Travis found the job listing late one night, scrolling through endless pages of remote work openings. His savings were drying up, and rent didn’t care about his employment status. The job description was vague—“Data Entry & Administrative Support,” but the pay was decent, and he could do it from the comfort of his one-bedroom apartment.
The company’s website, Strix Integrated Solutions, looked legitimate enough. Sleek, modern, and filled with just enough corporate jargon to lull him into a false sense of security. He applied without a second thought and, to his surprise, got an offer the next day.
No interview. No phone call. Just a simple email:
Welcome to Strix Integrated Solutions.
Your login credentials are below.
A part of him hesitated. No interview? No onboarding? But the desperation in his gut silenced the warning bells. Work was work.
The login screen was black, the company’s silver emblem—a stylized owl—watching him as he typed in his credentials.
The interface was strange. No branding, no clear navigation, just a single blinking prompt.
ENTER COMMAND:
Confused, Travis typed, /help.
The cursor blinked for an uncomfortably long time before spitting out a short list of options.
1. Review Files
2. Transcribe Data
3. System Monitoring
4. Submit Query
He selected Review Files. A folder appeared, containing a dozen video files labeled only with timestamps. The first was dated four months ago.
He clicked.
The footage was grainy, black and white. A small, windowless room with a single chair. A man sat slumped forward, his face obscured by his hands. He was muttering something, but there was no audio.
Travis frowned. This wasn’t data entry. He skipped ahead in the video, and the man lifted his head slightly. Blood trickled from his nose. His lips moved faster, whispering frantically—pleading.
Then, abruptly, the footage cut off.
A chill curled around Travis’s spine. He backed out of the folder and tried Submit Query.
PLEASE STATE YOUR CONCERN.
He hesitated before typing, What am I looking at?
The response came instantly.
WORK.
Travis shut his laptop.
The next day, he tried again. Maybe it had been some kind of training test. Maybe he’d misunderstood the assignment.
He logged in. The same options. The same unsettling prompt.
This time, he selected Transcribe Data. A document loaded, filled with columns of seemingly random letters and numbers.
SRN-003 | 23:14 | He is watching | 004-FN
XRQ-172 | 01:07 | It knows when you’re alone | 002-MB
GLS-908 | 03:31 | Don’t turn around | 001-DN
Travis swallowed, unease thick in his throat. He scrolled further.
More timestamps. More cryptic messages.
At the bottom of the page was a single, out-of-place entry.
TRV-004 | 02:45 | YOU SEE NOW, DON’T YOU?
His breath stuttered.
His initials. His time of access.
The screen flickered.
A notification popped up.
SYSTEM UPDATE: Mandatory Camera Access Enabled.
The tiny green light beside his webcam blinked on.
Travis slammed the laptop shut.
He dreamt of static. Of muffled whispers just beyond his comprehension.
When he woke, the laptop was open.
He didn’t remember opening it.
The screen was black, the cursor blinking.
ENTER COMMAND:
A new line appeared beneath it.
GOOD MORNING, TRAVIS.
He grabbed the laptop, yanked the battery, and threw it across the room.
He called the company.
The number rang once.
Twice.
A voice answered, distorted, as if submerged underwater.
"You're not supposed to leave unfinished work, Travis."
His stomach dropped. He hung up, heart hammering.
The screen of his laptop flickered back to life, battery still lying on the floor.
A video feed opened.
Not just any video.
Live footage.
Of his apartment.
Of him.
Standing.
Watching himself through the screen.
And behind him—
A figure.
Tall. Unmoving.
An owl-like mask covering its face.
ENTER COMMAND:
He ran.
Travis never logged in again.
But the emails kept coming.
UNFINISHED TASKS REQUIRE COMPLETION.
YOU CANNOT LEAVE.
WE SEE YOU.
At night, he would wake to the laptop screen glowing, the black owl emblem staring back at him.
Waiting.
Watching.
©Genevieve Mazer, 2025
