It started with the "glitches." A neighbor, Mr. Henderson, standing perfectly still on his porch for forty minutes, staring at a dead mailbox. The rhythmic, synchronized clicking of every sprinkler system on the street, firing off at 3:14 AM exactly.
Elias leaned closer to the glass. Across the street, the Miller house was glowing. Not with the warm amber of a living room lamp, but a harsh, clinical ultraviolet. He pulled up his camera feed—a hidden lens he’d tucked into a birdhouse. Disturbia
On screen, the Millers were sitting at their dinner table. They weren't eating. They were moving their forks in unison, lifting empty air to their mouths, their expressions frozen in terrifying, toothy grins. It started with the "glitches