The infrared thermometer was her last task. She wandered the house, a detective chasing ghosts. Living room: 73°F (23°C), warm and familiar. Bathroom: 75°F (24°C), steamy from her morning shower. Master bedroom: 72°F (22°C), soft with the smell of linen. Then the kitchen. The thermometer’s display dropped to 63°F (17°C), a shock like ice water. She thought it was broken, tested again—still 63°F. She followed the cold along the vent grille, a frigid snake slithering through the air.
That night, she didn’t sleep. Curled on the couch with her laptop, she split the screen into four feeds: the garden, the back porch, her bedroom window, the front door. The garden was still as a painting, the porch empty, the window framed by swaying tree branches. But her nerves were stretched tight as a bowstring—every rustle, every creak, made her fingers jump to the pause button.
At 1 a.m., a motion sensor blinked red, then went dark. Her heart shot to her throat. On the garden feed, something moved near the daisy bed—small, quick, gone before she could focus. A cat? A raccoon? Or something smaller. Something human.
She stood, legs numb, blood rushing to her head. She wanted to run to the backyard, to yank back the curtains and scream, “Show yourself!” But the dark held too many unknowns—voids that could swallow her whole. She sank back onto the couch, wrapping the blanket around her, the laptop’s glow painting her face like a vigil. By dawn, her back was stiff, her eyes burning.
She pulled open the curtains. The daisies were trampled, their stems snapped, mud printed with faint footprints—too small for an adult, edges damp with dew.