"Unmuted":
I started my remote job at a small marketing firm about six months ago. It was perfect at first—flexible hours, no commute, just me in my apartment with my laptop and coffee. I handled client emails and virtual meetings from my living room, which doubled as my office. The place was cozy, a one-bedroom on the third floor of an old building in the city. I kept the webcam covered with tape when I wasn't using it, like everyone suggested after those hacking stories I read online. But one day, that habit slipped.
It began during a routine team call on a Tuesday morning. My boss, Emily, was leading the discussion about a new campaign. There were five of us on the screen: me, Emily, two colleagues named Alex and Jordan, and our intern, Lisa. I was muted, jotting notes, when Lisa unmuted and said, "Hey, is that a picture on your wall? It looks nice." I glanced at my video feed. Behind me, the wall had a framed photo of my family from last year's vacation. I smiled and unmuted. "Yeah, it's from the beach trip. Thanks." We moved on, but something felt off. Lisa had pointed it out so casually, yet I hadn't mentioned it before.
Later that afternoon, I got an email from an unknown address. It said: "Nice photo. The beach looks fun. What's the name of that place?" No signature, just that. I figured it was spam or maybe a client who saw my video background. I deleted it and forgot about it. But the next day, during another meeting, Alex asked, "Did you move your couch? It looks different." I hadn't. My couch was in the same spot. I laughed it off. "Nope, same as always." But inside, my mind raced. How would he notice that?
That night, I couldn't sleep well. I lived alone, no pets, no roommates. Around midnight, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: "Your lamp is still on. Turn it off and rest." I froze, staring at the message. My living room lamp was on—I could see its glow from my bedroom door. I grabbed a kitchen knife and checked every room, every closet. Nothing. Doors locked, windows shut. I texted back: "Who is this?" No reply. I blocked the number and tried to convince myself it was a prank.
The next morning, I joined the daily stand-up call early. Emily logged in first. "Morning," she said. We chatted about the weather briefly. Then Jordan joined. "Hey, guys. Uh, is everything okay at your place?" he asked me directly. "What do you mean?" I replied. "Your video—there's a shadow or something moving behind you." I whipped around. The room was empty. "Probably just the curtain," I said, but my voice shook. I ended the call early, claiming a connection issue.
I searched online for "webcam hacking signs." Articles popped up about real cases—people spied on through their laptops, hackers accessing cameras remotely. There was that story from a few years back about a woman in California whose webcam light turned on by itself, and she found out a stranger had been watching her for months. He even sent her screenshots of her sleeping. Police traced it to a guy in another state who used malware from a phishing email. It matched what was happening to me. Had I clicked something bad? I ran a virus scan—nothing showed up, but I knew those tools weren't perfect.
That evening, another email: "You look tired today. Coffee helps." Attached was a photo—of me, from that morning's call, but zoomed in on my face, with the family picture circled in red. My hands trembled as I called the police non-emergency line. A officer named Ramirez answered. "Ma'am, this sounds like possible harassment. Do you know anyone who might do this?" I explained the emails, the texts, the comments on calls. "It could be a hack. Change all your passwords, cover your camera, and we'll file a report. If it escalates, call 911."
I did what he said. New passwords, tape over the lens again, even unplugged the laptop when not in use. But the fear lingered. I started working from my kitchen table, facing the wall, no background visible. During the next team meeting, Lisa said, "Your setup changed. Kitchen now?" I nodded. "Yeah, better light." Emily jumped in: "As long as you're productive." We wrapped up, but afterward, a private chat from Alex: "You okay? Seemed tense." I typed back: "Just stressed. Thanks."
Two days passed quietly. I thought maybe it stopped. Then, Friday afternoon, while on a solo client call, my screen glitched. The client's voice cut out, and a new window popped up—a live feed of my own apartment, from my webcam angle. But the tape was on; how? The feed showed my empty chair, the kitchen behind it. Then, text overlaid: "I see you moved spots. Smart." The client reconnected: "Sorry, bad signal. You there?" I slammed the laptop shut and yanked the power cord.
Panicking, I called Ramirez again. "It's worse. They accessed my camera somehow." He sighed. "Sounds like RAT software—remote access trojan. Common in these cases. Bring your device in; we'll have tech look at it." I remembered reading about a similar incident in Toronto, where a remote worker's laptop was hacked after downloading a fake work app. The hacker watched her routines, learned her schedule, and eventually showed up at her door pretending to be a delivery guy. She barely escaped.
That night, I stayed at a friend's place. Her name was Clara. "This is crazy," she said over wine. "Who would do that?" I shrugged. "Maybe a client, or someone from online." We talked late, but I barely slept. Back home the next day, I found my door unlocked. I always locked it. Inside, nothing missing, but my family photo was face down on the floor. I called 911 this time. Two officers arrived, a man and a woman. "Any signs of break-in?" the woman asked. I showed them the photo. "Forced entry? No. But this wasn't like that." They took notes, dusted for prints. "We'll check neighbors' cameras."
While they were there, my phone rang—unknown caller. I put it on speaker. A man's voice, distorted: "Police won't help. I know your routine better than you." The officers' eyes widened. "Trace that?" I asked. "We'll try," the man said. But the call ended.
I installed new locks, got a security camera for my door. Work gave me time off after I explained vaguely. Emily was understanding: "Take care of yourself. We can cover." But the messages kept coming—new emails from different addresses: "Missed you on the call today." "Your friend's couch looks comfy." How did he know about Clara's?
A week later, Ramirez called. "We found something. Your laptop had malware from an email attachment—looked like a work file. Traced the IP to a local coffee shop. Security footage shows a guy in his thirties, average build, using a laptop there multiple times. Matches descriptions from similar cases. He's been arrested before for stalking."
My stomach tightened. "Is he caught?" "Not yet, but we're close. Stay vigilant."
That night, alone again, I heard a knock. Through the peephole, a man stood there—thirties, plain clothes, holding a package. "Delivery," he said. But I hadn't ordered anything. My door camera recorded it. I didn't open. "Leave it," I yelled. He paused, then set it down and left. Inside the box: a USB drive. I didn't plug it in—took it straight to police.
On the drive: videos of me. From my webcam, days worth. Sleeping, eating, working. And a note: "I was just watching. Now you know."
They caught him two days later. His name was David, a former IT guy who'd lost his job. He'd targeted remote workers by sending fake emails, hacking cams for "fun." But with me, it escalated—he'd found my address from a background clue in a call, the street sign visible through my window once. Real cases like his had happened before; one in Florida where a hacker stalked a woman for years until she moved states.
I'm back at work now, but from coffee shops only, camera always covered. Every ping makes me jump. The scariest part? He was just one guy, but how many more are out there, watching?
"Witness to Murder":
I started my day like any other, sipping coffee at my kitchen table while my laptop booted up. As a marketing coordinator for a small tech firm, I'd been working from home for months now, ever since the company went fully remote. It was convenient—no commute, flexible hours—but sometimes the isolation got to me. Video calls were the only real human contact I had with my team, and today's morning meeting was just another routine check-in.
I clicked the link and joined the Zoom room a few minutes early. My boss, David, was already there, his face filling the screen with that familiar gray beard and half-smile. He waved at the camera. "Hey, Lisa. How's the week treating you?"
"Pretty good," I replied, adjusting my headset. "Just wrapping up that report on the new ad campaign. Should have it to you by noon."
David nodded. "Sounds solid. Let's wait for the others."
One by one, the squares popped up. There was Karen from sales, always with her cat wandering in the background. Then Tom, our IT guy, looking sleepy as usual. And finally, Paul, the senior developer who'd been with the company forever. Paul was in his sixties, a quiet man who lived alone in a big house on the outskirts of town. His background showed a plain office wall, nothing fancy.
"Morning, everyone," David said once we were all connected. "Let's dive right in. Lisa, why don't you start with the campaign updates?"
I shared my screen and began talking through the slides. Numbers, graphs, the usual stuff. Everyone chimed in with questions. Karen asked about budget tweaks. Tom suggested some tech fixes. Paul stayed silent at first, just nodding along. Then he spoke up.
"Those metrics look off," Paul said, his voice a bit gruff. "Did you double-check the data source?"
I paused, glancing at his video feed. He seemed distracted, shifting in his chair. "Yeah, I pulled it straight from the analytics dashboard. Why, what do you see?"
Before he could answer, there was a noise in the background on his end—like a door creaking open. Paul turned his head slightly, his expression changing. "Hold on," he muttered.
We all froze on our screens. David's brow furrowed. "Paul? Everything okay?"
Paul didn't respond right away. Instead, he leaned forward, as if listening to something off-camera. "What are you doing here?" he said, not to us, but to whoever had entered the room.
I felt a prickle on the back of my neck. Remote meetings had their glitches—kids interrupting, dogs barking—but this felt different. Paul's face tightened, his eyes widening.
"Paul?" Karen echoed. "Who's there?"
He turned back to the camera, but only for a second. "It's my son," he said quickly. "He just got home. Give me a minute."
His son? I'd heard Paul mention him once or twice—a grown man in his thirties who still lived at home sometimes. They didn't get along well, from what little Paul shared. Family tensions, the kind you don't pry into.
Paul muted his microphone, but his video stayed on. We watched as he stood up, gesturing toward the door. A figure appeared in the frame—tall, disheveled, wearing a dark hoodie. It was his son, all right. They seemed to be arguing, Paul's arms waving, the son's posture rigid.
"This is weird," Tom whispered in the chat sidebar. "Should we pause?"
David typed back: "Let's give him a sec."
But things escalated fast. Paul's son stepped closer, his face contorted in anger. Words were flying, though we couldn't hear them. Paul backed up, bumping into his desk. Then, in a blur, the son lunged forward.
"Oh no," Karen gasped aloud.
Paul's chair toppled as he fell. The camera caught it all—the son grabbing something from the desk, a flash of metal. A knife? My mind raced. This couldn't be happening. Not on a call. Not in real time.
David unmuted frantically. "Paul! What's going on? Call the police!"
But Paul couldn't hear us. Blood appeared on his shirt, dark stains spreading as the son struck again and again. Paul's arms flailed, trying to fight back, but he was older, weaker. The son was relentless, his movements jerky and furious.
I grabbed my phone, dialing 911 with shaking hands. "There's an attack happening right now," I stammered to the operator. "On a video call. My coworker—his address is... wait, I have it in my contacts."
The operator asked questions, but my eyes were glued to the screen. Paul's video feed showed him slumped on the floor now, not moving. His son stood over him, breathing hard, the knife still in his hand. Then he looked straight at the camera, as if realizing we were there. His eyes met ours—cold, unblinking.
He reached forward and ended the call. Paul's square went black.
The Zoom room erupted in chaos. "What just happened?" Tom yelled.
"I think he killed him," Karen sobbed. "Right in front of us."
David tried to regain control. "Everyone, stay on the line. I've got the police on my phone too. Lisa, you gave them the address?"
"Yes," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "They're dispatching now."
We sat there in stunned silence, waiting for updates. Minutes felt like hours. Finally, David got a call back from the authorities. "They arrived at the house," he said, his face pale. "Paul's... he's gone. Stabbed multiple times. The son was still there, just sitting on the floor. They arrested him."
I couldn't process it. Paul, the guy who'd helped me troubleshoot code last week, was dead. Murdered while we watched, helpless from our homes miles away. The police interviewed all of us later that day, over more video calls. They wanted details—what we saw, what Paul had said about his son before. Turns out, there'd been issues for years: arguments over money, the son's mental health struggles. Paul had mentioned it casually once, but none of us imagined this.
In the days that followed, work stopped. The company offered counseling, but talking about it only made the images replay in my mind. I'd close my eyes and see the blood, hear the muffled thuds even though the audio was off. Remote work suddenly felt dangerous, like a window into lives we weren't meant to see.
I started double-checking my locks every night, wondering if anyone could burst into my own space unannounced. During calls, I'd scan backgrounds for anything off. Once, Karen's husband walked in unexpectedly, and my pulse spiked.
The trial came months later. Paul's son claimed it was a sudden rage, sparked by an old grudge. But the evidence was damning—our recordings, the knife from the kitchen. He got life in prison.
Even now, years later, I hesitate before joining meetings. That one call turned routine into nightmare, proving how thin the screen between normal and horror really is. And the scariest part? We were right there, but couldn't do a thing to stop it.
"The Quiet House":
I started my day like any other, logging into the company portal from my living room desk. It was one of those quiet Wednesdays where the team was scattered across time zones, and I had back-to-back video calls lined up. I'd been working remotely for about two years now, ever since the shift happened, and I loved the setup. No commute, just me in my cozy house on the edge of town, with the cat wandering around and the coffee pot always full. That morning, I felt a bit off—maybe a cold coming on—but I pushed through. I had reports to finish and a presentation to prep.
Around noon, I was deep into a spreadsheet when I heard a knock at the front door. It was firm, not the casual tap from a delivery guy. I glanced at the clock; no packages expected today. My boss was on the line for our check-in call, so I muted myself quickly and listened. The knock came again, louder this time. "Hey, can you hold on a sec? Someone's at the door," I said into the headset.
"Sure, no rush," my boss replied, his voice tinny through the speakers. "Just make sure it's not another one of those sales pitches."
I chuckled and got up, peeking through the side window. No one there. The porch was empty, just the usual potted plants and the welcome mat. Maybe a neighbor needing something, but they usually texted first. I shrugged it off and went back to my desk. "False alarm," I told him. "Probably kids or something."
We wrapped up the call a few minutes later, and I dove back into work. The house was silent except for the hum of my computer fan and the occasional car passing on the street outside. I lived in a quiet neighborhood, the kind where everyone kept to themselves, which suited me fine for focusing on tasks.
About half an hour passed, and I was typing up notes when a thud echoed from downstairs—in the kitchen, I thought. My heart jumped a little, but I figured it was the cat knocking something over again. She had a habit of jumping on counters. I called out, "Luna? What are you up to?" No meow in response. I stood up, stretching my back, and headed toward the stairs.
As I reached the top step, I heard shuffling. Not the light patter of paws, but heavier, like shoes on tile. I paused, one hand on the railing. "Hello?" I called down, my voice steadier than I felt. No answer. The shuffling stopped.
I took a few steps down, peering into the kitchen. That's when I saw him—a young guy, maybe in his twenties, standing by the fridge. He had his back to me, rifling through a drawer. My mind blanked for a second. How did he get in? The back door was slightly ajar, a pane of glass cracked near the lock.
He turned, and our eyes met. He looked as surprised as I was, his face pale under a hoodie. "Whoa, hey," he said, holding up his hands like he was caught borrowing sugar. "I thought no one was home."
"What are you doing in my house?" I demanded, trying to keep my voice level. My phone was upstairs on the desk—stupid mistake. I backed up a step, glancing toward the front door.
He didn't move closer, but his eyes darted around. "Look, man, I just needed some cash. Door was open." Lie—the glass was broken. Outside the window, I caught a glimpse of another figure, a shadow moving past the bushes.
"Get out," I said, louder now. "I'm calling the police."
He laughed, nervous. "You don't want to do that. My buddy's out there. We don't want trouble."
I bolted back up the stairs, slamming my bedroom door and locking it. My hands shook as I grabbed my phone from the desk—wait, no, it was still on the call stand. I hit the emergency dial, whispering into the speaker. "911, there's someone in my house. Breaking in. Please hurry."
The operator's voice was calm, asking for my address. I rattled it off, peeking under the door. Footsteps on the stairs now—heavier ones. "He's coming up," I hissed.
"Stay on the line. Officers are on the way. Find a safe spot."
I shoved my dresser against the door, the wood scraping loud. A bang hit the door. "Open up!" the guy yelled. "We just want what's easy. Don't make this hard."
My mind raced. I had a baseball bat under the bed from old college days. I grabbed it, gripping it tight. Another bang. The door rattled.
"Why are you doing this?" I shouted back, buying time.
He paused. "Times are tough. Lost my job. You look like you got plenty here—nice setup, working from home and all."
How did he know that? Had he been watching? The thought made my skin crawl. I heard murmuring—two voices now. The second guy must have come in.
The operator said, "They're five minutes out. Talk to them if you can."
"I called the cops!" I yelled. "They're coming!"
A curse from the other side, then more banging. The lock started to give. I swung the bat at the air, practicing. If they got in, I'd fight.
Suddenly, sirens wailed in the distance. The banging stopped. Footsteps retreated down the stairs, fast. A door slammed—the back one, I guessed.
I waited, bat raised, until the operator said, "Police are at your door. Let them in."
I moved the dresser, crept downstairs. Two officers stood on the porch, hands on holsters. "You okay?" one asked, a woman with a stern face.
"Yeah, I think they ran," I said, leading them in. The kitchen was a mess—drawers open, stuff scattered. They took prints, asked questions. Turned out, the guys were locals, known for petty thefts. They'd targeted houses where cars were in driveways during the day, figuring people were out but valuables were easy.
"You were lucky," the officer said. "Most folks aren't home. Being here probably scared them off."
I nodded, but it didn't feel lucky. That night, I couldn't sleep. Every creak made me jump. I installed cameras the next day, got a better lock system. Work suffered—I kept glancing at windows during calls.
A week later, on another video meeting, my colleague noticed. "You seem distracted. Everything alright?"
I hesitated, then told her the story. "Some guys broke in while I was working. Right in the middle of the day."
Her eyes widened. "That's awful. Did they catch them?"
"Yeah, the police got one from fingerprints. The other turned himself in. Said they thought the house was empty because it was quiet—no TV or music on."
She shook her head. "Remote work's great, but stuff like that makes you think twice."
It did. I started leaving a radio on low, even when alone. Parked my car in the garage sometimes, to mix it up. The trial came months later—the guys pleaded guilty to burglary. One mentioned in court how he'd scoped the place for days, seeing me at the desk through the window but assuming I left for lunch or something.
Hearing that hit hard. They'd watched me, timing it. I testified, voice steady, but inside I replayed the thud, the shuffling, the door rattling.
Now, I still work from home, but I'm careful. Deadbolts checked twice, blinds drawn during calls. And I always keep my phone in my pocket—no more leaving it behind. You never know who's watching, thinking your quiet house is an easy mark