My wife noticed it first.
We had just settled into our Airbnb when she froze, staring at the ceiling.
“Do you see that?” she whispered.
Inside the smoke detector, a tiny red light blinked.
At first, I told myself it had to be nothing. A sensor. A reflection. But the longer we stared, the harder my heart pounded. I grabbed a chair, climbed up, and twisted the plastic cover open.
What I found made my hands go numb.
Tucked inside was a miniature camera — lens pointed straight down at the bed.
We didn’t argue. We didn’t hesitate. We packed in silence, threw our bags into the car, and drove. Not just around the block. Not to the next street. We drove for miles.
Only when we reached a roadside diner parking lot did we stop.
My hands were shaking as I posted a review, warning anyone who might rent that place after us. I described the blinking light. The hidden device. The camera aimed at the bed.
The host responded almost instantly.
“It’s not a camera,” he wrote.
“You broke our security transmitter. They’ll come looking for it.”
They.
That single word felt heavier than everything else.
I opened my photo gallery and zoomed in on the pictures I’d taken before we left. That’s when I noticed something I’d missed earlier. Behind the curtain, barely visible in the darkness, was another faint red glow.
Another light. Watching.
Tracking.
My stomach dropped.
This wasn’t just some creepy landlord spying on guests. This felt coordinated. Deliberate. Planned.
It wasn’t a rental.
It was a setup.
We never went back.
Instead, we checked into a large hotel downtown — somewhere crowded, anonymous. We turned off the phone we’d used to book the stay. Later that night, we destroyed it completely.
The next morning, we filed a police report.
Even now, I don’t know who was watching us. I don’t know what they wanted. Footage? Information? Something worse?
I only know this:
Sometimes a place that promises comfort isn’t a getaway.
It’s a trap.
