The Unplayed Track

The silence in the old farmhouse was thick enough to chew on, broken only by the rhythmic clack of my keyboard as I typed my history essay. My father and brother had driven into town to pick up a secondhand guitar from a classified ad, and Mom was on the night shift at the hospital. I was alone, a rare and unsettling state for me. The house, built by my great-grandfather, seemed to creak and groan with every shift of the wind outside, its wooden bones settling into the cold October evening.

I was deep in a paragraph about the Industrial Revolution when I heard my name. “Anna.” It was soft, a whisper really, but distinct. I froze, fingers hovering over the keys. I waited, heart thudding, listening. Nothing but the wind. I called out, “Hello?” My voice sounded thin. No answer. I told myself it was the wind or the old radiator, but I couldn’t shake the feeling. I grabbed the kitchen knife—the one Dad used for carving roasts—and crept through the house. Every floorboard under my weight seemed to groan louder, every shadow seemed to move. I checked the bathroom, the closets, the attic door. Nothing. No one. But as I passed the front door, I saw it: the lock was not fully turned. I had locked it earlier. I turned it with shaking hands, feeling foolish.

Back in my room, I slammed the door and locked it. I called my best friend, Maya, who lived a few blocks away. She was my anchor to normalcy. I told her about the voice, the walk, the knife. She laughed nervously. “It’s just an old house, Anna. You’re freaking yourself out.” We talked, and her voice steadied me. I put my playlist on shuffle to fill the silence, and we chatted about homework and school gossip. The wind howled outside.

Then my music stopped.

The song was in the middle of a chorus—something by Hozier. But the room went dead quiet. I stared at my laptop, screen still glowing, but the music bar was empty. I hadn’t touched it. Maya’s voice on the phone became distant, demanding, “Anna? You there? Anna?” I tried to reply, but my throat was dry. I watched the screen, hypnotized, as the playlist bar suddenly jumped to a track I’d never seen before. The title was just a string of numbers, and the artist was ‘Unknown’. It started playing. A slow, discordant melody, like a music box played out of tune, with a woman’s voice humming an off-key lullaby. I had never heard that song in my life. I didn’t even know how it could be on my computer.

A cold sweat broke on my forehead. Maya was still talking, asking if I was okay, but I couldn’t find my voice. I finally managed, “Maya, my music started playing a song I don’t have. It started again.” She said, “What? That’s weird. Maybe it’s a glitch.” But then she added, “You’re scaring me, Anna. Maybe I should come over.” I whispered, “Yes, please.” I hung up, and the song kept playing. I watched the progress bar move slowly, and I felt like something was in the room with me, watching. The humming grew louder, more distinct, and I swear I heard a breath behind me.

The doorbell rang.

I jumped. Maya had said five minutes, but it had only been a minute. I crept to the front door, knife still in my hand. I peered through the peephole: the porch was empty. The sensor light was on, illuminating the empty swing. I unlocked the door and opened it slowly. No one. The wind blew leaves across the steps. I stepped out onto the porch, looking left and right. The streetlights cast long shadows, and the empty road stretched in both directions. My heart hammered. I stepped back inside, locked the door, and went to the kitchen window. The yard was empty. But then, from behind me, I heard the music again. It was coming from my computer, but louder now, and the humming was no longer indistinct—it was singing my name. “Anna. Anna.” I spun around, but the hallway was empty. I ran back to my room, slammed the door, and sat in the corner of my bed, clutching the knife.

The song ended. Silence.

Then my desktop wallpaper flickered. The screen went black for a split second, then the music switched to another song I didn’t have—this one a guttural, clicking rhythm, like insects. And in the reflection of the computer screen, I saw a figure behind me. Tall, skeletal, wrapped in rags, its face a hollow void. I screamed and spun around, but there was nothing. The music kept playing, and the reflection was gone.

I didn’t wait. I ran out of the room, out of the house, leaving the knife on the floor. I ran to Maya’s house, barefoot in the cold, and pounded on her door. She opened it, and I collapsed into her arms, sobbing. I told her everything, but she couldn’t explain it. She said I could stay the night. But as I lay in her guest bed, I heard a faint humming outside the window, and the fingers of the trees against the glass seemed to tap a rhythm. I didn’t sleep.

The next morning, my father and brother came back with the guitar. I told them what happened. They laughed, said I was hallucinating from stress. They checked the computer, but there was no unknown song. The playlist was clean. But I knew what I had heard. And that night, as I tried to sleep, I heard a new sound: the wind chimes outside were playing that lullaby. And the humming was back, growing louder, until it was right in my ear. I opened my eyes, and the dark of my room was pierced by two pale eyes staring at me from the corner. I screamed, and when my father burst in, the room was empty. But the music from my computer started playing that unknown track again, and I knew it would never stop.