He slowly turned his head to look at the corner. There was no camera. Only the peeling wallpaper.

Behind him, in the dark hallway of the photo, a pale, elongated hand was gripping the doorframe.

He turned back to the screen and hit the 'Refresh' button. The file name changed.

A single folder appeared. Inside weren't thousands of photos, as the file size suggested, but just one. He opened it, expecting a blurry vacation snap or a corrupted header. Instead, he saw his own living room.

He opened it. The new photo showed the back of his head, hunched over the glowing monitor. But in this shot, the door to his office—the door he always locked—was swinging open.