Spy on Me, and I Send You to Hell
Instead of jumping up, I curled into a ball, grabbed the shower rod, and swept the curtain across the window. After scrambling into a robe, I rushed to the window—it was still there. I yanked the curtain open and recorded it with my phone until it zipped away.
I immediately shared the video in our building’s group chat: “Whose drone is this? Spying outside bathrooms—have you no shame?”
Residents erupted:
“That’s the one outside my window days ago!”
“I was undressing! This is harassment!”
I tagged property management, who promised an “immediate investigation.”
I thought it was over.
I never imagined the drone had just begun—and now, it was only targeting me.
1.
The property management investigation went nowhere.
They claimed there were too many blind spots in the security camera coverage to identify the operator.
Judging by the silence in the group chat, my neighbors weren't being bothered anymore.
The drone was now my personal stalker.
I live on the 16th floor. The view is expansive, which also means I’m completely exposed.
Day one, it hovered outside my living room window, its camera lens aimed squarely at me.
I drew the curtains.
Day two, it circled my bedroom window at midnight.
I bought heavy, blackout curtains and plunged my apartment into perpetual twilight.
Day three, I was cooking in the kitchen. I turned my head, and there it was. A cold, electronic eye, separated from me by a single pane of glass.
I felt like an animal in a glass cage, observed at will by an unseen keeper.
I called the police.
An officer came, took my statement, and then gave me the line. “Ma’am, without evidence of physical harm or a clear recording of you in a private setting, it’s very difficult to press charges. We recommend you take extra precautions.”
Extra precautions?
I kept every curtain drawn, living in a self-imposed darkness 24/7.
I was starting to feel like I was molding over.
That night, I was watching a movie with the volume cranked up. A piercing whine suddenly sliced through the film’s soundtrack.
The drone’s propellers.
It was practically plastered against my window.
I stormed over and ripped the curtains open.
A small spotlight had been attached to it. A harsh, white beam of light stabbed through the darkness, aimed directly at my eyes.
I stumbled back, my eyes stinging, tears streaming down my face.
It was taunting me.
A surge of pure rage flooded my senses. I grabbed an apple from the counter, slid open the window, and hurled it with all my might.
The drone dodged it with a nimble dip.
It wobbled smugly in the air for a moment, then flew off.
I watched it disappear. Upwards.
I was on the 16th floor. There were more than a dozen floors above me.
I shut the window and sat in the dark, listening to the frantic drumming of my own heart.
This wasn’t over.
2.
The next day, I took a half-day off work.
I went to an electronics surplus store.
“Do you have any high-powered laser pointers?” I asked the man behind the counter.
He pulled a long, unmarked box from under the counter. “This one can hit a target three miles away. Creates a visible beam at night. Don’t point it at anyone’s eyes. It’ll blind them.”
“I’ll take it.”
That evening, I sat on my sofa in the pitch-black living room, and I waited.
I’d left a small crack in the curtains.
Sure enough, at 9 PM sharp, the familiar buzz returned.
It circled at a distance first, as if scouting for danger, before slowly approaching my window.
The spotlight clicked on again.
Now.
I raised the laser pointer, aimed through the crack in the curtains, and centered the beam on that glowing camera lens.
I pressed the button.
A brilliant green line shot out and landed squarely on the drone’s eye.
The drone jolted violently, as if it had been burned. The light from its camera instantly died.
It twitched erratically in the air for a few seconds, then scrambled away in a panicked retreat.
A wave of grim satisfaction washed over me as I watched it flee.
That night, I slept soundly for the first time in weeks.
The next morning, I felt refreshed and ready for work.
I opened my front door, and a putrid stench hit me like a physical blow.
My door was smeared with a thick, dark red liquid, still dripping goo onto the welcome mat. It smelled like rancid animal blood.
The keyhole of my lock was completely filled with hardened glue.
My key wouldn't go in. The door couldn't be locked from the outside.
I stood there, my stomach churning.
3.
I didn't clean the blood. I didn't touch the lock.
I called property management, my voice eerily calm.
“My door has been vandalized with some kind of filth and the lock has been destroyed. I need you to send someone to handle it. Also, please check the hallway security footage.”
The building manager arrived quickly, his face paling at the sight.
“Ms. Vance, this… this is despicable! We’ll check the cameras right away!”
I nodded, went downstairs, bought a new deadbolt, and called a locksmith to forcibly remove the old one and install it.
My phone was quiet all afternoon.
Just before quitting time, the manager called back, his tone apologetic.
“Ms. Vance, we reviewed the footage, but… the person was wearing a hoodie and a face mask. We can’t see their face.”
“Which floor did they come from?” I asked.
“…The 17th.”
I hung up.
The 17th floor.
A package I’d ordered arrived that evening.
A smart video doorbell, complete with motion detection and cloud storage.
I installed it myself in under thirty minutes.
With that done, I ordered takeout, sat on my sofa, and watched the live feed of my front door on a spare phone while I ate.
They would be back.
I waited for two nights. Nothing happened. The drone didn't reappear.
It seemed they had given up.
On the third night, I was reading when my phone buzzed.
A notification from the doorbell app.
“Motion has been detected at your front door.”
I immediately pulled up the live stream.
A figure in a black hoodie was creeping toward my door.
He was carrying a small bucket.
Just as I’d predicted.
He stopped in front of my door, twisted the lid off the bucket, and raised it to splash its contents.
I pressed the two-way talk button on the app.
“Don’t move.”
My voice, broadcast through the doorbell's speaker, wasn't loud, but it cut through the silent hallway like a knife.
The figure froze, sloshing some of the liquid from the bucket.
He looked up in terror, his eyes fixing on the tiny doorbell.
“I’m recording this,” I continued. “Turn around now, take the stairs, and I can pretend this never happened.”
He stood there, paralyzed, clearly weighing his options.
“You have three seconds. Three… two…”
Before I could say “one,” he dropped the bucket and bolted for the stairwell.
I watched him vanish from the screen and saved the video clip.
In that split second when he looked up, his mask had slipped just enough to reveal the lower half of his face.
A young face, twisted with malice.
4.
I didn’t post the video to the group chat.
That would only make them more careful next time.
I needed a knockout blow.
The next day, my internet slowed to a crawl. Videos buffered endlessly, and web pages took ages to load.
I called my service provider. After running a diagnostic, they said the line was fine, but my data usage was abnormally high. A number of unauthorized devices were connected to my network.
I logged into my router’s admin panel.
Sure enough, the list of connected devices was filled with unfamiliar names.
One of them stood out: “KK-Drone-Controller.”
KK?
I suddenly remembered something. There was only one family on the 17th floor.
Apartment 1701.
The last time I was in the management office, I had glanced at the resident file for 1701.
The owner: Sharon Keller.
Her son: Kyle Keller.
KK.
They had been piggybacking on my Wi-Fi the entire time, using my own network to control the drone that was spying on me.
No wonder they always knew exactly when I was home.
A fire ignited in my chest.
I didn’t change the password. Not yet.
I opened my laptop and started searching.
“How to track devices on your Wi-Fi.” “IP address location.” “Network forensics.”
It took me all day, but I found a method.
Using specialized software, I could capture the data packets being sent by any device connected to my network. While the data itself was encrypted, I could see which servers it was communicating with.
The “KK-Drone-Controller” was constantly pinging a cloud server belonging to a major drone manufacturer. I even found the server’s IP address.
I screenshotted everything—the MAC address of the device, the server logs, all of it—and saved it.
Only then did I go back into my router settings, blacklist “KK-Drone-Controller,” and change my Wi-Fi password.
The next morning, I had just woken up when my doorbell began to ring incessantly, accompanied by furious pounding.
I looked through the video feed.
A middle-aged woman’s face, contorted with rage.
Sharon Keller. Kyle’s mother.
“Open this door! You open up right now! You little witch, what did you do to our internet?!” she shrieked, hammering on the door.
I activated the speaker.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play dumb with me! My son said it was you! It was working fine yesterday, and now we can’t get online! What are you trying to pull?!”
She had just admitted it.
I smiled.
“Oh? Are you sure you know how your internet works?”
The woman outside fell silent.
“Wh-what are you talking about! We have our own service!”
“Is that right? Well, that’s funny. I was checking my router yesterday and found an unauthorized device that’s been stealing my Wi-Fi. The device name was ‘KK-Drone-Controller.’ I’ve already filed a police report and given them the device’s MAC address and all the evidence of the servers it was connecting to. The police said that theft of service, if severe enough, is a federal crime.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath from the other side of the door.
Then, dead silence.
A few seconds later, the woman erupted like a cornered animal.
“You’re a liar! You vicious little tramp, how dare you frame my son!”
She started kicking the door, screaming every curse word imaginable.
I didn’t engage further.
I muted the speaker and calmly went to make myself a cup of coffee.
Listening to her impotent rage from outside my door, I took a sip. It had never tasted so sweet.
5.
Sharon Keller’s tantrum lasted for fifteen minutes before neighbors and property management finally persuaded her to leave.
The world was quiet again.
That evening, the power in my apartment went out.
It wasn't a tripped breaker. My neighbors’ lights were all on. Only my unit was plunged into darkness.
I turned on my phone’s flashlight and checked the breaker box. All the switches were in the correct position.
I called management.
“Ms. Vance, please hold on. We’ll send an electrician right over.”
As I waited, a deep sense of unease settled over me.
My video doorbell was offline without power.
I was blind to what was happening outside my door.
I dragged a heavy chair and wedged it under the doorknob.
And then I heard it. Soft footsteps.
They stopped right outside my door.
Next, the faint, metallic scrape of metal on metal.
Someone was picking my lock.
Every hair on my body stood on end.
I held my breath and tiptoed to the door, pressing my ear against the cold steel.
Whoever it was, they were clumsy. After several minutes of fumbling, they couldn't get it open. I heard a muffled curse. They seemed to give up.
Then came a different sound.
A soft hissing.
Like something being squeezed into the keyhole.
Superglue.
They were trying to lock me in.
What if there was a fire? The thought sent a jolt of ice through my veins.
I crept to the kitchen and pulled the longest, sharpest carving knife from the block.
Just then, my phone rang.
It was the electrician.
“Ms. Vance, I’m on your floor, but the door to the utility closet in the hallway is locked from the outside. I can’t get in. Let me go find the master key.”
My heart sank.
They had locked the utility closet, too.
Almost simultaneously, I heard the person outside my door react to the sound of my phone. The footsteps started again, this time running frantically toward the stairwell.
I rushed to the door and peered through the peephole.
The hallway was empty.
I yanked the door open.
The acrid smell of glue filled the air. The keyhole was completely sealed.
Down the hall, the utility closet door had a heavy-duty U-lock clamped around its handles.
They weren’t just trying to harass me. They were trying to trap me.
I backed into my apartment, my heart pounding against my ribs. My phone lit up again. A text from an unknown number.
“Enjoying my gifts? This is just the beginning.”
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