It's not about the camera... it's about the man behind it.

Right after college, I got a pretty nice gig as a personal assistant for a very wealthy family. I was supposed to be taking a year off before going to law school, but with this kind of money, who needs school? The family was also kind enough to throw in a nice apartment and a brand new SUV, plus all expenses paid. It was perfect.<br><br>The family consisted of John, Ellen, and their 12-year-old daughter Sophia. They were all very nice, respectful, and considerate toward me. My main responsibility was to keep an eye on Sophia, and take care of her while her parents were away on business. I was also tasked with making sure the huge house was in tip-top shape, which included the occasional repairs and even some remodeling and interior decorating jobs. I was pretty much free to do as I pleased, as long as I got the jobs done, and took good care of Sophia. I sometimes had to drive them around, but that was about it.<br><br>I couldn't complain. The family treated me well, I had plenty of free time, and an insane amount of money for a college dropout. Hell, they even let me take their other car, a brand new Mustang, to the club on Saturdays. It was amazing, and I felt like I was on top of the world. That is, until the strange stuff started happening.<br><br>It started with little things. Unopened doors, which I could have sworn I closed, somehow ending up wide open. Tools I used for various jobs around the house missing from their usual places. I remember having a very strange feeling of being watched, but I couldn't quite pinpoint what that feeling was caused by. It was all very subtle, and I couldn't really put my finger on it, but things just felt... off.<br><br>One night, while watching a movie with Sophia in the living room, I noticed a small camera in the corner of the room. It wasn't a CCTV camera, or a security system of any kind. It honestly looked like one of those old camcorders from the 90s. I remember asking Sophia what that thing was, and she simply replied it was her dad's camera. I didn't really think much of it, but that was, in a way, the turning point after which things started going south.<br><br>The next day, I was in the kitchen making coffee, when I noticed the same camera sitting on the counter. I picked it up to examine it, and it felt surprisingly heavy. It honestly looked like a toy. Out of curiosity, I pressed the "On" button, and the camera whirred to life. The viewfinder turned on, and I was greeted with the sight of... the kitchen. I was confused as to why it was recording the kitchen, but then again, it *was* John's camera. I have to admit, I was overcome by a feeling of intense, morbid curiosity. I continued to record, and began walking around the house with the camera. It felt... nice.<br><br>I recorded random things. The backyard. The living room. The hallway. At one point, I even recorded Sophia, but that felt too weird, and I stopped. It was fun though, and I felt like I was doing something I wasn't supposed to be doing.<br><br>The next few days, I found the camera in various places. It would sit on the nightstand in John and Ellen's bedroom. In the dining room. In the fucking *bathroom*. Every time, I would record random, useless bulls\*it. After a week or so, I got used to seeing that camera around the house. Hell, it even started to feel like a part of the family. It was as if it didn't even register in my mind anymore.<br><br>One night, I couldn't sleep, and decided to browse the internet for some porn. I set up my laptop in the living room, closed the blinds, and got to work. After closing a particularly satisfying video, I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. It was a man. He stood behind the couch, partially hidden in the shadows, and he was filming me. I froze, and my heart skipped a beat. The man didn't move. His eyes were fixated on the camera in his hand, and he simply stood there, filming.<br><br>I slowly got up from the couch, and started to make my way to the front door. The man didn't move, and continued to record me as I got closer and closer to the door. My heart was pounding in my chest, and my hands were shaking. I opened the door as slowly and silently as I could, and darted out of the house in full sprint. I didn't stop until I was in my car, and a mile away from the house. I pulled over to the side of the road, and called John.<br><br>"You need to come home, now." Is all I said.<br><br>"Is everything okay?" He asked.<br><br>"Please, just come home."<br><br>He showed up at the car, and I told him everything. The whole story. The camera, the recording, the man. When I finished, he simply shook his head.<br><br>"You're done." Is all he said.<br><br>I didn't care. I took my shit, and left the house. I never saw John, Ellen, or Sophia again.<br><br>It's been a few months since then, and I'm slowly getting back on my feet. I got a new job, a new place to stay, and a new car. But I digress. I'm sure you're wondering about the man, and the camera. I am too. The thing is, I don't even care about the camera, or why it was there. I don't care if John was some kind of paranoid freak who recorded his every move. I don't care if the camera was some kind of weird tradition his family observed. I don't care, because in the end, it's not about the camera. And I'm sure, the man behind it is still filming.<br><br>&#x200B;