I thought I was just watching a random livestream. Now I’m the one being streamed.

I don’t even know how I found it.

One moment I was half-asleep, scrolling through random Twitch categories I’d never explored before. Lots of dead channels with broken-keyboard names, no thumbnails, zero viewers. Then I clicked on one. No title, no overlays, just a grainy phone camera pointed at someone’s chest. The angle swayed as the person walked. At the bottom: 6 viewers.

It shouldn’t have caught me. It should’ve been just another IRL stream, boring and forgettable. But then I recognized the background.

The streamer was walking down Main Street. My Main Street. The Dollar Tree with its flickering green sign, the mural on the side of the old laundromat, the leaning streetlight that always looks like it’s seconds from collapsing. The camera didn’t linger, but it was enough.

At first, I thought: No way. There are a million Main Streets. But then the stream turned left, and there it was…the boarded-up art deco theater. The one we’ve been begging to restore for years. There’s only one of those.

I froze. The person was here.

The chat was dead, except for a single message:

[gravewax]: watching

I typed into chat: Where is this?

No response. The camera shifted slightly, catching the reflection of a stop sign. They crossed an intersection and kept going. I knew the exact angle, it was a ten-minute walk from my apartment.

The stream ended abruptly when they reached a stretch of dark road. No goodbye. No fade-out. Just black.

The next night, I checked again. Same account, no profile picture, no VODs. Just LIVE. This time: 9 viewers.

I clicked.

They were walking again. Closer this time. I recognized the hardware store where I buy light bulbs, the little pizza place with the hand-painted sign. The phone camera tilted high enough to catch the second-floor apartments. I swear I saw a curtain shift.

The chat flickered once:

[gravewax]: closer

I typed: Who are you?

Nothing.

When the camera passed the 24-hour laundromat on Oak, something twisted in my gut. That laundromat is only four blocks from my building.

The stream cut out again.

The third night, I didn’t want to look. I told myself I wouldn’t. But I did. 11 viewers. They were walking past the liquor store on the corner of my street. My street.

I slammed my laptop shut, heart pounding. I paced my apartment, checked the deadbolt three times, shoved a chair under the knob. My phone buzzed. A notification.

It was Twitch.

gravewax mentioned you in chat

But I hadn’t been watching.

I opened it anyway. The app glitched, pixelated, then snapped clear. The streamer wasn’t walking anymore. They were standing still. The camera was pointed down at a cracked patch of pavement.

I knew exactly where that was.

Right outside my building.

I deleted my account. Pulled every curtain closed, twisted every lock. I stayed up till morning clutching a kitchen knife like an idiot. Nothing happened. No knock. No footsteps. No sound at all.

When I finally worked up the nerve to check Twitch the next night, the account was gone. I typed the username into the search bar: No results. Like it had never existed.

I thought that was the end. I prayed it was the end.

Three weeks passed. Life tried to crawl back to normal. But every night, around 11 p.m., the urge hit, the pull to check, to make sure. Sometimes I’d sit at my desk, cursor hovering over the Twitch search bar, fighting myself not to type it in.

Then, last night, I got a direct message.

Not on Twitch. On Discord.

The account was blank. No profile picture. No shared servers. Just one message:

“The stream starts again tonight. You’ll want to watch.”

I should’ve blocked it. I should’ve ignored it. Instead, at 11:03 p.m., I opened Twitch. No channel name, no category. Just a broken-link thumbnail. LIVE. 13 viewers.

My hand shook as I clicked. The streamer was inside a building. Inside my building.

I recognized the wallpaper, the same ugly floral print on the stairwell walls. They climbed slowly, each step groaning under their weight. I wanted to scream, to call someone, but my voice felt stuck in my throat. The number in the corner ticked up: 14 viewers.

They reached the second-floor landing. Stopped. Turned.

Stared at my door.

The camera zoomed in on the numbers: 2B.

My apartment.

I closed the stream. Dialed 911 with trembling fingers. The dispatcher kept me on the line, promised they were sending someone. I stood in the kitchen, knife in hand, staring at the front door like it might explode.

Five minutes. Ten. Nothing.

Then: knock knock knock.

Three slow knocks.

I raised the knife. I shouted some garbled threat about the police being on their way. Silence. Then footsteps, fading down the hall.

When the police arrived, they searched the entire building. No one. They told me it was probably some punk messing with me. I tried to show them the stream.

But I couldn’t.

The channel was gone again. Erased. Like it had never existed.

This morning my phone buzzed. A new Discord message. Same blank account.

“You stopped watching too soon.”

There was a video file attached. I didn’t want to, but I opened it.

It was the stream. From last night. But it didn’t end at my door.

In the video the camera kept recording after I closed the tab. The streamer stood outside 2B for what felt like forever. Then they crouched, almost kneeling. The phone tilted, showing a pale hand reaching forward.

Sliding something under my door.

I dropped my phone and ran to check. My heart hit the floor when I saw it. Right there, on the mat.

A USB stick.

I’m writing this now with the stick plugged into my laptop. There’s only one file on it, called watchme.mp4. It’s an hour long. Grainy footage of me. Sleeping in my bed. Tossing, turning, pulling the covers up to my chin.

The camera never moves. Never blinks. Like someone was there, filming the whole night.

But here’s the part that makes me want to tear my skin off:

I live alone. My door was still locked from the inside when I woke up.

I don’t know how they got in.

And I don’t know how, at the end of the video, they filmed me sitting up straight, staring directly at the camera with purple eyes.

The stream is live again. 15 viewers. And this time, the streamer isn’t walking. They’re sitting at my desk. Using my laptop. Streaming me.