Tell A Tale — Gothic Fiction

The Cameraman By Adam Green

The police investigation had gone on for years, but without success. The notorious stalker, dubbed “The Cameraman” could simultaneously hack into every camera and microphone throughout the country. He heard everything. He saw everything. He knew everything. People only knew he existed due to the cryptic notes left in the darkness of night, revealing the victim’s darkest secrets to the obsessive media. He watches people. He hears people. He destroys people.

The Chief Inspector of the case was plagued by horrific night terrors of stalkers eavesdropping, faces peering through windows and twisted grins. He confided this in no-one, of course, as dreams were seen as a thing of the past and he would be left to the mercy of the experimental brain surgeons, trying to learn why the electro-psychic waves do not work on him.

One night, he was awoken from his harrowing dreams by an unnerving, humming sound radiating from somewhere within the house. Cautiously, one foot is placed on a floor board. There is a high, echoing creak. The other follows, tentatively. Another creak. The man drifts along the floor silently, the steel-plated doors swiftly opening and closing in his wake. The humming is louder now, and grows louder still as the Inspector approaches his basement. Without a reason to enter, it had been left, neglected for years. Now, however, the omnipresent humming is calling, beckoning for him to enter. The door opens, and he steps inside.

The man gasps. Screams. Falls over and climbs up again. The four walls of the basement are lined with flickering screens. Tables. Notepads. Daggers. Lockpicks. Cameras. Microphones. This can mean only one thing: he is The Cameraman. Petrified, the Inspector stares at the screens. Many show houses, streets, people, all in real time. One by one, they flicker off and on again, but this time show a variety of bright, luminous, iridescent colours.

The man stares blankly at the pulsating screens. He no longer understands the concept of free will; his mind a slave to the machines. Eyes darting madly, he walks calmly over to a table, the only thing on it a blood-stained dagger. He picks it up, and it immediately pierces through his stomach. The eyes roll into the back of his head. A spurt of deep crimson blood darts out of his stomach, splashing on the floor. He collapses to his knees, and then falls over completely – violently drowning in his own bodily fluids.

His body is lying in a pool of its own blood, in a bare, neglected basement. The blood-stained hand twitches, and the spirit of obsession moves on: searching for a new target.


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