Last Stream
Lila Maynard had been streaming for three years, but her audience only exploded once she started her midnight lives. TikTok and Twitch thrived on personality, and Lila had plenty of that. A fast mouth, quick wit, and the ability to turn her small town boredom into quirky entertainment. But what really hooked viewers wasn’t her, but the vibe.
Her fans said there was something addictive about those 3 a.m. sessions. The dim blue light from her desk lamp. The quiet background of her bedroom. The way she always joked that she streamed at that hour because
“nobody sane is awake, so why not entertain the insane?”
The first time it happened, nobody thought much of it. During one of her lives, a user commented:
@ghosthuntr99: “Who’s in the corner? “
Lila tilted her webcam, showing the neat line of clothes hanging on her rack.
“Nobody. Just my fashion graveyard.” She laughed it off. But other comments rolled in:
@sleepless43: “I saw someone behind you.
@dannyb34: “Yo what’s that shadow???”
The clip went viral the next morning, with hundreds of thousands replaying and zooming. There, near the closet, a shadow seemed darker than the rest of the room, vaguely shaped like a person. Lila loved it.
“Free clout, thanks for thinking I’m haunted. Smash that follow if you want more paranormal roommates.”
She said in her next video, rolling her eyes. Her numbers doubled. But the shadow didn’t go away. Every night she streamed, someone pointed it out. Always in the background. Always near the closet. At first, it looked like static, a blur in the pixelation of her cheap webcam. But as nights passed, it grew clearer. Taller. Straighter. Like someone standing perfectly still.
She noticed something else, too. Her cat, Miso, refused to go near the closet anymore. He hissed at it once during a stream, ears flat, fur puffed, staring at the darkness. The comments went wild:
@ghoulwatch: “MISO SEES IT. END THE STREAM.”
@livin4death: “It moved. I swear to God.”
Lila laughed it off again, though her voice shook just enough that she had to cut the stream short.
By the third week, things escalated. She started finding small changes in her room. A hoodie pulled halfway off a hanger. A glass of water knocked over. Her ring light unplugged.
“Sleepwalking,”
She told herself. She’d never had that problem before, but what other explanation was there? Except she didn’t remember moving the camera. And yet, every new live, the webcam angle seemed slightly adjusted, showing more of the closet. Her fans noticed.
@anon567: “Stop zooming on the closet.”
@deadtimefan: “She’s not doing that. Look at her hands.”
And they were right. Lila’s hands never left the desk. Then came the clip. The one that broke the internet. On a Tuesday at 3:16 a.m., Lila was joking about bad dating apps when her viewers started spamming:
“TURN AROUND.”
“LOOK. LOOK.”
“OH MY GOD BEHIND YOU.”
The replay showed it in sickening clarity. For two seconds, a pale face peeked from the closet door. White skin. Wide black eyes. No expression. Then it vanished. The clip hit 12 million views in 24 hours. Even skeptics called it the best ghost content of the decade. Lila didn’t laugh this time. She ended the stream mid-scream when Miso launched at the closet door, yowling.
Offline, things worsened. Her sleep grew restless. She heard breathing at night. Too deep, too slow to be hers. Sometimes, she woke to find her closet door open just a crack, though she locked it with a chair before bed. And always, her viewers begged:
“Don’t stream anymore.”
But she couldn’t stop. The fame was addicting. Sponsorship offers rolled in. Paranormal podcasts begged for interviews. Her follower count crossed half a million.
“This is my career,”
She told herself.
“If it’s a ghost, let it pay rent.”
The final stream happened two months later. Lila went live at 3:02 a.m. She looked exhausted, eyes hollow, skin pale. Miso was gone—given away to her sister after clawing at the closet until his paws bled.
“Okay guys,”
She whispered into the mic.
“This is it. One last stream. Then I’m done. I… I don’t feel safe here anymore.”
Her chat blew up with concern. She tried to joke, but her hands shook. She fiddled with her hair, glanced nervously at the closet behind her. Minutes passed. Nothing happened. Then, slowly, the closet door creaked open on its own. Her viewers spammed:
“NO NO NO NO.”
“END THE STREAM.”
“GET OUT.”
Something stepped out. Not just a shadow. Not a blur. A tall, thin figure, skin white as paper, eyes huge and black. Its head tilted unnaturally, like it was curious. It moved behind her chair, looming over her. Lila froze. Tears welled in her eyes. She didn’t turn around. The last words she spoke on stream were barely a whisper:
“…please don’t.”
The figure bent down. Its mouth opened impossibly wide. The stream cut to static. The recording remained live on her channel for twelve minutes before disappearing. Her account vanished soon after. Not banned just gone, as though it never existed. Fans who clipped the final moments found their files corrupted within days, audio replaced by a slow, distorted breathing.
Lila Maynard hasn’t been seen since. But at 3:16 a.m., some users report receiving random livestream notifications. Her username flashing briefly before disappearing again. When they click, the feed is nothing but her empty bedroom. The closet door wide open.
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