Mark wandered through his dimly lit apartment, the flickering streetlights outside casting fleeting shadows on the walls. The solitude, once a comfort, now felt oppressive. He paused by the window, staring out into the night as if seeking answers in the darkness.
"I must be losing it," he murmured to himself, glancing over his shoulder at the chair that had inexplicably shifted from its usual spot.
Returning home one evening, Mark found his sanctuary in disarray. His bed, usually made with military precision, lay unkempt. A cup of tea sat on the table, steam curling into the air like a mocking question mark. He felt a chill creep up his spine.
"This isn't normal," he whispered, the realization dawning like a slow, creeping fog.
Determined to uncover the truth, Mark filled his apartment with cameras, their red recording lights blinking ominously in the shadows. He moved with frantic purpose, his movements jerky and tense.
"I'll catch you," he muttered under his breath, the weight of unseen eyes pressing down on him.
In the dead of night, Mark sat hunched over his computer, reviewing the footage with growing dread. The soft glow from the screen painted his face in ghostly hues as he scanned each frame, his heart pounding louder with every passing second.
Suddenly, his breath caught in his throat. There, in the corner of the screen, a shadowy figure stood beside his sleeping form, its presence as chilling as the grave.
The figure leaned closer, its form indistinct yet terrifyingly present. Mark watched, frozen, as it moved with silent intent, its breath whispering secrets he couldn't hear. The tension built, coiling around him like a serpent ready to strike.
Just as the shadow seemed ready to speak, the footage cut to black, leaving Mark in a silence that roared in his ears. The faint whisper from the screen echoed through the stillness, leaving him alone once more with the darkness that had claimed his home.