On the thirteenth night, fueled by a cocktail of dread and desperation, Elena hid a pinhole lens inside a hollowed-out book on her dresser. She slept with a heavy brass lamp within reach, her eyes fixed on the shadows of the floor-to-ceiling wardrobe.
At dawn, she found the bedroom window unlatched. A single, muddy thumbprint was smeared across the white windowsill.
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With cold sweat slicking her palms, she opened the footage on her tablet. At 3:12 AM, the video flickered to life. Elena watched her own sleeping form. Then, the ceiling’s recessed lighting panel—a heavy, magnetic slab—began to shift.
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