"Okay, who the hell is screwing with me?!" Scott's voice cracked, a raw edge of anger cutting through the quiet house. He caught himself before he woke Tober. Tober? Tober couldn't lie without a flurry of "Umms." Perhaps someone had told Tober about a buried treasure. Mel? No, she detested practical jokes. He returned to the live camera feeds, dismissing the obviously fake ones, poorly crafted papier-mâché eggs, easily identifiable by their shoddy construction. But two remained⦠ambiguous. Were they real? Could this amateurish website be a cleverly disguised fake hoax, designed to appear too unbelievable to be genuine? The sheer incompetence of the website itself fueled his doubt. He was caught in a maddening loop of suspicion and uncertainty. The prank, if it was one, was elaborate, and it had somehow involved his son. He needed more answers. The anger gave way to a chilling uncertainty. This was bigger than a simple joke. He needed to investigate further.
Scott centered the tiny backyard feed on his laptop screen. He went outside, searching for a camera, but found nothing. The miniature size and potential hiding places were a testament to modern surveillance technology. He looked up at the starlit sky. A drone? Quiet, high-flying, or both? He placed the purple-handled trowel in the hole beside the egg-like object, then returned inside. Sure enough, a few pixels of purple and metal were visible in the center of the holeâa straight-down view, suggesting a drone.
"Aha!" He unplugged his laptop and took it outside. He looked up, then down at the screen. The image showed someoneâor at least something that looked like someoneâin a red shirt with brown, shaggy hair, hunched over a laptop. The resemblance was striking. There was virtually no lag. Scott quickly looked up, then down again, and waited. The person in the video remained motionless. He extended his left arm, balancing the laptop in his right hand, and his arm instantly appeared in the pixelated video feed. No lag whatsoever.
Back inside, he plugged in the laptop. Right-clicking on the "Live Cam" table, he selected "View Page Source." The video sources all had numeric IP addresses. He opened a new tab, going to iplookup.net. video1.spel.net (the farmer's field feed) resolved to a location behind the People's Republic of China firewall. The others all pointed to godaddy.com addresses, except his own backyard feed, which resolved to video2.spel.net. In a third tab, he used traceroute.net to trace video1.spel.net. It led to an IP address within China. But video2.spel.net traced to a satellite relay, strangely located somewhere over the East Coast. Scott stared at the ceiling. He didn't know anyone who could orchestrate this level of deception, certainly not his wife, nor anyone who would be around his son.
This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.
Scottâs investigation of spel.net led him down a rabbit hole. Therealeragon.net, registered by the enigmatic 'An O. Nymous', was linked to over 12,000 domains, a chaotic sprawl of unrelated sites. In stark contrast, Smith Holdings, the registrar for spel.net, only controlled this single domain. Spel.net itself was innocuous, a blank slate, but a link search unearthed intriguing connections.
First, TechShaq.us. The site resembled a giant iPhone app, its oversized text and comically wide buttons suggesting a deliberately simplistic design. It offered custom wearable electronics, seemingly limited to devices that detected unconsciousness, perfect for preventing falls or waking someone who had fainted. The oversized order form, complete with credit card details, submitted data to `https://process.spel.net`. A device with presleep detection, looking like a circuit board with what appeared to be taser prods strapped to the wrist, cost $567.32. Intriguingly, TechShaq.us was one of An O. Nymousâs 12,000 registrations.
The third site connected to spel.net, besides therealeragon.net and TechShaq.us, was flashflowers.biz. It mimicked the familiar layout of FTDflowers.com, but with a crucial difference. The name "flashflowers" was emblazoned in a stark, black, blocky font, clashing with the rest of the site's design. Beneath the images of attractive bouquets, a chilling addition: "Flash dehydryated flowers delivered fast." Scott considered ordering a "Wild Flower Assortment," specifying "stamen and carpel only no petals, stems, or leaves. Each flower individually packed and labeled." The cost: $57.00, with guaranteed delivery by 2pm the next day. The order form, predictably, submitted to `https://process.spel.net`.
Scott hesitated. This was a genuine risk. Was this a prank, a scam? Or something far more unsettling? A delivery to his Deerwood, Ohio home could offer a chance to trace the source. He decided to find out. He filled out his real details and credit card information, clicked "Order," and let out a long breath. Sitting in the dimly lit backyard, a mixture of anticipation and apprehension churning within him, his phone buzzed. An order confirmation from flashflowers.biz. By 2pm tomorrow, he'd know if his gamble had paid off. And, he'd need his mother-in-law to watch Tober.