The Vinyl Curse

Jake found the dusty record in the back of Mr. Hale’s antique shop, its label faded: “Eleanor’s Lullaby, 1927—Never Played After Midnight”. The old man warned him, “That song’s got a hunger,” but Jake laughed, tucking it under his arm.
That night, he slid the record onto his turntable. Static crackled, then a woman’s voice poured out—soft, mournful, singing a lullaby that made his skin prickle. Halfway through, the music warped. “Help me,” a whisper threaded through the melody. Jake paused the record, heart racing.
The next evening, the record was on the turntable again, needle hovering. He played it, and this time, the lullaby was clearer. Outside, his streetlamp flickered out. A shadow pressed against his window—a woman in a frayed dress, her face hidden by loose hair. “Finish it,” she mouthed.
Jake tried to smash the record, but it wouldn’t break. That night, the lullaby played on its own. He woke to find the woman standing at his bedside, her hand outstretched. “You kept me waiting,” she said, her voice the same as the song’s.
When his roommate found him the next morning, Jake was catatonic, humming Eleanor’s lullaby. The record spun empty, its label now reading: “New Vocals: Jacob Carter, 2024”.