The Devil In The Lens

Not every story begins with its victim running and screaming, hoping for mercy, from a monster shaped as a man. Sometimes the decay is so subtle, the prey no longer knows it is being devoured by a creature of such heinous hungers. When I was but a young child, I was driven by the curiosity to witness the world—not by traveling, but by using the artificial Gods’ eyes. The hundreds of thousands of cameras out there, wide open, waiting for a witness. I would spend hours upon hours reviewing each camera, watching the world move about. Learning every aspect of coding and writing became my drive, my unsatiated appetite to know each key’s meaning. I wanted to speak a language beyond the words of man. A language that, sooner than later, took to my veins—data fed in, and I happily accepted until I came across something only a monster could do.

A witness was born, and a killer was enticed. For the sake of my safety and my life, which draws nearer to the end every minute he or it is allowed to live and hunt me. My name is Steven...Steven Altman, and I have stared into the abyss—and it finally stared back. On November 23, 2017, estimated time was roughly 2 a.m. I was on my usual flow of following the lens. Street cameras showed me the world and life outside. The home cameras showed me front yards that carried such youthful hope and happy families. Time to time, I dip my mind into more personal matters. I use computer cameras, or even cell phones, to peek into the lives of others. Nothing ever too dark, mostly the mundane chatter of idle minds. It always felt as if I was watching a sitcom—the newest drama, or tragedy, unfold. But on November 23rd...it was different. I latched onto a camera in the backyard of a very powerful public icon, a face that many saw as kind and loving. I figured maybe he could show me how to live a better life, a trick of the trade, so to speak. With a little bit of help from the keyboard and sometimes getting past security measures. When I was 15, a friend taught me how to appear as the coding itself—easiest to blend in than stick out.

For the first hour, the sun was setting, and the ice-capped mountains in view of his yard bloomed a brilliant pink and gold radiance. The sounds that poured through were natural. The birds sang in harmony, a nearby creek ran like the wind, and then suddenly—an uproar of voices. I leaned in towards the screen, turning my headset up. I started to listen in on the conversations when my phone startled me. It was my friends Victoria, Andrew, Emry, reaching out with a business opportunity. We all tanked in college, head in the clouds, and too far from anything they could teach us. I am the reader. I do the coding for the group. Victoria is our resident back-end developer, and she is the smartest gal you could ever meet. After her there is Andrew, he is always guaranteed a laugh and he is the quality assurance aspect of our clique, leaving only Emry, the people person of our hopes. He was born with a silver tongue and a brain hardwired to be linked into. I opened the message. It was a simple meet-up and meeting text. Nothing abnormal. Every Thursday was our weekly get-together to discuss the goals and updates. We were working on a company meant to link in everyone.

Grandma could reach the grandkids, Boss can reach employee, and the mind could be split in any desired manner. We called ourselves “MotherBoard.” Funny enough, Emry thought it was a technical name, Andrew loved the joke of it, and Victoria and I just wanted to build it. The text read as is: “Howdy Board members, as it has been written in stone of the processor, Thursday we meet up. This week we will discuss potential monthly goals, any addons, options, or settings we can feature. Cheers to the losers who chose to dream!” I always smile like an idiot at that—the losers. I softly let out a chuckle and pocketed the phone as my eyes hiked back to the screen. The camera was slightly tilted in a way I could see the mountains, his backyard, and the edge of his backdoor. It was getting darker outside and, slowly, like the subtle decay I saw, a light growing more with each frame. Lines cast from the windows stretched across his grass. Like a cryptic error, something felt wrong. The audio ran quiet. The birds sang their final note. The river ran calmer. The house was silent. I sat in wonder, fright, and curiosity. The yard was a cemetery of thought.

A slight hum broke the stillness—a rather loud humming noise. As each second passed, the melody grew, and the light grew as well. The sound shifted in a very synchronized way that it dawned on me it was a group vocalizing. The light was bright but too dim for a bulb. It was...it was candles. Maybe he is meditating. Maybe he is doing yoga of some kind. I sat there baffled by the events unraveling, a strangeness caught in the pixels. As the group came into picture, the night turned from peculiar to curious. Twelve people in red robes with a candle marched into the yard. The humming rose in pitch, and the man with a black hood spoke: “Welcome, brothers and sisters. This week’s retreat, we will be the week of the bull. Tonight we will treat ourselves to a culling, a feast, and moonlight. Commence the ceremony, and do your best to simmer down your hunger.” He said it with a booming and yet charming voice.