The Watcher

By Jesse Eric Whitehead

I’m being watched. I feel eyes on me, studying my every move.

I look around my little apartment again. Searching for a bug, a hidden camera, a microphone. Anything. I find nothing. Am I going crazy?

They say computers spy on us. As do phones. And smart TVs. Maybe even toasters and refrigerators.

I examine every device again, one by one. The phone, the laptop, the T.V., the Bluetooth speaker. The music player. Every appliance in the kitchen. As before, I see nothing.

I plop down on the living room recliner and breathe a sigh of relief. I must be imagining things. Maybe I’m getting a little paranoid in my old age.

My skin crawls. My pulse quickens. I’m still being watched, I know it.

In the corner of my eye, I catch a flicker of movement way up in the furthest reach of the room. So slight I nearly missed it.

I go to the corner to take a closer look. There is a small black speck I’ve never noticed before. Has it been there all along? What is it? A miniature camera? A tiny microphone?

I need to get closer.

It’s a bug. I’m not going crazy after all. I was being watched. By a spider.

Too late, I find myself caught in the web, a sticky silk blanket wrapping around me, a gossamer cocoon of death. Because that’s what I will be soon. Dead.

I hate being a housefly.