I noticed my older brother, Robert, a 65-year-old Navy vet, had been acting strangely.
Normally, he’s the life of our gatherings—telling sea stories, making everyone laugh. But for the last month, he’d become reserved… almost paranoid.
He wouldn’t sit with his back to the window. He started checking the locks—twice, sometimes three times—before going to bed.
Last weekend, during a family dinner, he pulled me aside and whispered:
“They’re watching me again.”
I smiled, assuming he was being dramatic.
But then he handed me something.
A dusty envelope, sealed with wax.
Inside was a photo of me and him—taken from across the street.
It looked recent. Too recent.
But no one had taken that picture.
I asked, “Where did this come from?”
He leaned in.
“It was on my windshield this morning. I haven’t told anyone… until now.”
I felt a pit form in my stomach.
This wasn’t one of his old Navy stories.
That night, I installed a motion-activated camera in his backyard.
At exactly 3:14 AM, I got a notification.
A man in military fatigues had entered his yard.
He moved with precision—quiet, calm.
Then—just as quickly—he disappeared behind the trees and never came back.
At 3:23 AM, my phone buzzed again.
It was a call from Robert.
His voice was trembling.
“They’re inside. Check the envelope again… it wasn’t just a photo.”
I raced to the envelope and discovered a hidden flap I hadn’t seen before.
Inside was a microcassette—like the ones we used in the 80s.
I didn’t even own a player anymore. So I dug out an old Walkman from storage. It still worked.
I pressed play.
What I heard was chilling.
“Operation Glass Tide. Phase 2 begins. Target: Robert Langston. He knows too much.”
My brother wasn’t paranoid.
He was marked.
And now, so was I.
