She pressed play and watched the grainy black-and-white feed unfold. For several minutes, nothing stirred. The bushes sat motionless, the night undisturbed. She fast-forwarded, glancing at timestamps—1:30 a.m., 2:00, 2:45. Nothing. Her chest began to sink. And then, just past 3:00 a.m.—movement.
Rose froze. Behind the daisy bushes, the thick hedges trembled ever so slightly—barely noticeable. She leaned in closer. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a blurred figure slipped through the frame, low to the ground, moving swiftly. Her breath caught in her throat, her finger hovering over the pause button.
She rewound the footage, heart hammering. Played it again. And again. Each time, the same result—a dark shape shifting behind the daisy bed, almost gliding, its features obscured by poor lighting and camera angle. Whether it was a person, animal, or something else entirely—something had been there.
She sat back in her chair, pulse roaring in her ears. A squatter? An animal? Something worse? Every rational instinct told her to call the police—but doubt lingered. What if they came and found nothing? What if it was just an animal, distorted by poor footage? She needed to be certain before involving authorities.