The Vinyl’s Whisper

Clara found the 1920s record player at her late aunt’s attic, its brass horn tarnished but the needle intact. The only vinyl left was labeled “Don’t play after midnight”—a warning she ignored, dropping the needle as the clock struck twelve.
Static hissed, then a woman’s voice sang, warped and sweet. Clara hummed along, until the lyrics shifted: “Your skin will fit me well.” She froze; the song hadn’t been on the label.
The needle skipped, scratching a blood-red line into the vinyl. A cold breath hit her neck, though the room was still. When she turned, the horn glowed faintly, and a shadow oozed from it—pale hands, too long, gripping the edge.
“Sing with me,” the voice cooed. Clara’s throat tightened; her mouth moved against her will, matching the warped melody. The record spun faster, grooves bleeding black liquid that pooled toward her feet.
By dawn, the player was silent. But Clara’s reflection in the attic mirror now wore a 1920s flapper dress, lips stitched shut with black thread—the same as the singer on the record’s cover.