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Julian felt a cold prickle at the base of his neck. He zoomed in. In the gap of the doorway, he could just make out the pale edge of a hand gripping the wood. It was thin, with elongated fingers that looked more like wax than flesh.

He shut his laptop immediately. "It’s just an algorithm," he whispered to the empty room. "An AI-generated prank or a lingering virus." unnamed.jpg

If you enjoyed this, I can pivot the story into a different genre: A mystery about a corrupted space station log. A whimsical tale of a forgotten memory regained. A noir detective story involving a missing photographer. Which direction Julian felt a cold prickle at the base of his neck

He didn't need to open it to know what it showed. He could feel the cold breath on his ear and the waxen fingers brushing against his shoulder. He realized then that the file wasn't just an image; it was a placeholder. And now that it had a name, it was finally ready to move in. It was thin, with elongated fingers that looked

Julian looked at the corner of his ceiling. There was no camera. He looked at the empty spot on his bed where the figure had been. The sheets were still pressed down, as if by a lingering weight.