The Vinyl Whisperer

Celia found the cracked vinyl in a dusty corner of Mr. Hale’s antique shop, its label faded but still legible: “Play after midnight, and they’ll sing for you.” She paid a dollar, ignoring the shopkeeper’s warning glance.
That night, she lowered the needle. Static hissed, then a woman’s voice—honeyed, mournful—sang a lullaby Celia didn’t recognize. By the second chorus, the voice warbled, shifting to a child’s giggle. Celia froze; the record hadn’t skipped.
She played it again at 2 a.m. This time, the lullaby cut off mid-note. A whisper slithered from the speakers: “You’re listening too much.” Her cat arched, hackles raised, staring at the empty corner.
By dawn, the song looped in her head. She tried to break the record, but it wouldn’t shatter. That evening, as she touched the vinyl, her fingers stuck to it—cold, as if glued by ice. The label’s letters bled, rearranging to: “We’re here.”
A knock came. Celia opened the door to no one, but the record started spinning on its own. The voice purred, “Let us in,” and she saw them: shadowy figures pressed against the windows, faces smudged like watercolor, mouths moving to the lullaby.
The last thing she heard was the needle scratching, over and over, as the figures stepped through the walls.