Error 93

Mira Collins wasn’t superstitious, but she was broke—and fascinated by secondhand tech.

She found the listing late one night: a near-mint, high-performance laptop for less than a third of its usual price. The seller insisted on meeting in person and only accepted cash. His name wasn’t listed. Just a message: “Don’t use it after midnight.”

She laughed at that part.

The laptop was heavier than expected. Matte black. No logos. No stickers. She met the seller in a grimy café near the train station. He looked exhausted—sunken cheeks, twitchy hands. She tried to ask about the laptop’s condition.

He only said, “Don’t try to delete the folder. Just leave it alone.”

“What folder?” she asked.

He pushed the laptop into her arms and left.

Back in her apartment, she booted it up. Surprisingly fast. Smooth UI. No weird lag. But on the desktop, there it was: a folder titled "Error93".

She tried to open it.

“Access Denied.”

She tried to delete it.

“This file is in use.”

But there were no programs running.

She shrugged it off. “Whatever. Probably system junk.”

That night, after streaming a few episodes of a thriller series, she fell asleep on the couch, laptop open beside her. Around 2 a.m., the screen blinked black. Then, for just a moment, the webcam light flickered on.

She didn’t notice.

The next morning, the Error93 folder had changed.

Now it had something inside.

A file named: 2025-07-30_02-14-33.mp4

She clicked it.

It was a video of her, sleeping on the couch.

The video was taken from the laptop’s webcam.

But what chilled her was the detail—her exact breathing, the TV in the background still flickering, the faint creak of the building’s pipes.

Except... the webcam had tape over it.

She checked. The tape was still there.

Had it been recorded before?

No. She had just gotten the laptop last night.

She deleted the file. Or tried to.

“This file is protected.”

She tried to move it. Rename it. Upload it. Nothing worked.

Then, a second video appeared.

2025-07-30_02-14-33_glitch.mp4

She hit play.

This one was shorter—just six seconds. A close-up.

Of her own face.

But… the eyes weren’t hers.

They were wide. Unblinking. Black as obsidian.

And the face was smiling.

That night, she unplugged the laptop, shut it, shoved it under a blanket.

She still couldn’t sleep.

2:14 a.m.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown number. One message:

“you look better when you're still.”

Her blood ran cold.

She tried factory resetting the laptop the next morning.

The screen went black mid-process, then rebooted.

Desktop: clean.

No folder.

She exhaled in relief—until the Wi-Fi connected.

Within seconds, the folder reappeared.

Error93.

And now it had six videos.

Each one was shorter. Flickery. No audio.

But in each, there was a figure.

Not her.

Something standing at the foot of her bed. Watching.

Each night, it was closer.

She turned to forums, desperate for answers.

Reddit, obscure hacking communities, digital forensics sites.

One user replied anonymously.

“Error93 is a remnant. Not a virus. A watcher. It copies presence. It remembers sleep.”

“Unplugging won’t help. It doesn’t record through your camera. It records through you.”

She blocked the user. But their final message stayed with her.

“If you see it smile in the video… it already knows you’re awake.”

She moved out the next day. Borrowed a friend’s couch. Bought a new phone, new laptop. Set up all new accounts.

Everything felt normal again. Quiet.

Until one night, around 2:14 a.m., her new laptop blinked. A new folder appeared.

Error93

Only one file inside.

2025-08-01_02-14-33_final.mp4

She hovered the mouse over it.

Didn’t click.

The filename changed on its own.

You_are_not_awake.mp4

The laptop shut itself off.

And from the corner of the darkened room, something stood up.

Something with her face.

But not her eyes.