Transcription
I was 22 when this happened. At the time, I had just graduated college. I was between jobs, and doing odd work around my small town, like babysitting, cleaning houses, running errands, basically anything that paid cash. A woman I dog sat for in the past recommended me to a friend of her neighbor's, a man named Craig.
He called me one afternoon and explained he'd be traveling for a week and needed someone to stay in his house to look after his golden retriever, Max. He said Max was an anxious dog who did best with someone actually staying overnight rather than just coming by to feed him. And the pay he offered was a little more than usual, so I agreed.
I met Craig two days later. He was in his late 40s, tall, wearing wire-rim glasses and a windbreaker. Nothing about him seemed strange at first. Maybe a little overly friendly, but not creepy. His house was on the edge of town, tucked back in a wooded area. The place itself was nice, but a little dated, like with beige carpets and floral curtains.
Craig walked me through everything, how often to let Max out, where the spare key was, which fridge items I could use. He told me I could stay in the guest bedroom, which was right off the living room on the first floor.
I started the job on a Monday. The first two nights were normal. I watched TV in the living room, then took Max on his evening walks, and then slept in the guest room with him curled up at the foot of the bed. It was the third night when things went wrong.
I had been sitting on the bed scrolling through my phone when I noticed something odd. On the dresser across from the bed, next to a small lamp, was a digital alarm clock. I remembered thinking it didn't match the rest of the room. It was newer-looking, black plastic with a bright blue LED display, but everything else in the room looked like it belonged in the early 2000s.
I don't know what made me look closer. Maybe it was the way the light from the lamp hit the front of it. But as I leaned in, I noticed a small, perfectly round black pinhole above the numbers. At first, I thought it was just a sensor, but then I noticed the angle. The tiny hole was pointed directly at the bed. My stomach dropped. I had read stories about hidden cameras and alarm clocks before, but I'd never actually seen one in person.
My mind started racing. I picked it up and it was heavier than I expected, and there was a faint buzzing sound inside like a tiny fan. I turned it toward me and stared right into the pinhole. That was when Max, who had been lying by the door, suddenly lifted his head and started whining.
From somewhere else in the house. Not the front door, but deeper inside. I heard the unmistakable sound of a door closing. Every hair on my body stood up. Craig wasn't supposed to be back until Sunday, and it was only Wednesday night. I froze, holding the clock in my hands, my heart pounding so hard it almost hurt.
Then I heard slow footsteps on the hallway carpet. I quickly set the clock back down and moved to the door, locking it just as the footsteps stopped outside. Then Craig's voice came through, calm, but slightly out of breath. He was saying he had left something in there the last time he was home and needed me to open the door.
I couldn't speak. A moment later, he said it wasn't what I thought, claiming it was a motion sensor for the dog and that he hadn't wanted to freak me out by mentioning it. I backed away from the door, my hand over my mouth. He told me to come out and that we would talk like adults, but when I didn't respond, his knocking turned into pounding. He yelled at me to open the door with his voice no longer calm, but sharp and angry. Max started barking and jumping at the door, which only made Craig sound more agitated.
I glanced at the window, which was low enough to the ground to climb out, but it was locked. So, I fumbled with the latch, my hand shaking so badly it took me three tries to open it. Behind me, Craig was still pounding, now shouting that if I didn't open the door, he would get the key to the room and call the cops and tell them I broke into his house.
I didn't wait to hear more. I shoved the window open, climbed out awkwardly, and dropped onto the grass outside. Max scrambled after me, his nails clicking on the window ledge, but he ultimately gave up and didn't jump out. I ran through the side yard and down the gravel driveway until I reached the road. My phone was in my pocket, and I called my mom, who lived 15 minutes away. I told her to come get me right now.
By the time she pulled up, I was hiding behind a cluster of mailboxes. Craig's house was nowhere in sight from that spot, but I kept looking over my shoulder. I stayed at my mom's for the rest of the night. The next morning, I blocked Craig's number and called the lawyer. The lawyer said that without physical proof, like a recording of the camera or the device itself, pressing charges would be difficult. Even if the clock was a hidden camera, Craig could claim it was a harmless motion sensor. And without evidence, it would be my word against his.
I wanted to go back and take a picture of it, but my lawyer strongly advised against returning to the house alone, and the idea of seeing Craig again made my skin crawl, so nothing happened to him. I never got paid for the three nights I stayed there. The woman who had recommended me to him stopped responding to my messages, and I never found out if she knew anything about him.
For weeks afterward, I had nightmares about waking up to see a camera lens watching me from across the room. I started checking every clock, smoke detector, and picture frame in my own apartment. And I still think about that moment I looked into that little black lens and the sound of the door closing somewhere behind me in a house I thought was empty, which says to me he may have been in the house the whole time, watching me through that camera.
I booked the Airbnb in late September, a week before my girlfriend Emma and I planned to spend a few days visiting her sister in a small town about three hours from where we lived. And I picked it because it was cheap, close enough to her sister's place, had good reviews, and looked cozy in the listing photos. An old two-story house with a wraparound porch, warm yellow lighting in the living room, hardwood floors that gave it a kind of storybook feeling, and one small detail in the description that I didn't think much of at the time, which was a note telling guests that the basement storage room was off-limits.
I had stayed in places where the owners kept certain areas locked. It's pretty common for them to store personal belongings somewhere, so it barely registered as important. But when we pulled into the driveway just before sunset on the first evening, the place looked a little more weathered than in the photos. And there was something about the fact that it stood alone with only one other house in sight a good distance away, surrounded by dark tree lines and a narrow road leading in, that it made me think twice.
The host, Allan, was waiting for us on the porch before we'd even gotten out of the car. He was tall but slightly hunched, maybe in his late 50s, with thin gray hair combed neatly over his head. He was dressed in a perfectly pressed flannel shirt tucked into his jeans. He smiled, but it was the kind of smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. It made me think of Mr. Beast, a little too practiced. His eyes lingered on us just a bit too long when we shook hands. And though his voice was friendly enough, there was a subtle firmness to it when he began showing us around.
He led us through the front door into a hallway that smelled faintly of dust and something sweet, almost like candle wax, though I didn't see any candles. The living room had a big couch facing an old television. The kitchen looked clean but dated. And when we went upstairs, the single bedroom had a large bed under a ceiling fan and a small dresser with a mirror.
Then when he came back down, Allan stopped at a door near the kitchen and tapped a heavy padlock hanging from it. He told us in a more commanding tone that that door stayed locked, that it was his storage space, and that there was no reason for us to go down there for anything. He didn't smile this time. He just moved on to point out where the extra towels were in the bathroom before wishing us a pleasant stay and heading out the front door.
After he left, Emma and I unpacked, made some tea, and sat outside on the porch for a while, listening to crickets and the occasional rustle of leaves in the trees. By the time we got into bed, the quiet was almost unnerving. No traffic, no distant voices, just pure silence. Sometime after midnight, I thought I heard a faint dull thud from below us. I paused and listened for more, but it didn't come again. So, I told myself it was probably the house settling.
The next morning, we got breakfast in town, explored a few shops, and met up with Emma's sister for lunch. We stayed out until just after dark, then went back to the house to make dinner and watch a movie. Around 2:00 in the morning, I woke up to use the bathroom. As I headed back toward the bedroom, I froze halfway up the stairs when I heard a dragging sound from the basement, like something heavy being pulled across a rough floor. It lasted maybe five seconds, stopped, and then started again. My first thought was that maybe Allan had come back for something, but he had told us he wouldn't be around at all during our stay. I stood there listening until it stopped, then went into the bedroom and asked Emma in a whisper if she was awake. She said she was and that she heard it too. We stayed awake for another half hour, but the sound didn't return.
The second night was worse. We'd spent the day hiking and were exhausted, but sometime around 2:30 a.m. the noises started again. Not dragging this time, but footsteps. Four or five in a row, then a pause, then three more. Each pause lasting long enough to make me think that whoever or whatever it was was listening. Emma whispered that she thought she heard breathing between the steps. My heart was pounding, but I didn't want to get up and risk making a noise. So, we just lay there, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling until morning.
By the third morning, the atmosphere in the house felt different. We still went out and did touristy things, but whenever we came back, it was like a heaviness settled over the rooms. I decided to check the basement door during the day. It was still locked, but when I leaned closer, I thought I could smell something faint and unpleasant, like stale, damp air mixed with a hint of something sour.
That night, the noises began earlier, around midnight. First came a faint metallic clinking, like metal tapping against something hard. Then the footsteps again, going on and off for nearly an hour. Emma barely spoke to me before bed. The fourth night was the breaking point. While getting ready for bed, Emma stopped brushing her hair and asked me if the smoke detector above the bed looked strange.
At first, I didn't see it, but when I stood on the bed to get a closer look, I saw a small, perfectly round black dot in the middle that was shinier than the surrounding plastic. A bad feeling hit me immediately. I grabbed a chair, unscrewed the detector, and inside was a small battery-operated camera with its green light on. Emma sat on the bed, pale and silent, while I searched the rest of the room and found another small lens poking through a hole in the wall near the dresser mirror, both aimed directly at the bed.
That was the end of it. We shoved our stuff into our bags without bothering to fold anything, and we left the house without speaking to the host, driving to the nearest gas station to call the police. Two officers met us there. We explained everything, the noises, the cameras, the locked basement, and they followed us back to the house. The front door was unlocked. Technically, we were still allowed in the place as we paid for four days. The police followed us inside and seized all the evidence, including the cameras, I assume, the memory cards, and any recording equipment they could find. They also took our statement in detail, asking if any strange events took place during our stay. That's when we mentioned hearing weird noises both nights from the basement.
When we showed them the basement door, we were shocked to see that it was now wide open, but it was pitch black down there. We told them that this door was locked before and that the host was very sketchy about not going down there. So, the officers went down the stairs to investigate. Moments later, we heard voices, raised voices. There was some kind of commotion going on down there, and it quickly became clear what was happening. The officers then called us down and asked if this was the host. And to our horror, it was Allan. He was apparently hiding in a closet in the basement. In this closet was a monitor, which we could only guess was being fed the footage from the basement. The police seized this as well. Allan was placed under arrest almost immediately, and he was charged criminally by the state for criminal trespass and invasion of privacy. We didn't have to testify in court or anything. The police just sent our statements to the prosecutor. I believe Airbnb basically bribed us with a voucher in hopes that we wouldn't share our bad experience. We took the voucher, obviously, but that hasn't stopped us from telling people about this horrific experience. It's really been something that's had a lasting effect on Emma and I. We don't trust rentals or Airbnbs anymore and lately just stick to hotels.
[Music]
My name is Joe and this happened about a week ago. I live in a two-bedroom apartment with my roommate Eric. I didn't know him before moving in. We met through a Facebook housing group. He seemed normal enough when we first met to check the place out. He was quiet, polite, and kind of awkward, but not really in a bad way. At the time, I thought that would be a good thing because I wasn't looking for a best friend, just someone responsible enough to help pay rent and not trash the place.
For the first couple of months, it was fine. We had opposite work schedules. I worked a regular nine-to-five office job and he worked at some warehouse on the late shift. Because of that, I barely saw him. Most of the time when I was leaving in the morning, his door would be shut. And at night, when I came home, he was usually gone. We'd cross paths once or twice a week, usually just exchanging a few words in the kitchen or living room. It was nothing special, but it worked.
Then I started noticing little things in my room that made me feel off. The first time it happened, I came home late and saw that my closet door was open. I usually keep it closed because I don't like seeing my clothes sticking out, but I figured maybe I had left it that way that morning. A few days later, I noticed my desk chair turned slightly toward the bed. I never sit in it that way. Again, I brushed it off and thought maybe I was just not paying attention. Still, it put a strange feeling in my stomach, like somebody had been in my room.
One Saturday morning, I was cleaning. I wiped the shelves, dusted, and then started on the window. That's when I saw it. Up in the corner, where the wall met the ceiling, there was this little black dot. I thought it was maybe a screw or a hole in the wall, but when I got closer, I froze. It was a tiny camera, a small wireless camera pointed straight at my bed. My hand shook as I pulled it off the wall. It wasn't even hidden well, just stuck with a little piece of adhesive. It had a spot for a memory card, but the card was missing.
I just stood there holding it, feeling sick. I thought about all the nights I had been in here sleeping, changing clothes, even being intimate with women. The only person who could have put it there was Eric. He was the only other one with access to my room. At that moment, he wasn't home. His door was closed and the apartment was quiet. I stood in the hallway staring at his door with my heart pounding. I told myself not to do it, but curiosity won. I slowly turned his doorknob and opened it. His room smelled stale, like old food and dirty laundry. The blinds were shut and the room was dark even though it was the middle of the day. His bed was unmade and his desk was cluttered with papers, unopened mail, and change. I searched around a little, half expecting to find another camera or maybe recordings on his laptop, but there was nothing obvious, just a messy room. I closed the door and went back to my room, but I couldn't get rid of the uneasiness.
I decided to test him. I put the camera in my nightstand drawer under some socks. My plan was simple: if he came looking for it, then I'd know for sure it was him who planted it. For two nights, nothing happened. I still felt tense, but since there weren't any signs, I started to think that maybe I was overthinking the whole thing.
Then came the third night. I woke up at around 3:00 in the morning. At first, I wasn't sure why, but then I heard a noise. It was soft, like wood sliding against wood. Then I realized it was coming from right beside me, from my nightstand drawer. I opened my eyes a little, pretending to still be asleep. In the faint light coming through the blinds, I saw a figure. It was Eric. He was standing in my room, bent over my nightstand, rummaging through the drawer where I had hidden the camera. I felt my chest tighten and my heart beat so loud I was sure he could hear it. I stayed still, not knowing what to do. And then he stopped. He froze and just stood there completely still. Slowly, he turned his head toward my bed. He was looking straight at me. For a moment, I thought maybe he wasn't sure if I was awake, but then he spoke. He said he knew I was awake. I felt ice run down my spine as he said that. Then he asked me what I had done with it.
I sat up quickly, my fear turning to anger. I demanded to know why he put a camera in my room. He stared at me and told me it was because he thought I was stealing from him. I told him that was ridiculous, that it made no sense. I said he had aimed the camera at my bed and that it was one of the sickest things I've ever seen. He tried to tell me he only wanted proof, but I didn't buy it. I told him he was lying and that he had been spying on me. We started yelling at each other. He kept repeating that I was overreacting. I told him I was going to report him to the landlord and maybe even the police. My voice was shaking with both fear and rage. Finally, I yanked open the drawer, grabbed the camera, and held it up. I told him that this was proof and that he was never getting it back. I stormed out of my room, walked into the kitchen, and threw the camera straight into the garbage, thinking I broke it. I told him to stay out of my room, and that the next day I would be telling the landlord everything. Eric stood in the hallway with his fists clenched, and he was just staring at me with a blank expression. Then he turned and walked back into his room without another word.
I didn't sleep the rest of that night. I sat on the couch with the TV on, too afraid he might come back into my room. Every little sound in the apartment made me jump. When the sun finally came up, I checked the garbage can. The camera was gone. That was a week ago. I told the landlord what happened. He said he would look into it, but so far nothing has been done. Eric still lives here. We don't speak, but the way he looks at me when we pass each other makes my skin crawl. It's like he's waiting for me to say or do something.
I don't know why he really put the camera in my room. His excuse about me stealing was an obvious lie. I don't know what he wanted to record or what he was planning to do with it. And honestly, I don't want to know. But every night when I lay down in bed, I can't shake the feeling that there are more cameras hidden around me. Maybe in places I wouldn't think to check. I scoured the entire room and couldn't find any. But still, the thought does linger in my mind.
Last night, I was awake late and heard footsteps come down the hallway and then stop right outside my door. For over a minute, there was silence except for slight cracks in the wood floor outside my door from the pressure of him standing there. He stood there like a creep for a couple of minutes until I finally heard his footsteps move away from the door. I'm looking into moving out. I'm also trying to figure out if pressing charges for invasion of privacy or something is feasible. Considering I didn't even think to take a picture of the camera or record the confrontation or anything. I don't even have any texts from him admitting to placing the camera there. I've got literally nothing. But anyway, wish me luck in this situation because I'm not sure what the outcome will be.