The thing about smart homes is they're only as smart as the idiots who set them up.
Dmitri Volkov learned this at 2:47 AM on a Tuesday, when his neighbor's Alexa started talking through his laptop speakers. Not his Alexa—he didn't own one of those digital snoops. This was coming from the Chen house, a quarter-mile through the pines, bleeding through some half-assed WiFi configuration that would've made any decent IT consultant weep.
"Playing thunderstorm sounds for eight hours," the device announced cheerfully, and then came the rain. Not real rain—October in Maine had been dry as bones—but that digital white noise people used to mask other sounds. Dmitri knew about masking sounds. His ex-wife Natasha had played ocean waves every night for the last three years of their marriage. Said it helped her sleep. Really, it helped her not hear him typing in the next room, working contracts until dawn to pay for the house she'd eventually kick him out of.
He should have closed the laptop. Should have gone back to debugging the client's database. Should have done anything except what he did, which was open Wireshark and start capturing packets. Old habits, maybe. Or maybe it was the fact that at 2:47 AM in a rental cabin that smelled like the previous tenant's failed attempts at home brewing, with nothing but screenshots of custody evaluations and empty Ensure bottles for company, someone else's life seemed more interesting than his own.
The Chens had moved in three months ago. Tom and Sarah. He was in real estate—commercial development, the kind that turned fishing villages into boutique harbors. She worked from home, something pharmaceutical. They drove matching Teslas and had a designer dog that looked like a mop had mated with a throw pillow. Perfect people living their perfect lives in their perfect smart house.
Dmitri minimized Wireshark and went back to work. But twenty minutes later, another notification popped through: "Front door locked." Then: "Security system armed—home mode."
Strange time to be locking up. Dmitri glanced at the packet capture still running in the background. The data stream was bizarre—multiple devices all talking at once, overlapping commands, status updates from sensors he couldn't identify. Either the Chens had every smart gadget known to man, or something in their system was seriously fucked.
"Motion detected—master bedroom."
"Adjusting thermostat to 68 degrees."
"Playing 'Relaxation Playlist' on Bedroom Sonos."
He almost laughed. Even their insomnia was orchestrated by algorithm. But then came something that made him sit up:
"Glass break sensor triggered—reset manually."
Followed immediately by: "Playing thunderstorm sounds for eight hours."
The thunderstorm sounds again. Louder this time, bleeding through his speakers like static from a badly tuned radio. And underneath it, barely audible, something else. A voice? Crying?
Dmitri pulled up the network analysis. The Chens' router was wide open—WPS enabled, default admin password, the works. It was practically begging to be compromised. He could see everything: their Nest cameras, their August smart locks, their Ecobee thermostat. Even their Samsung smart fridge, for Christ's sake. Who needed a WiFi-enabled refrigerator?
He knew he should stop. This was illegal, technically. A federal crime, if someone wanted to push it. But his lawyer had already made it clear that his chances of getting joint custody were somewhere between slim and go-fuck-yourself, especially with Natasha's accusations about his "paranoid behavior" and "obsessive tendencies." One more mark against him wouldn't matter.
Besides, he was just looking. Just making sure everything was okay.
The next notification made his blood chill: "Bathroom door locked from inside."
Then: "Running bath—temperature set to 104 degrees."
Then nothing for three minutes.
Then: "Bathroom door unlocked."
"Motion detected—hallway."
"Playing 'Morning Meditation' on Kitchen Echo."
It was 3:24 AM.
Dmitri's fingers hovered over his phone. Call the police? And say what? That he'd illegally accessed his neighbor's smart home and something seemed off about their late-night bath routine? They'd laugh him off the phone. Or worse, arrest him.
He closed the laptop and tried to sleep. But every time he started to drift off, he thought about that glass break sensor. Reset manually. Why would you reset it instead of checking what broke?
The next morning, he saw Sarah Chen at the post office. She was wearing sunglasses despite the grey October sky and a turtleneck despite the unseasonable warmth. She smiled when she saw him—that practiced suburban smile that meant nothing and everything.
"Dmitri! How's the cabin treating you?"
"Fine," he said, trying not to stare at the way she held her left arm against her body, like it hurt to let it hang naturally. "How are you settling in?"
"Oh, you know. Still getting used to country life. Tom's in Boston this week. Another development deal." She touched her sunglasses, adjusting them. "The isolation takes some getting used to."
"Tell me about it," Dmitri said, and meant it.
That night, he promised himself he wouldn't look. He'd fix the security hole in their network—anonymously, like a good neighbor—and forget about it. But at 11:15 PM, his laptop pinged.
"Front door opened."
"Front door closed."
"Security system disarmed."
Tom was home early.
The notifications came fast after that:
"Motion detected—living room."
"Motion detected—kitchen."
"Volume increased—Living Room Sonos."
"Playing 'Classic Rock Hits.'"
Then, at 11:47: "Alexa, call 911."
"I'm sorry, I didn't understand that request."
"Alexa, call fucking 911!"
The music got louder. Dmitri could hear it now, actually hear it through the trees—Boston's "More Than a Feeling" cranked up to neighbor-wake levels.
"Motion detected—multiple rooms."
"Smart lock engaged—master bedroom."
"Smart lock override—master bedroom."
"Glass break sensor triggered—reset pending."
Dmitri grabbed his phone and dialed 911. The dispatcher sounded bored until he mentioned the address.
"The Chen place? We were just out there last week. Another noise complaint?"
"No, I think—I think something's happening. Something bad."
"Are you witnessing a crime in progress, sir?"
"I can hear... the music is really loud, and I think—"
"Sir, we've had multiple calls about the Chens and their music. They've been informed about the noise ordinance."
"This is different—"
"I'll send a unit to check it out. Can I get your name?"
He gave it, knowing it would do more harm than good. The dispatcher would run his name, find the custody battle records, the restraining order Natasha had tried to get, the mental health evaluation he'd been forced to take. Another unstable divorc��, causing trouble for the normal people.
Twenty minutes later, he watched through his window as a sheriff's cruiser pulled up to the Chen house. The music had stopped ten minutes ago. The porch lights were on. Tom Chen answered the door in a bathrobe, all smiles and apologies. Dmitri couldn't hear the conversation, but he could read the body language. Tom's gestures were expansive, apologetic. The deputy—Janet Morse, Dmitri recognized her from town—laughed at something Tom said. Sarah appeared in the doorway, wine glass in hand, wearing pajamas that covered everything.
The deputy left five minutes later.
Dmitri's laptop showed: "Playing thunderstorm sounds for eight hours."
He didn't sleep that night. Or the next. By Thursday, he'd mapped out the Chens' entire routine through their smart home. Tom left for work at 7:15 AM sharp. Sarah's office devices came online at 8:00. Lunch at 12:30—the smart fridge tracked when it was opened. Sarah's devices went offline at 5:00. Tom came home between 6:00 and 8:00, unless he was traveling.
And at night, always: thunderstorm sounds.
On Friday, Tom was in Boston again. Dmitri knew because the garage door had opened at 5:00 AM, and Tom's Tesla had disconnected from the home charger. Sarah was alone.
At 3:00 PM, something new: "Package delivered—front door camera."
Then: "Front door opened."
"Front door closed."
"Motion detected—basement."
The Chens' house didn't have a basement. Dmitri had looked up the property records. Single story, built on a slab foundation. No basement.
Unless...
He pulled up the device list. There it was, connected just this afternoon: "August Smart Lock—Root Cellar."
Root cellars were common in old Maine properties. Usually separate from the main house, built into a hillside or underground. Used for storing vegetables before refrigeration. Most people forgot they existed.
"Temperature sensor—Root Cellar: 52 degrees."
"Motion detected—Root Cellar."
"Carbon monoxide detector—Root Cellar: Installing updates."
Why would you need a CO detector in a root cellar?
The notifications stopped for two hours. Then, at 5:15:
"Motion detected—leaving Root Cellar."
"Smart lock engaged—Root Cellar."
"Front door opened."
"Starting vehicle—Sarah's Tesla."
She was leaving. Going somewhere. The Tesla's GPS would tell him where, but that required a different kind of hack, one that would definitely land him in prison.
He waited. Watched. At 7:30, she returned.
"Package retrieved from vehicle—multiple trips."
"Motion detected—Root Cellar."
"Smart lock disengaged—Root Cellar."
"Motion detected—entering Root Cellar."
Fifteen minutes passed.
"Motion detected—leaving Root Cellar."
"Smart lock engaged—Root Cellar."
"Running bath—temperature set to 104 degrees."
The same routine. The same temperature. Like a ritual.
Dmitri made a decision. Not a smart one, but when had he ever made those? He pulled on a jacket and headed out into the October night. The air smelled like dying leaves and distant woodsmoke. His footsteps crunched on the gravel drive, then went silent as he hit the pine needles.
The Chen house glowed with smart lights, every window perfectly illuminated. He circled around back, looking for the root cellar. Found it built into a small hill, about thirty yards from the house. Old wooden door, but with a very new August smart lock gleaming in the moonlight.
He was about to get closer when the lights flashed—motion detected. He froze, then slowly backed away. Sarah appeared at the kitchen window, looking out into the darkness. She couldn't see him, he was sure, but she stood there for a long time, just staring.
Back at his cabin, his laptop was going crazy with notifications:
"Motion detected—multiple exterior zones."
"Checking all locks."
"Security system armed—away mode."
"Activating all cameras."
She was scared. Of what? Of whom?
Tom came home the next day, Saturday. Dmitri watched their weekend routine through the data: breakfast at 8:00, Tom's Peloton workout at 9:00, Sarah's yoga session at 10:00. Perfectly normal. Perfectly orchestrated.
Except for the root cellar. No activity there. Not while Tom was home.
Sunday night, Natasha called. First time in three months.
"Dmitri? I need you to stop."
"Stop what?"
"Whatever you're doing. David's lawyer says you've been making reports to the police. Harassment complaints about neighbors."
David. The new boyfriend. The stable one with the steady job and no obsessive tendencies.
"I'm not harassing anyone."
"The judge won't see it that way. You're making things worse for yourself. For the custody case."
"Natasha, something's happening next door. Something bad."
"Something's always happening with you, Dmitri. Always some conspiracy, some problem only you can see."
"This is different—"
"Is it? Is it really? Or is it like when you thought my brother was stealing from us? When you were convinced the contractor was sabotaging the house? When you—"
He hung up. She was right, of course. He'd been wrong before. Many times. The medication helped, when he remembered to take it. But this was different. The data didn't lie. Computers didn't have paranoid delusions.
Tom left Monday morning. 5:00 AM flight to New York this time.
At 10:00 AM, Sarah's devices went offline. All of them. But the house sensors kept triggering:
"Motion detected—Root Cellar."
"Temperature dropping—Root Cellar: 48 degrees."
"Motion detected—Root Cellar—multiple zones."
Multiple zones. More than one person.
"Carbon monoxide levels elevated—Root Cellar."
"Warning: Carbon monoxide levels dangerous—Root Cellar."
"Carbon monoxide detector offline—Root Cellar."
Dmitri ran through the woods. No time for stealth. The root cellar door was closed, locked. He could hear something from inside—mechanical, rhythmic. A generator?
He kicked the door. The smart lock held. Kicked again. Again. The old wood started to splinter, but the lock mechanism was solid.
"Sarah!" He pounded on the door. "Sarah, are you in there?"
A sound from inside. Muffled. Human.
He looked around frantically. Found a rock, heavy, the size of a bowling ball. Raised it over his head and brought it down on the lock. Once. Twice. The mechanism sparked, failed.
The door swung open.
The smell hit him first—exhaust fumes, thick and choking. A portable generator running in the corner, filling the small space with poison. Sarah was on the floor, barely conscious. But she wasn't alone.
There was another woman. Younger, Asian features, bound with zip ties. Unconscious, maybe dead. And in the corner, wrapped in plastic—
Dmitri didn't look closer. Couldn't. He grabbed Sarah under the arms, dragged her out into the clean air. Went back for the other woman. The generator kept running, kept pumping death into that underground tomb.
Sarah was coughing, retching. The other woman wasn't breathing. Dmitri started CPR, pumping her chest, breathing into her lungs. Pump, pump, pump, breathe. Pump, pump, pump, breathe.
"Don't." Sarah's voice, rough as sandpaper. "She's Tom's. From before. From Boston."
"What?"
"There are more. In the plastic. His collection." She laughed, horrible and broken. "He said I was special. Different. But I found them. Found his root cellar. His special place."
The woman under Dmitri's hands gasped, coughed, started breathing.
"He'll kill us all," Sarah said. "When he comes back. Make it look like I did it. Murder-suicide. Crazy wife kills husband's mistresses. He's good at making people look crazy."
Dmitri thought of Natasha's words: "You're making things worse for yourself."
"Not this time," he said, and called 911.
Deputy Janet Morse was the first to arrive. She took one look at the scene and called for backup. Then state police. Then FBI. The root cellar was processed like an archaeological dig, each horror carefully catalogued.
Three women in the plastic. Different ages, different times. Tom Chen's development deals had taken him all over New England. He'd been collecting for years.
They found him at Logan Airport, trying to board a flight to Vancouver. Sarah's smart home had sent him an alert when the root cellar door was breached. But traffic on I-95 had delayed him just long enough.
Dmitri spent fourteen hours giving statements. The illegal network access was overlooked in light of the lives saved. Sarah and the woman from Boston—Lin, her name was Lin—both survived. The others had been dead for months, maybe years.
A week later, Natasha called again.
"I saw the news," she said quietly. "About what you did."
"I got lucky."
"No. You were right. This time, you were right."
"This time," he agreed.
"David's lawyer says it might help with the custody case. Being a hero and all."
"I'm not a hero. I'm just a guy who can't mind his own business."
"Maybe that's not always a bad thing."
Maybe not.
The Chen house stood empty now, all its smart devices dark and silent. Dmitri had offered to help disable them, make sure no one else could access them. But he couldn't bring himself to go back. Some houses, he'd learned, heard too much. Remembered too much.
He still lived in the cabin that smelled like failed beer. Still worked his contracts until dawn. Still took his medication, most days. But sometimes, late at night, when his laptop picked up a stray signal from someone's unsecured network, he'd remember Sarah's words: "He's good at making people look crazy."
The thing about paranoia is that sometimes, just sometimes, they really are out to get someone. And sometimes, if you're very lucky or very cursed, you're the only one listening when they call for help.
Even if they don't know they're calling.
Even if the call comes through the machines they trusted to keep them safe.
The smart home revolution had promised to make life easier, more convenient, more secure. But Dmitri knew better now. Every device was a potential witness. Every network was a party line. Every smart lock was just another way for someone to track when you came and went, what you did, who you really were when you thought no one was watching.
He'd helped save three lives by being exactly what everyone said he was: obsessive, paranoid, unable to leave well enough alone. His ex-wife's lawyer had tried to spin it as proof of his instability, but the judge had seen it differently. Joint custody, supervised at first, but still. He'd see his kids again.
The Chen house sold eventually, to a couple from Connecticut who gutted all the smart features and went deliberately analog. Good choice. Dmitri watched them move in from his window, noticed how they held hands, how they laughed. Normal people living normal lives.
But sometimes, on quiet nights, when the wind was just right, he swore he could still hear it: the ghost of thunderstorm sounds, eight hours of digital rain trying to wash away what couldn't be cleaned. The house remembered, even if its smart brain had been lobotomized.
Houses always remember.
They just need someone to listen.