1) Night One

The new apartment in Capitol Hill, Seattle still smelled of fresh paint. Rain tapped lightly against the window ledge. Cardbi—a freelance content designer with brown curls and thin-rimmed glasses—dragged the last suitcase into the bedroom and dropped onto the mattress. Biscuit, her four-year-old beagle, sniffed every corner, then hopped up, tail wagging.

“This is our new home,” Cardbi said, rubbing his ears. “No more cramped old place.”

The bedside lamp poured warm gold onto a striped rug. The bed had a wide, shadowy space underneath; the wood floor planks were glossy. Everything was peaceful enough that she drifted to sleep in the smell of rain.

Before dawn, Biscuit shot up, slithered off the bed, crouched beside it, and barked into the dark like an intruder was there. Cardbi jerked awake. “Biscuit?” She snapped on the light and peeked under the frame. Nothing—just a clean baseboard with a few dust threads.

She hauled him back up and patted him. “It’s okay.” Biscuit still rumbled in his chest, ears flattened, eyes fixed on a sound a human ear couldn’t catch.

2) Night Two

Cardbi finished shelving her books. Her phone buzzed: a text from Maddox, the new neighbor who’d helped her carry in a table yesterday. “Congrats on the move. Coffee tomorrow?” She chuckled and typed “Ok.”

Night fell. The rain thickened. At 1:13 a.m., Biscuit barked again—pointed straight under the bed. This time he clawed at the floor by the frame like he meant to dig through it. Cardbi grabbed a flashlight, knelt, and searched. The beam swept across the boards. A hairline gap ran along one plank. When she pressed her ear near it, there was a faint click—then silence.

Probably pipes expanding and contracting, she told herself. But when she turned out the light, she felt as if an eye in the floor was watching her from the dark.

3) Night Three

Biscuit barked again—exactly 1:13 as if he had a clock inside him. Cardbi tried white-noise to sleep, but within minutes the beagle was growling and barking again. She sighed, flipped on the light, dragged the bed out, and unscrewed the frame skirting with a screwdriver.

She rolled up the rug and examined last night’s seam. The gap was longer than she remembered. “Old house, wood shrinks and swells,” she muttered. She taped over it with duct tape, patted it flat. Biscuit stopped barking for a moment, sniffed the tape, then hissed softly, backing away, hackles up.

She’d never seen him like that. Since the shelter, Biscuit hadn’t feared thunder or sirens. Only this space under the bed in the new place.

4) Night Four

She googled: “dog barking at bed at night Seattle.” Hundreds of results: bugs, mice, electronics emitting high frequency, even “ghosts.” She shook her head and poured a second coffee.

Maddox knocked. He brought waffle cookies and two lattes. “Your dog’s adorable,” he said, squatting so Biscuit could sniff his hand. The beagle wagged—but when they neared the bedroom, he skirted the bed like it was fire.

“Probably mice,” Maddox said, peering. “Or… a bad wire whining at a frequency people can’t hear?”

“It’s always 1:13 a.m.,” Cardbi said. “Like someone flips a switch.”

“Does the heater have a timer?”

“I haven’t touched it.” A chill licked her ankles.

That night, at 1:13 on the dot, Biscuit barked harder than ever. Cardbi sat bolt upright, heart racing. A tiny “tick” came from the floor. She didn’t overthink it. “We’re calling the police tomorrow,” she told the dog. Biscuit whined and pressed against her shin.

5) Day Five

Two officers—Officer Kim and Officer Alvarez—arrived at 10 a.m. Alvarez checked the lease, listened to the nightly barking and the “tick.” “Usually it’s rodents,” Kim said. “But we’ll check since you live alone.”

They circled the room with flashlights. Kim rapped the floor and listened. Suddenly Alvarez stopped, pulling a small phone-like device from her pocket—an RF signal detector. “Sometimes people hide listening devices in rentals. I’ll just… be thorough.”

She swept the device; the bar jumped from 0 to 48, then 62 near the bed. “There’s a signal here,” Alvarez said. “Not strong—like a unit that sleeps and wakes on schedule.”

Kim knelt and pried at the plank with the hairline seam. As he levered it up, a smell of old dust and warm plastic breathed out. Beneath, between two joists, was a small recess the size of a hand. Inside lay a black box about as big as a pack of cigarettes, taped down, a tiny antenna wire running along.

“Holy—” Kim blurted. “This is a bug.” Alvarez gloved up and lifted it carefully. A faded label read: “Echelon Mk.II – Audio Node.” A microSD slot on the side. A slender cable slipped into the wall cavity.

Alvarez checked the time. “A little after one p.m.… If it’s a 24-hour cycle, 1:13 a.m. might be the recording window run by an internal clock. Cheap chips sometimes emit at 18–22 kHz; people can’t hear it, dogs can.”

Cardbi’s scalp tingled. “Who… who would do this?” Biscuit no longer barked; he leaned trembling against her leg.

“Let us see the lease and the previous owner’s info,” Alvarez said. “We’ll send this for forensics. For now don’t mention this to the landlord. And… we may need to check for hidden cameras.”

“Cameras?” Her voice went dry.

“Just being cautious,” Kim said. “We’ll bring Cyber Forensics.”

6) The Wall Seam and the Wire

Forensics arrived in the afternoon with hard cases and spectrometers. A tech named Lydia scanned the wall near the node. “There’s a fresh micro-cut,” she said, pointing to a line fine as a hair. “Someone ran a cable very cleanly.”

From under the bed, Lydia snaked a fiber-optic camera into the cavity. On her screen, a thin wire climbed toward the wall outlet. She removed the faceplate: behind it, a mini power converter sipping house current for the bug. “That means the node could run for years,” she said.

“Who owned this place?” Kim asked.

“Owen Palomar,” Cardbi said, digging up the email. “Agent said he sold fast and moved to Boise to care for his mother. They said it passed inspection.”

“We’ll check him,” Kim said. “But it could be a former tenant or contractor.” He looked at Cardbi. “You live alone—does anyone know your schedule?”

“I work remote—scripts and video edits. I’m a night owl… I only told… one person.” She faltered. “Nick—my ex. He’s in San Jose.”

Alvarez scribbled; her expression flickered, then smoothed. “We’ll ping local ISPs to see if the node ever used Wi-Fi or BLE. Stay calm.”

Stay calm? Cardbi gave a crooked smile. All those nights she’d thought Biscuit was spooked for no reason—he’d been warning her about an invisible thing.

7) When the Wall Can Hear

That evening, police had removed and sealed the bug, but Lydia suggested leaving the wire to hunt for more. “Gear like this rarely runs solo,” she said. “They come in clusters.”

Maddox came by with chicken soup. “Heard something happened. You okay?”

“Okay… for now.” Cardbi sat on the floor hugging Biscuit. “Can you believe someone was listening inside my house?”

He stared at the exposed cable, jaw tightening. “Capitol Hill’s seen weird. This is beyond.”

They ate. Seven p.m. Biscuit dozed with his head on her leg. When Maddox was leaving, he hesitated. “If you don’t feel safe, crash at my place… just for a night?”

“Thanks. I’ll stay with Biscuit.” She managed a smile. “The rain feels… less scary tonight.”

When the door shut, the apartment went quiet. Cardbi turned on the kitchen light and journaled—something she hadn’t done since college. She wrote about Biscuit’s barking, the bug, Officer Alvarez’s calm, the hairline cut behind the outlet, the feeling of privacy punctured.

Near midnight, Biscuit’s head lifted; his ears pricked. Cardbi held her breath. It wasn’t 1:13 yet. But somewhere in the apartment, a very soft tick sounded—from the laundry closet.

She grabbed the flashlight and opened the door. Pipes and cords. The beam slid to the lower corner—another razor-thin cut. “Lydia was right,” she whispered. Biscuit hissed.

8) 1:13—When Eyes Open

1:12:45. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears.

1:13:00—another tick, not one but two. One from the laundry closet, one from the bathroom.

Biscuit barked, aiming at the bathroom wall—perfect white tile.

Cardbi dialed 911. “Forensics already found a node,” she said. “Now there are two more. I’m afraid…” She swallowed. “Afraid someone’s monitoring live.”

Before the dispatcher answered, the lights flickered. Not fully out—just a quick pulse. Biscuit growled and backed up. Then… silence.

“Stay on the line,” the dispatcher said. “A unit’s en route.”

9) Hollow Spaces

Within ten minutes, Alvarez and Kim were back with Lydia. They had a higher-sensitivity RF scanner. “I’m reading three small transmitters at 30-second intervals,” Lydia said, eyes on her screen.

She popped the bathroom outlet. Behind the tile, a wider-than-normal void. “Someone altered the stud spacing to stash devices.” She hooked a tool and pulled out another module, like the first, fitted with omnidirectional mics. Lydia sighed. “It’s a system. Bedroom, bath, laundry—three positions to capture all home sounds: conversation, water, washer, and the bedroom…”

Cardbi’s stomach knotted. “Did Mr. Palomar… really know?”

Alvarez radioed: “Run owner and recent contractors—priority electrical/ISP in last quarter.”

Kim stepped onto the balcony to take a call, then returned. “Old report: a female tenant here two years ago filed a complaint about private audio harassment—someone repeating exact phrases she’d said in the kitchen. Case died for lack of proof.” He met Cardbi’s eyes. “Could be the same network.”

10) The Hidden Hand

Next afternoon, Alvarez called. “Cyber Forensics pulled the microSD. Audio clips, chopped up, with ham-radio style chatter in between. We see BLE packets heading to a nearby hub—likely in a vehicle. The hub aggregates and pushes over LTE.”

“Where could the hub be?” Cardbi asked.

“In the building or a parked van.” Alvarez lifted a brow. “We’ll get a warrant for storage rooms and check street cams.”

At noon, Lydia’s team combed the basement: cool concrete, musty air. Behind stacks of boxes—dust and webs. “No hub,” she said. “Or someone took it.”

Maddox hurried in, slightly out of breath. “I’ve seen a white van out front nights in a row, idling about an hour. Idaho plates. Gone this morning.”

Alvarez and Kim exchanged a look. “Boise—where the seller said he moved,” Kim murmured.

11) A Call from Boise

By evening, Alvarez rang again. “We spoke with Owen Palomar. He denies everything. Says he hired Northcrest Utilities to ‘rewire outlets’ pre-sale. That company doesn’t exist in city records. We suspect a ghost contractor.”

Cardbi remembered a random invoice wedged in her move-in papers. She dug it out. A faint print: Northcrest Utilities – Service call #H41. A hotline with 801-*. Alvarez jotted it and relayed to investigators. “The code H41,” she said, frowning, “matches a pattern used to name hubs.”

That night, Cardbi barely slept. She left the kitchen light on and sat with Biscuit. Rain returned. For the first time, rain felt safe—noise masking that made cheap mics struggle.

1:13—silence. No tick. But this quiet wasn’t peace; it felt like an eye blinking shut, waiting to open elsewhere.

12) Exposed

Saturday morning, Alvarez knocked with a folder. “Good news. Besides scraps, we found nine clear clips on the card. A male voice: ‘Node B ready. Node C sixteen decibels. Switch at one thirteen.’ Sounds like a ham operator. And… Maddox helped us.”

Cardbi turned. Maddox flushed. “I asked our neighbor Dana for her doorbell cam. Four nights ago, around midnight, a guy in a baseball cap paced in front of your door—several times. Dressed like an electrician.”

Alvarez slid a printout across the table. Cardbi’s heart dropped. The fuzzy face under the cap—familiar.

Nick.

Her ex. The one who’d set up her NAS, who’d joked she couldn’t tell 2.4 GHz from 5 GHz. The one who’d asked for passwords “to keep you safe.”

“When did she dump him?” Kim asked.

“Three months ago,” Cardbi said, mouth dry. “When I refused to share my location.” Biscuit pressed against her calf—just like he always had.

Alvarez’s voice softened. “He may still be around. And he’s very technical. We’ll post surveillance. Don’t go out alone after dark.”

13) The Hunt

The rain cleared; Seattle gleamed. Cardbi cracked the window for the cedar-wet breeze. At 10 p.m., she dimmed all but the kitchen light. Biscuit sprawled belly-up, pretending to sleep. Cardbi held her phone, Alvarez’s number queued.

11:58 p.m. On the curb across the street, a white van drifted in, lights off. Her heart slammed. A figure in a cap stepped out, shouldering a tool bag, and crossed the street.

He opened the meter box on the side of the house—where the circuits fed those outlets. From his bag he pulled a tiny transmitter. Biscuit whined in his throat. Cardbi texted Alvarez fast: “White van. Idaho. At meter box.”

The figure worked quick: unscrew, attach, flip a switch. 1:13 was near.

He slipped to the back door like a cat, took out a key—Nick still had an old one—and eased inside, swallowed by the dark.

Biscuit erupted, barking. Nick froze in the kitchen doorway. “Hush, Biscuit,” he whispered in that familiar, chilling tone. The beagle snarled, teeth bared.

Cardbi stood five meters away, hands shaking but eyes steady. “Nick.”

He stiffened. “I’m just here to remove my gear. Someone’s… bugging you. I’m helping.”

“We?” she curled her lip. “This is my house.” She glanced at the clock. 1:12:50.

Nick took a half step forward and held up a device. “I set it up to protect you. The world’s full of creeps. I—”

“Protect?” Her voice went hoarse. “By listening to me sleep, shower, cook? You think I didn’t recognize the 1:13 tick you scheduled?”

Nick reached toward her—and blue and red flashed outside. Sirens wailed. Alvarez and Kim burst through the front. “Seattle Police! Don’t move!”

Nick flinched, threw the device down, bolted for the back—exactly as Biscuit lunged and tore his pant leg. He stumbled. Alvarez locked his arm; Kim pinned his shoulder to the tile. “You’re under arrest for unlawful entry, unlawful interception, and stalking,” Alvarez said, crisp and cold.

Biscuit stood bristling, eyes fixed on the intruder. Cardbi leaned against the wall, knees weak—but for the first time in five days, her spine felt straight.

14) The Web

Next day, local news ran: “San Jose technician arrested for installing surveillance bugs in Seattle apartments.” Nick H. was accused of being the middleman for a “home-monitoring package” sold to jealous clients. They used Echelon import bugs, scheduled activation, and BLE/LTE hubs hidden in vans. “Clients” paid to listen, or “safety-monitor”—a euphemism for control.

On the microSD from Cardbi’s floor, among the noise was a clip of Nick whispering, “You asleep yet, Card?”—so soft it was like he’d meant only himself to hear it.

Alvarez filed the evidence. A week later, federal prosecutors charged illegal interception and unlawful stalking. Lydia’s team removed the remaining nodes, filled the cuts, replaced the outlets. The building re-keyed the meter and back doors.

15) The Days After

Cardbi decided not to sleep in the bedroom yet. She dragged the mattress to the living room until the floor was relaid. Each night she lit a fir-scented candle. The bug’s plastic tang faded; new pine and beeswax took over.

Maddox checked in daily. “You good?”

“Better,” she said. “Feels like the apartment gave me my voice back.”

Biscuit stopped barking at 1:13. But whenever they crossed the bedroom threshold, he still glanced at her as if to ask, “Really okay?” She crouched and scratched his head. “Really. Thanks to you.”

16) The Confession

One afternoon, Alvarez came by with a file. “Nick says he did it to ‘keep you safe.’ But device logs show the day you moved in he boosted recordings from twice a week to daily. And… he logged in live at 1:13.”

Cardbi hugged her arms. “He loved me like he wanted to keep me in a floor compartment.”

“You’re not alone,” Alvarez said gently. “This network runs Idaho–Oregon–Washington. The seller may have hired them unknowingly. We’ll trace it out.”

“Thank you,” Cardbi said. She glanced at Biscuit. “If not for… this guy.”

Alvarez smiled and scratched the beagle. “Consider him an Honorary K9.”

17) Quiet Under the Bed

Flooring contractors came. They pulled each plank, checked the joists—no more nodes. They sealed the cavities, added acoustic foam, glued and polished. The under-bed space was now only shadow and quiet.

The first night back in the bedroom, Cardbi rested a hand on her stomach and breathed deep. 12:50… 1:00… 1:10… 1:13—nothing. No tick. No bark.

She laughed softly in the dark and reached for the extra pillow. Biscuit had wriggled down by her feet, snoring faintly. She closed her eyes. Far off, Seattle rain pattered on roofs like a gentle backing track.

18) A Week Later

The prosecutor reported: Nick was remanded, no contact allowed. He faced years in prison. At Maddox’s café, Cardbi drafted a post titled “When the Walls Can Hear: Five Days Relearning Safety.” She planned to publish it anonymously in an electronic-stalking survivor forum.

Maddox set a latte with a paw-print art in front of her. “We’re calling this the Biscuit Latte,” he grinned.

She laughed. “House specialty, courtesy of the neighbor.”

“Also… hike this weekend? Easy trail. Biscuit will love it.”

She hesitated a beat, then nodded. “Let’s go.”

19) Rain That Cleans the Roof

Saturday afternoon, the city sparkled after a morning shower. From the hilltop trail, the breeze carried a salty hint from Lake Union. Biscuit tugged the leash, stopping to sniff clumps of grass. Cardbi felt her heart light in a way it hadn’t for days.

“You know,” Maddox said, “tech-stalking’s everywhere around here. Not everyone catches it in time. Your dog… is a champ.”

Cardbi nodded. “He hears what we pretend not to.”

They sat on a rock. Seattle lay blue and silver below. On her phone, she deleted old apps Nick had installed, changed every password, enabled 2FA, disabled location sharing. She texted thanks to Alvarez and Lydia.

“Done,” she said.

“Done,” Maddox echoed, sunlight flickering in his eyes.

20) Another Tick

Back home that night, after her shower, Cardbi opened the cabinet for the hair dryer. A soft tick snapped behind her. She spun, heart dropping. Biscuit leapt off the bed and bounded to her side, listening hard.

Then she laughed. It was only a wooden pipe sleeve expanding in the steam. It had always been there—only for five days every tick had been a trigger.

She crouched. “We’re okay, Biscuit.” The beagle rolled for belly rubs. “Thanks for guarding the bed.”

21) Ending—Where Sound Comes Home

Months later, Cardbi’s anonymous post spread through survivor communities. Messages poured in. One read: “Because of your story, I found a bug under my kitchen table. My cat kept staring there. I thought he saw a ghost.” Cardbi smiled. Sometimes animals sense danger’s hum before we do.

One autumn afternoon, Alvarez stopped by with a wooden plaque: “BISCUIT – GUARDIAN OF QUIET.” “Our office had it made,” she said. “The bad sounds are gone. What’s left is good sound.”

Cardbi looked around. Bedroom, bathroom, laundry—only rain, the kettle’s whistle, and beagle paws on wood. Home was hers again.

That night, before bed, she slid her hand under the frame and touched the cool, smooth floor. Biscuit curled by her feet, breathing evenly. 1:13 passed like any other minute. No signal. No bug. No lurking van.

Only a gentle patch of dark beneath a bed, a place where sleep anchors without being overheard.

“Sleep, Biscuit,” she whispered. The beagle snuffled, shifted, and sighed with contentment.

Somewhere far from the city, rain might still be drumming on the roof of an old van—but no one sits inside it now; no hub, no 1:13 alarm. Privacy had knit back together like new skin over a cut.

Cardbi drew up the blanket. She felt herself come home—the way a sound returns to the room it belongs in.

And there, in rainy Seattle, the barking under the bed finally dissolved into tender silence.

THE END.