He Lived in My Livestream:
A Digital Haunting
Streaming had become my second home. I spent nights behind glowing screens, surrounded by lights and laughter from the faceless audience I called my “fam.” It felt safe — intimate, even. The digital world was my comfort zone… until the night it started watching *me.*
The Rise of the Stream:
When I started streaming two years ago, it was just casual gameplay and chat. My followers grew steadily. A good night meant thousands tuned in. The chat moved in bursts of emojis, jokes, and virtual applause. To most, I was “NatePlays,” the guy who cracked dark jokes and streamed until sunrise.
It was late October, during my “Horror Month” content — perfect timing for ghost games, jump scares, and creepy stories. My audience always pushed for realism, so that night, I dimmed the lights, pointed one camera toward my window for extra effect, and titled the stream: “Live Alone. No Filters. Just Fear.”
The Shadow Behind the Screen:
An hour into streaming, everything seemed normal. Comments flowed like usual. Then, amid the chaos, one username appeared repeatedly: **_theWatcher001_.**
They didn’t chat — they just typed: *“Behind you.”*
I laughed, thinking it was another troll. Horror gamers attract those like moths to flame. But every few minutes, *_theWatcher001_* would repeat it. Same words. Same punctuation. The chat joked along, saying I should “check the closet” or “look at the window.”
Then my chat froze. Not my internet — just the live chat. The viewer count dropped to **1**. Only one name left: *_theWatcher001_.*
A Face in the Feed:
My streaming interface flickered. For a moment, my webcam captured something impossible — a pale silhouette standing just behind my chair. It wasn’t a glitch. I saw the faint shape move as if breathing.
I spun around. Nothing. My room was empty — door locked, window sealed.
When I looked back, my reflection stared at me from the monitor, but the **reflection smiled** before I did.
The Haunting Goes Viral:
I thought ending the stream would fix everything. But as I clicked *“End Broadcast,”* an error popped up:
**“Stream still active.”**
My camera turned back on by itself. The red *LIVE* indicator glowed in the corner. My microphone picked up faint breathing that wasn’t mine.
Messages flooded back as my chat “came alive” again:
> *We can see someone else.*
> *Who is that man in your room?*
> *Bro, behind you! He’s standing there!*
I threw my chair aside and stormed through the apartment — empty. I showed every corner live, convinced it would stop the hysteria. But the moment I faced the camera again, comments exploded:
> *He’s right next to you now.*
I couldn’t even scream.
The Recording That Never Ends:
When I rewatched the footage the next morning, I expected a glitch. But what I found was worse. In the playback, a shadowy figure lingered behind me *the entire time*. Static washed over its face, as if reality refused to define it.
That night, I disconnected every camera, every light, every wire. Yet when I powered my PC, my face appeared live again — without me hitting record. It streamed to an empty platform. The title read automatically:
**“He lives here now.”**
The DMs Begin:
I tried shutting down my channel. Deleted my accounts. Even mailed my PC to a tech specialist friend across the city. For three nights, silence. Then came an email:
**From:** system@voidstream.net
**Subject:** He likes when you run.
Inside was a thumbnail — a new livestream showing me sleeping. My own apartment bedroom, from a high angle that *didn’t exist.*
Breaking Point:
I stopped sleeping. Moved into a hotel. Bought a cheap burner laptop. No logins, no cameras. Finally peace — until the front‑desk clerk knocked one morning saying,
“Excuse me, sir? Are you the one streaming from room 308?”
The color drained from my face. I wasn’t in 308.
When security checked, the room was locked, lights out. But the TV inside glowed with a paused livestream — me, sitting exactly where I was, staring into a camera that wasn’t there.
The Final Broadcast:
I don’t know how long I’ve been running. Every device I touch connects back to him. My reflection on every black screen looks slightly delayed — and in that delay, he’s always smiling wider.
If you ever scroll past a channel called *NatePlays* still streaming past midnight, do not click.
He’s not playing anymore.
He’s just… waiting for someone new.
Conclusion:
*He Lived in My Livestream: A Digital Haunting* is a chilling reminder that technology can become a doorway — not just to audiences, but to something darker. In our connected age, privacy is an illusion, and sometimes, when you stare long enough into a camera lens… something stares back.
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