The Camera Only Shows Them at Night

I didn’t buy the camera.

That’s the first thing I need to make clear.

It was already in my room when I got home from school last Thursday, sitting on my desk like it had always been there. Small, black, no brand name—just a smooth plastic body and a single lens that seemed a little too reflective. At first I thought it was my dad’s, but he swore he’d never seen it before.

“Probably one of your friends messing with you,” he said.

I don’t have friends that come into my house when I’m not there.

Still, I shrugged it off. I picked it up, turned it over in my hands. No buttons except one on top. No screen. No place to plug it in. Just that single button.

So I pressed it.

Nothing happened.

No click, no flash, no sound—just silence.

I set it back down and forgot about it.

That night, I woke up at 2:13 AM.

I don’t know why. There was no noise, no dream—just that sudden, sharp awareness like something had nudged me awake. My room was dark except for the faint glow of my phone charging on the nightstand.

And the camera.

It was sitting on my desk, pointed directly at my bed.

I stared at it for a while, my eyes adjusting to the dark. I told myself I must’ve left it that way earlier without realizing. That happens, right? You forget little things.

Still, something about it made my chest feel tight.

I got up, walked over, and turned it to face the wall.

Then I went back to bed.

The next morning, the camera was on my nightstand.

Right next to my phone.

Facing me.

I froze when I saw it.

I knew—knew—I hadn’t put it there. I don’t sleepwalk. I don’t even move much in my sleep. And even if I did, why would I move the camera closer?

I picked it up slowly.

The surface felt colder than it should’ve been.

I almost didn’t press the button again.

But I did.

This time, something happened.

A soft click echoed through my room, quiet but unmistakable. And for just a second—barely even a blink—the lens flickered with a faint white glow.

That was it.

No picture, no sound afterward.

Just that click.

Things got worse after that.

Every night, I’d wake up around the same time—2:13 AM. And every time, the camera was closer.

First on the desk.

Then the nightstand.

Then the edge of my bed.

Always facing me.

Always silent.

I stopped touching it after the second night. I didn’t want to press the button again. I didn’t want to know what it was doing.

But on the fourth night, something changed.

When I woke up, the camera wasn’t just closer.

It was on my chest.

Pointed directly at my face.

I couldn’t breathe.

I just lay there, staring at it, too scared to move. My heart was pounding so hard I thought I might pass out.

And then

Click.

I hadn’t touched it.

I swear I hadn’t.

But the button depressed on its own.

The lens flickered.

And for that split second, I saw something in it.

A reflection.

Not of me.

Of something standing behind me.

I didn’t turn around.

I couldn’t.

Every instinct in my body was screaming at me not to move, not to look, not to acknowledge whatever was there.

Slowly, carefully, I lifted the camera off my chest and held it up again, angling it so I could see the lens.

Nothing.

Just my own terrified face staring back.

I stayed awake until morning.

I tried to get rid of it the next day.

I threw it in the trash outside.

When I got back home, it was on my desk again.

I smashed it against the wall.

No cracks. No damage.

I even asked my dad to take it away.

He said, “What camera?”

It was right there in my hand.

He couldn’t see it.

Last night was the worst.

I woke up at 2:13 AM again.

The camera was in my hands.

I don’t remember picking it up.

My finger was already on the button.

And before I could stop myself—

Click.

This time, the reflection didn’t disappear.

It stayed.

Clearer than before.

Something tall. Too tall to fit in my room without bending. Its head tilted at an angle that didn’t look natural. Its arms stretched longer than they should, almost reaching the floor.

And it was close.

Right behind me.

Closer than it had ever been.

I felt its breath on the back of my neck.

I didn’t sleep after that.

I’m writing this now in the morning, trying to figure out what to do.

Because the camera is still here.

It’s sitting next to me as I type this.

And every few minutes—

It clicks.

On its own.

I checked the time.

It’s 2:12 PM right now.

And I just realized something.

The reflection doesn’t only show up at night anymore.

It’s starting to appear in the daytime too.

And each time the camera clicks—

It gets a little closer.

If anyone knows what this thing is, or how to get rid of it… tell me.

Because I don’t think I have many clicks left.