I Found a Hidden Camera in My Airbnb, But It Wasn't Recording Me.

​I Found a Hidden Camera in My Airbnb, But It Wasn't Recording Me.

​I’ve always been paranoid about travel. Maybe it’s because I work in cybersecurity, or maybe I’ve just read too many horror stories on the internet. Whenever I check into a hotel or an Airbnb, I have a routine. I turn off the lights, close the curtains, and use my phone’s flashlight to check for the reflection of camera lenses in smoke detectors, alarm clocks, and vents.

​Usually, I find nothing. But last weekend, that changed.

​I was staying in a beautiful, renovated loft in downtown Chicago. It was cheap—suspiciously cheap for the location—but the host, a man named Elias, had hundreds of five-star reviews. The place was modern, clean, and quiet. Too quiet.

​I started my routine sweep. Bathroom? Clear. Bedroom lamp? Clear. Then I moved to the living room. High up on the wall, hidden inside the mesh of an air conditioning vent, I saw it. A tiny, distinct glint of blue glass reflecting my flashlight beam.

​My stomach dropped. I dragged a chair over, stood on it, and used my pocket knife to pry the vent cover loose. Sure enough, there was a small, high-definition camera wired into the vent, aimed directly into the room.

​I was furious. I pulled the camera out. It was a standalone unit with a microSD card slot. I didn't unplug it immediately. Instead, I pulled out the memory card. I wanted proof before I called the police or confronted the host. I wanted to see how long he had been watching me.

​I sat on the sofa, opened my laptop, and inserted the card.

​There were hundreds of video files. I clicked on the most recent one, recorded just ten minutes ago, right before I walked in.

​The video player opened. The footage was crisp, 4K quality with excellent night vision. It showed the living room. But something was wrong.

​The camera wasn't pointed at the sofa, or the TV, or the entrance—the places you’d watch if you were spying on guests. Instead, the lens was angled awkwardly toward the far corner of the room, a dead space between a heavy oak wardrobe and the wall.

​"Why watch an empty corner?" I whispered to myself.

​I skipped through the footage.

File: 10:00 PM - Yesterday. The room was empty.

File: 3:00 AM - Last Night.

​I froze.

​In the 3:00 AM video, the room wasn't empty.

​Standing in that dead corner, wedged between the wardrobe and the wall, was a person. Or at least, it looked like a person. It was impossibly tall, its limbs elongated and thin like spider legs. It was facing the wall, its head twitching in unnatural, jerky movements.

​I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead. I looked up from my screen at the actual corner of the room. It was empty. Just shadows.

​I clicked on the next file. Live Feed.

​I realized the camera had internal storage but was also broadcasting. I could access the live view from the data on the card. I opened the live window.

​On my laptop screen, I saw myself sitting on the sofa. I saw the coffee table. And then, my heart stopped.

​On the screen, the thing was there.

​It was no longer in the corner. It was standing directly behind the sofa. Directly behind me.

​On the screen, the creature was bent over, its pale, hairless face inches from my ear. Its mouth was open, revealing rows of jagged, black teeth. It wasn't moving. It was just hovering there, breathing down my neck.

​I stiffened. I was terrified to move. Slowly, agonizingly, I turned my head to look behind me.

​Nothing. Just the empty air of the stylish apartment.

​I looked back at the screen. The creature was still there. But now, it was looking directly at the camera. It knew I was watching. It raised a long, fingerless hand and slowly placed it on my shoulder.

​I didn't feel a touch. I felt a coldness so intense it burned. It was a psychic cold, a freeze that went straight to my marrow.

​I realized then why the camera was there. Elias, the host, wasn't a pervert spying on his guests. He was a zookeeper. He was monitoring the enclosure. The camera wasn't hidden to keep it secret from me; it was hidden so it wouldn't break the lens.

​The camera was the only way to see the truth.

​On the screen, the creature’s jaw unhinged, widening impossibly. It began to lower its mouth over my head.

​I didn't pack my bags. I didn't put on my shoes. I grabbed my laptop and sprinted for the door. As I ran, I glanced one last time at the screen. The creature hadn't chased me. It was standing in the center of the room, waving.

​I’m in a hotel now, three towns over. I’ve destroyed the SD card. But I can’t sleep. Because every time I close my eyes, I see that feed. And I wonder... if I set up a camera in this hotel room, what would I see standing in the corner right now?

​Some things are better left unseen.