The Haunting Streams: Beyond the Lens

Ken had been streaming for hours, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows through the cracked blinds of his small apartment. His camera was angled just right, a perfect view of his cluttered desk, filled with empty cans of energy drinks and fast food wrappers. The muted sound of his fans whirring in the background gave the space an eerie hum as he adjusted his headset, eyes darting between the glowing green chat window and the dark corner of his room. It was always like this—chaotic, disorganized—but it was his brand, and that was all that mattered.

He had become known for the daring stunts, the visits to "haunted" locations, where he pranced around darkened rooms, calling out to the unseen, hoping for a spooky noise or a flicker of movement to make the viewers hit that precious "like" button. His follower count had spiked with every ghost story, every whispered legend he dug up for content. Tonight's stream was no different. He had promised his viewers something special, an abandoned factory just on the outskirts of the city. Supposedly, it was "cursed," a place where strange noises had been reported and eerie figures had been caught on camera by other thrill-seekers. But Ken wasn't afraid. Not really. After all, he knew the truth: the real horror was in the numbers.

His phone buzzed, and the screen lit up with messages from his manager: "Remember, play it up! Make it believable! We're getting tons of sponsorship offers with this one."

Ken sighed, almost frustrated by the message. He already knew the drill. He tapped the phone away, the glow from the device making his pale skin look ghostly in the dark room. This wasn't his first ghost-hunting video. This was his 37th. He had done old hospitals, decrepit churches, and even a rumored haunted tunnel system under the city. Each time, he'd followed the same format. Set up the camera, explore, pretend to be scared, and wait for the inevitable comments about the ghostly sightings or the "flicker of the paranormal."

He glanced at the clock—7:43 PM. The sun was setting outside, and the shadows in his room were growing longer, stretching across his posters and the piles of unopened fan mail. There was an unsettling quiet in the air tonight. Normally, Ken would be energized, bouncing off the walls with excitement, eager to interact with his viewers, but tonight? Tonight felt different. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but the anticipation in the air felt almost tangible like the world itself was holding its breath.

Ken stretched and yawned, rubbing his eyes before turning back to the screen. The live count of viewers had just ticked over 200. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. It was enough to keep the wheels turning for now, but it wouldn't be enough for the next milestone. He needed something more, something bigger.

As he prepared to leave, his camera feed blinked momentarily, a flicker that lasted barely a second. Ken didn't think much of it; after all, it was just a glitch. It always happened. But this time, something lingered in his mind.

"Alright, guys," he said into the mic, voice confident but tinged with something else. Maybe it was just nerves, he told himself. "We're heading to the old factory. Let's see if we can catch something real this time. I'll be back in five."

He hit the button to end the stream for the moment and pulled his jacket over his shoulders, adjusting the straps of his backpack. The factory wasn't far—just a ten-minute drive—but it felt like miles in that moment. There was something eerie about this whole setup, and despite his usual bravado, Ken couldn't shake the feeling that tonight was going to be different. He slung his camera bag over his shoulder, making sure everything was secured, before he grabbed the car keys off the table and stepped out into the crisp evening air.

The streets were quiet, and empty except for a few scattered pedestrians huddling in coats as the temperature dropped. The city seemed asleep, unaware of the horrors that Ken was about to walk into. As he slid into his car and started the engine, the soft hum of the radio filled the silence, but even that was barely audible over the thumping of his heartbeat in his chest. The road was a familiar one, but tonight it felt strange—like it wasn't quite the same road he had traveled countless times before. The streetlights flickered slightly as he drove, their pale glow casting shadows that seemed to stretch just a little too far, as though they were reaching for him.

He passed the last houses before the factory, a crumbling structure looming in the distance, dark and twisted against the dusky sky. His headlights reflected off the broken windows, casting fleeting glimpses of the desolation that awaited him. The factory had been shut down for years—decades, even—and the rumors surrounding it were as old as the building itself. Some said it was abandoned after a series of accidents, while others spoke of darker things—things that still roamed the halls at night. But Ken wasn't worried. After all, what was a ghost to a man who had mastered the art of manipulating his viewers?

He pulled into the parking lot and killed the engine. The air outside felt cold, colder than he expected like it was coming straight from the grave. Ken set his jaw and grabbed his camera bag, stepping out of the car and into the stillness. The distant sound of rustling wind and the occasional creak of the factory building was all that greeted him as he adjusted the straps of his bag and approached the entrance.

But as he stood there, on the cusp of his next big adventure, he felt it—the prickling sensation at the back of his neck, the one that always made him think twice, the one that made him hesitate.

Ken wasn't superstitious, but tonight, as he stepped toward the factory's rusted doors, something felt wrong.