The Video

Al's eyes snapped open. 

He was back in his apartment. 

He gasped, sitting up. The diner was gone. The smell of coffee and grease replaced by the cold, stale air of his room. 

A dream? 

No. No, that was too real. 

He grabbed his phone. 3:47 AM. The same time as before. 

His stomach dropped. 

If it was a dream, then why hadn't the time changed? 

Something flashed on his screen. 

A video file. New. Untitled. 

He hesitated. Then, with shaking fingers, he pressed play. 

The screen flickered. Security footage. 

His own apartment. 

The camera—was filming him. 

Al froze. 

There—on the screen—he saw himself. 

Standing. Smiling. 

But something was wrong. 

The version of him on the screen tilted his head, unnaturally slow. 

Then—he turned toward the camera. 

And waved. 

Al's blood ran cold. 

Because at that moment—he was certain of one thing. 

He had never set up a camera.