The Ghost in My Playlist

Mia slumped onto her bed, the weight of another endless school day pressing down like a fog. At 17, her life was a monotonous loop: classes, awkward cafeteria chats, and scrolling through social media until her eyes burned. But tonight, as she plugged in her earbuds and opened her music app—EchoTunes—she craved escape. She hit play on her usual indie rock playlist, letting the familiar riffs drown out the world.

Halfway through the first song, it cut off abruptly. A soft, crackling static filled her ears, like an old vinyl record skipping. Then, a new track started: "Every Breath You Take" by The Police. Mia frowned. She hadn't added that. It was from the 1980s—her mom's era, not hers. She tapped the screen to skip, but the app froze. A notification popped up: Listen closer.

"What the hell?" she muttered, pulling out one earbud. The room felt colder, the shadows from her desk lamp stretching unnaturally across the walls. She force-quit the app and reopened it. The playlist was back to normal. Shrugging it off as a glitch, she restarted her music and dozed off.

At 3 a.m., her phone buzzed violently on the nightstand, jolting her awake. The screen lit up the dark room in a harsh blue glow. EchoTunes was open again, playing "Don't You (Forget About Me)" from The Breakfast Club soundtrack. Another notification: She's waiting. Mia's heart raced. She hadn't touched her phone. Swiping frantically, she deleted the app, her fingers trembling. But as she lay back down, unease coiled in her gut.

The next morning, Mia chalked it up to a virus. She reinstalled EchoTunes—couldn't live without her tunes—and headed to school. In history class, her phone vibrated in her pocket. Discreetly, she checked: the app was playing "Somebody's Watching Me" by Rockwell. Notification: Find her. Her best friend, Alex, noticed her pale face. "You okay? Look like you've seen a ghost."

After school, Mia confided in Alex over coffee. "It's like the app's haunted or something. All these old songs, and creepy messages." Alex laughed it off. "Probably targeted ads gone wrong. Or you're hacked." But Mia wasn't convinced. That night, she dug online, searching for "haunted music apps." Forums buzzed with urban legends: apps channeling spirits through algorithms, digital Ouija boards. One post caught her eye—a thread about a girl named Sarah who vanished in 1987 from their small town, Elmwood. Sarah was obsessed with 80s music, last seen at a local arcade with her Walkman.

Mia's blood ran cold. The songs matched Sarah's favorites, listed in an old missing persons report she'd found scanned online. "Every Breath You Take" was her breakup anthem. "Don't You (Forget About Me)" played at her prom. Coincidence? She tested it: "Play something from Sarah." The app responded instantly with "Total Eclipse of the Heart" by Bonnie Tyler. Notification: Help me.

Panic set in. Mia's room felt alive, the air thick with static electricity. She whispered into her phone, "Who are you?" The app glitched, screen flickering like bad reception. A new notification: Sarah. Buried secrets. Arcade. The old Elmwood Arcade had been abandoned for decades, a crumbling relic on the town's outskirts. Mia grabbed her jacket and biked there under the cover of dusk, her phone clutched like a lifeline.

The arcade loomed like a forgotten tomb, windows shattered, graffiti scarring the walls. Inside, dust motes danced in her flashlight beam. EchoTunes started playing unbidden: "Thriller" by Michael Jackson. The irony wasn't lost on her. She followed the sound deeper, past rusted pinball machines, until she reached a back room. There, scratched into the wall: Sarah was here. 1987.

A chill wind whipped through the broken panes. Her phone buzzed: Dig. Beneath a loose floorboard, Mia unearthed a dusty cassette tape labeled "Sarah's Mix." As she pocketed it, the app erupted in static, the screen showing a distorted face—pale, with 80s big hair and pleading eyes. "They covered it up," a voice crackled through her earbuds, faint but clear. "The mayor's son... accident."

Mia's mind reeled. Local legend whispered of a hit-and-run cover-up, but no one connected it to Sarah. She raced home, heart pounding, and plugged the tape into an old player from her mom's attic. Sarah's voice emerged between songs: a diary entry confessing she'd witnessed the crash and was silenced. The tape ended with a scream.
Back in her room, EchoTunes went haywire. Songs looped chaotically: "Ghostbusters," "I Will Survive." Notifications flooded: Tell them. Or join me. Mia's door creaked open on its own. Shadows twisted into shapes— a figure in leg warmers, reaching out.

She uploaded the tape's audio to a true crime forum, tagging local news. As it went viral, her phone calmed. The app deleted itself. But in the quiet, Mia heard faint humming from her speakers. Sarah's voice? Or her imagination?

Weeks later, headlines blared: "Decades-Old Mystery Solved: Elmwood Cover-Up Exposed." The mayor's son confessed. Mia deleted all music apps, opting for silence. But sometimes, at night, she'd swear she heard a whisper in the wind: Thank you.

Yet, doubt lingered. Was it real? Or had grief and isolation conjured a digital phantom? Mia never reinstalled EchoTunes. But her new phone? It came preloaded with a playlist she didn't make—titled "Sarah's Echo."

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Keywords: haunted technology, ghost stories, horror fiction, tech horror, supernatural mystery, creepy music app, true crime, paranormal thriller