sits. I looked up at the detector in my physical room. No red light. No lens. Nothing. But on the screen, the feed was crystal clear.

I was watching a live broadcast of the very room I was sitting in.

I froze. I didn't move a muscle, hoping to see myself on the screen. If it was truly "live," I should be sitting right there on the sofa with my laptop. But the sofa on the screen was empty.

"It’s a recording," I whispered to myself, my voice trembling. "Someone recorded this earlier and is playing it back to prank me."

But then, the front door in the video creaked open.

In my actual apartment, the door remained shut and bolted. But on the screen, a figure stepped inside. It was tall—unnaturally thin—wearing a heavy, wet raincoat that dripped black puddles onto my rug. The figure didn't turn on the lights. It just stood there, staring at the empty sofa where I should have been.

Then, the intruder did something that made my heart stop.

He walked over to my coffee table and picked up a mug. In my real room, I stared at the mug on my table. It didn't move. But on the screen, the figure brought the mug to his face and inhaled deeply, as if smelling my lingering presence.

I grabbed my phone to call the police, but my hands were shaking so violently I dropped it. The thud of the phone hitting the floor was loud in the silent room.

On the laptop screen, the figure froze. He heard it.

He slowly turned his head toward the camera—toward the smoke detector. His face was a blur of static, except for his eyes. They were wide, unblinking, and glowing with a faint, predatory light.

He didn't run. He didn't hide. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, metallic object. He held it up to the lens.

It was a key. My spare key. The one I kept under the mat until last week.

The figure leaned in close to the camera, his breath fogging the digital lens. He whispered something. I couldn't hear it through the laptop speakers, but I could read his lips.

"Look behind the screen."

I slowly lowered my laptop lid.

In the reflection of the black screen, I didn't see my own face. I saw the wet, dripping raincoat. I saw the wide, unblinking eyes. And I felt the cold, damp breath on the back of my neck.

The livestream wasn't a recording. And it wasn't a glitch.

It was a countdown.

Author’s Note:

If you just looked behind your shoulder, then my work here is done. This story is part of my "Digital Nightmares" series. If you enjoyed this chill down your spine, consider subscribing for more weekly horrors. Stay safe, and always check your smoke detectors.