My wife spotted a blinking light in the smoke detector of our Airbnb. When I opened it, my hands went cold — a tiny hidden camera stared back at us.
We didn’t argue. We packed, left, and drove for miles. From a diner parking lot, I warned others with a harsh review. The host replied almost instantly.
“It’s not a camera,” he wrote. “You broke our security transmitter. They’ll come looking for it.”
They.
I checked the photos I’d taken earlier. Behind the curtain, a faint red dot glowed — watching, tracking.
That’s when I understood: this wasn’t a rental. It was a setup.
We never went back. We disappeared into a city hotel, destroyed the phone we’d used, and filed a police report the next day.
Even now, I don’t know who was watching us. I only know this: sometimes a place that promises comfort is nothing more than a trap.
