Okay Google-Short Horror Story

Timothy had just moved into his new apartment, still adjusting to the creaks and groans of the unfamiliar place. Exhausted, he decided to finish up his laundry. He casually commanded, “Google, switch off the laundry room lights.” The lights flickered off, but before he could relax, Google responded in its usual monotone, “Switching upstairs lights on.”

Timothy froze. His heart skipped a beat. There was no reason for the upstairs lights to come on—he hadn’t even been up there. Tension gnawed at him as he cautiously spoke again, “Google, switch off the upstairs lights.” As the room plunged into darkness, he caught a glimpse of something—a shadowy figure standing in the corner, shrouded in the dim light. It didn’t move. It didn’t speak. But it was there.

Panic surged through his veins. Grabbing a crowbar from his toolset, Timothy stormed upstairs, his mind racing. Each door he flung open revealed nothing but emptiness. But just as he convinced himself it was all a mistake, Google’s voice echoed from downstairs, “Playing music from your playlist.”

He rushed downstairs, his breath shallow, unplugging the Google device in frustration. “That’s enough of that,” he muttered, trying to convince himself it was just malfunctioning. But something felt wrong—terribly wrong.

As he turned to search the rest of the house, the lights in the laundry room flickered back on. His blood ran cold. Google was unplugged. That wasn’t possible. He stood at the door to the laundry room, crowbar gripped tightly in his hand, cautiously stepping inside. Nothing. No one.

But as he turned to leave, a creeping sensation crawled up his spine. Timothy’s eyes widened in horror as the same shadowy figure he had seen before stood at the threshold of the laundry room, slowly taking deliberate, heavy steps toward him. Its features were impossible to make out, cloaked in darkness, but there was something undeniably menacing about its slow, methodical movements.

“Who… who are you?” Timothy’s voice wavered, his throat dry with fear. The figure didn’t respond, merely stepping closer, its presence suffocating. Timothy’s heart pounded in his chest as he screamed at the now-unplugged Google device, “Google! Switch on the lights! All the lights!”

Five desperate attempts. Five unbearable seconds of silence.

Finally, Google’s familiar chime rang out, filling Timothy with a fleeting moment of hope. “Switching off laundry room lights.”

The room went pitch black. Timothy’s scream tore through the apartment, his last emotion one of raw, primal terror as the shadow closed in, silencing him forever.