My Dog Barks At The Same Blank Wall Every Night at 3 AM. I Finally Bought A Thermal Camera To See What He's Looking At.

My Dog Barks At The Same Blank Wall Every Night at 3 AM. I Finally Bought A Thermal Camera To See What He's Looking At.

​Max is a Golden Retriever. If you know anything about the breed, you know they don’t have a mean bone in their body. Max loves everyone. He loves the mailman, he loves the neighbors, he even loves the vet. He rarely barks.

​That’s why the behavior started scaring me.

​It began two weeks ago. I’d be sleeping soundly, and at exactly 3:00 AM, I’d be woken up by a low, guttural growl. Not a playful bark. A warning.

​I’d walk into the living room, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and find Max standing rigid in the center of the rug. His hackles were raised, his teeth bared, and he was staring intensely at the far corner of the room.

​The corner was empty. Just a blank, beige wall and a small potted fern.

​"Max, stop it. There’s nothing there," I’d say, trying to pull him away.

​But he wouldn't move. He would just stare at that empty space, trembling, his eyes following something as if it were moving back and forth.

​I assumed it was mice. Or maybe raccoons in the attic.

​After ten nights of losing sleep, I decided to investigate. I didn't call an exterminator. Being a tech guy, I ordered a FLIR (Forward Looking Infrared) thermal camera attachment for my smartphone. I wanted to see if there was a heat signature of a nest inside the drywall.

​The camera arrived yesterday.

​Last night, I set an alarm for 2:55 AM. I sat on the sofa, waiting in the dark, phone in hand. Max was asleep at my feet.

​At 2:59 AM, Max’s ears perked up.

At 3:00 AM, he stood up instantly. The growling started. A deep, menacing rumble that vibrated through the floorboards.

​He stared at the corner.

​"Okay, let's see what it is," I whispered.

​I plugged the camera into my phone and opened the app. The screen lit up in shades of cool blue and purple, showing the cold temperature of the room.

​I panned the camera around. The window was dark blue (cold). The TV was purple. Max was a glowing blob of bright orange and yellow (body heat).

​I took a deep breath and pointed the camera at the corner Max was barking at.

​I expected to see tiny orange dots inside the wall—mice.

​I didn't see mice.

​Standing in the corner of the room—not inside the wall, but in the room—was a towering figure.

​On the thermal screen, it was burning bright red. It was roughly seven feet tall. It was hunched over, its arms hanging unnaturally low, almost touching the floor.

​I lowered the phone. I looked at the corner with my naked eyes.

Empty. Nothing but shadows.

​I raised the phone again.

The bright red figure was still there. And it was looking at me.

​My hands started to shake uncontrollably. This wasn't a glitch. Thermal cameras detect heat. Whatever this was, it was radiating immense heat, yet it was completely invisible to the visual spectrum.

​"Max, quiet," I hissed, terrified that the noise would provoke it.

​On the screen, the figure moved. It didn't walk; it seemed to slide. It detached itself from the wall and moved toward the center of the room.

​Max went berserk, barking ferociously, snapping his jaws at the empty air.

​I watched on the screen as the red figure stopped right in front of the dog. It raised a long, glowing arm and reached out.

​I saw Max flinch in real life, as if something had just touched him. He yelped and scrambled back, hiding behind my legs.

​Now, it was just me and the invisible thing.

​I kept the camera pointed at it. The figure straightened up. It turned its head slowly, orienting itself directly toward where I was sitting.

​It began to walk toward the sofa.

​My heart was hammering so hard I thought I was going to pass out. I wanted to run, but fear had pinned me to the cushions.

​The figure stopped right in front of me. On the phone screen, its face was a blur of white-hot intensity. It leaned down.

​I felt it then. I didn't see it, but I felt a wave of heat wash over my face, like opening an oven door. It smelled like sulfur and burning copper.

​A notification popped up on my phone screen, blocking the camera view for a second: BATTERY LOW - 10%.

​I swiped the notification away frantically.

​When the camera view returned, the figure was gone.

​The room was blue and empty again.

​I grabbed Max and ran to the bedroom, locking the door. I didn't sleep. I kept the thermal camera pointed at the bedroom door all night.

​It’s morning now. The sun is up. I told myself I imagined it. I told myself the camera malfunctioned.

​But about an hour ago, I walked past that corner in the living room. The wallpaper is peeling. It looks scorched, like someone held a blowtorch to it.

​And just now, I checked the thermal camera one last time before packing it up to return it.

​I pointed it at the ceiling directly above my chair.

​There is a red handprint glowing on the ceiling. And it's moving toward the kitchen.

​I’m taking Max. We’re leaving.