I don’t think it’s breaking news that there’s plenty of sketchy shit on apps, websites, whatever. Companies collect our information, use our cameras and microphones, and who knows what else, on the grounds of tailored marketing. I’d count myself in the informed and indifferent category of app users: I know this, and honestly, I don’t really care. With every app I use, I expect to get targeted ads as a side effect of blindly accepting the terms of use. That wouldn’t scare me. But that’s not what happened.
It was always the convenience that kept me downloading content on my phone that I knew compromised my personal privacy. My alarm clock app is no different; I’m pretty sure it uses my microphone for no discernable reason, but I can also set a year’s worth of alarms at once. I can also choose my own music for the alarm, which really beats the pre-set ringers on my phone. The app even has one of those AI generators that makes up ‘motivational’ sayings after you dismiss the alarm, so that in the morning I always get a ‘follow your own path’ or ‘dreams are seeds to joy’. It’s also AI, so there is a solid mix of ‘count friends like toes’ and ‘control your heart’ that provide a giggle in the morning.
These little messages showed up after every alarm and honestly, I stopped reading the notes within a few weeks of using the app. They were so often nonsense and always of no importance, so it just became an ignored feature. Every now and then I’d catch the tail end of some inspirational gibberish while my working memory held the words in my semi-conscious brain, but I didn’t exactly care what they said. So, the first time one of the messages came up, I didn’t get a good look at it, but something in my lizard brain caused the hairs on my arms to prickle. I brushed it off; figured I hadn’t quite rubbed the sleep from my eyes and shook the fog out of my brain.
I woke up to the sound of tinkling sound of piano that was currently my alarm. Sunlight was already shining through the East facing window, splaying rainbows around the room as the rays hit a suncatcher hanging in the window. I let the music play for a moment as I arched my back and stretched my arms over my head. Reaching over to my side table I turned on my lamp, then unplugged my phone from its charger and unlocked the screen. I clicked dismiss and sank back into my pillows, sleepily debating a snooze. As I automatically skipped the AI quote of the day, I saw the last couple words. Miss you. I frowned and furrowed my brow, curious now about the quote I had skipped. Still, the morning light was growing stronger and my time was limited, so I rose and began my routine. But I couldn’t quite shake an odd feeling that had set in as I brushed my teeth, ate my breakfast and prepared for work.
I didn’t tell anyone about it because there was nothing to say; I thought I might have seen something kind of weird from an AI on my app. Not exactly conversational gold. And I forgot about the whole incident by the next day, going on about my life, using my alarm without thought every morning. It was probably three months before I got another morning-message that caught my attention.
The summer sunrise was beginning to give way to the later rising fall sun, and my alarm went off while the horizon was still only beginning to shift from dark blue to grey. Rising in the later months of the year was always so much harder; the cold air and resting sun demanded a few more minutes under the covers. The room was dark, and I reached out two or three times in vain for my lamp before giving up and following the sound of piano music until I found my phone. As I dismissed the alarm, I squinted at the screen and its lone source of light in the dimly lit room. That was why I’m certain I know what this message said: I was staring into the screen as it popped up. I read it two or three times, just to be sure I wasn’t too groggy to process the writing.
I’m going to miss you.
It wasn’t unreasonable to assume the AI just came up with this, but it still gave me the shivers. I recalled, for the first time in months, the morning I had first noticed the strange farewell message and ignored it. The AI usually didn’t repeat messages, since they were randomly generated. But then again, it also didn’t usually say such foreboding phrases at 6 am. I lay in bed a moment longer, any heat from the rising sun seeming to seep out of the room. Closing the app and turning on my lamp, I quickly dressed and stored my phone in my pocket. I avoided using the device for most of the morning, not for any logical reason, just because that message had turned me off staring at the glowing screen. Why such a bizarre message?
Still, AI is notoriously bizarre. They call it artificial for a reason; you can’t just create a mind that understands all the subtleties of human language and communication. This thought calmed me and I went about my day, though the message was still in the back of my mind. When I returned home from work, I debated removing the app from my phone. However, after about 20 minutes reading Playstore adds and reviews, I decided it was an unnecessary effort to humor my paranoia. The thought of explaining my fears to another adult was honestly embarrassing, and that seemed like good evidence that the fears weren’t warranted.
The following morning, I awoke the instant my alarm began. Chewing on my thumb nail, I waited for the AI message to appear, almost certain it would be nothing. But I heard a crack as I separated the tip of my thumbnail from the rest, as my eyes soaked in the message.
It’s too bad, you were good.
A sweat broke out on my brow as I considered what this could mean. Paired with the message from the previous morning, it felt like an ominous goodbye, perhaps even a warning. But I had to consider the logical explanation that these were two random, unrelated messages created by an artificial intelligence program simply designed to string words together in a way that could make sense. I forced this thought into ever crevice of my mind, convincing myself that it was an entirely explicable event. I still didn’t mention it to anyone; why should I, just some silly software spook, best for a giggle at best or judgement at worst. The more I convinced myself I was overreacting, the less I felt like I should tell anyone what was going on.
For months, again, the alarm functioned completely as normal. But this time I didn’t forget about that unsettling message, and I took to again reading each daily quote with fervent dedication. After what was probably over 80 nonsense quotes on love, hope, and shoes (some quotes were less interpretable than others), I finally opened the app one crisp morning to another message.
Frost traced thick white spirals on my window that formed abstract flowers against the dark sky. The sun would still be down for a while after I got to work; it was no longer possible to get ready in natural light. It would be an hour into my workday before the light even got bright enough to illuminate the sun catcher in the window. I reached out blindly for my cell phone, finding it by ear, and using the screen to find my lamp. As was my new morning ritual, I then dismissed the alarm and read the quote that appeared after. Even before it appeared on the screen, as if instinctively aware, my stomach dropped.
It won’t be an accident.
The odds that this was a randomly generated message (at least in my lizard brain, which wanted desperate to justify my growing obsession) felt significantly lower. Worse than following the creepy theme of the other messages, it seemed to suggest a morbid premonition. I had a thought to take a screenshot of the foreboding message, and then, as if defensively, the message timed out. For a long moment I remained in bed, body tensed, waiting for something. My eyes glanced around my surroundings with a paranoid suspicion, searching for threats in the shadows. When I finally convinced my frozen body to draw back the blanket, the rush of cold air seemed to snap me out of my trance. Quickly I dressed in a warm sweater and jeans, barely remembering to brush my teeth and tame my hair before leaving the house.
I receded into my mind for the rest of the day, giving one-word answers to typical conversation starters and taking lunch in my car. I tried to approach the situation with a reasonable level of skepticism, despite my growing anxiety. I checked through my search history to look for searches referring to travel. Not planning a trip, this was obviously a dead end. Next, I looked for more subtle things, like anything referring to a ‘cleanse’ from my social media. Maybe the AI was clever enough to see this and think I would stop using it soon. I had mentioned it briefly in an Instagram post a few months prior, but never followed through. This seemed like another dead end. Finally, I searched for anything related to accidents or injury. The breadth of this search showed a mention or two or muscle pain and a stubbed toe. Nothing recent, or significant enough to justify the most recent message. I didn’t seem to be influencing the AI in any way I could see through my own online behavior. So, I decided to google it. Maybe someone else had experienced, or was still experiencing, something similar. I wasn’t even sure what to type into the search bar.
My AI is sending weird messages. Not specific enough and just lead to a bunch of crap about AI conspiracies. Although I was beginning to think that might be the part of the internet I was looking for.
Alarm App AI glitch. I waded through a few ads and unrelated articles before stumbling on a reddit forum titled Evil Alarm. Within seconds of scrolling, I realized I wasn’t the only one. Far from. The forum was full of posts about my app, all complaining about similar startling, and even downright frightening, morning messages akin to the ones I was receiving. Several posts mirrored my own first message, “I’ll miss you”. The messages always seemed to change from there, notably, never to the benefit of the poster.
One post detailed a woman who used the app for years, only to wake up to “You’ll bleed so much.” My face paled as I read her final comment on her own post, nearly 8 months old.
I’m more than freaked out at this point and deleted the app about a week ago. I don’t think it matters. My old alarm just keeps going off, and the messages just keep getting worse. Yesterday, I got “I don’t think it will hurt too much.” And this morning it said, “Are you ready?” I’m going to get a new phone today; I don’t think there’s another choice. This must be some sick virus attached to the app.
There were plenty of other users asking for updates since, and despite seeming to be very active in the community before, the user was now silent. I know that with any other help-seeking forum this suggests the person had their question answered and has moved on to other parts of the internet. But I had a very hard time convincing the rock in my stomach that this was the case. After my lunch break, I told my boss I was sick. After my quiet behavior and slightly extended lunch hour, he eyed me with suspicion from behind his desk. He pressed for a doctors note and I waved in flippant acknowledgement, already leaving his office with my eyes to my phone.
After a hand trembling, mind racing drive home, I knew that I had to delete the app. Maybe I would buy a physical alarm, like they had in the olden days. Nice and vintage, with nothing intelligent about it but the design. Nothing that could ever conceivably find a way to communicate with me. Without hesitation, the app was gone, and I had found another, albeit significantly less consumer friendly, app to replace it. Setting the alarm sound to the most obnoxious beeping I could find, I closed the app and fidgeted with my device. As an afterthought, I went into my library of music and removed the piano that had been my previous alarm music. The finality of the action felt legitimate, yet hollow. I expected a surge of relief, but all I was left with was a nagging curiosity. Would the app continue to function, the ghost of its programming buried deep in the software of my phone? Would I still wake tomorrow to a message implying my impending demise, or would this be the end?
Filling the evening with mostly pacing and failed attempts to distract my thoughts, I fell asleep early. My dreams were plagued with the gliding of fingers on piano keys, a once relaxing sound made dizzying by association. I threw my phone into an ocean. Ran it over with a truck. Burned it in a fire the size of my apartment building. And still the alarm never stopped ringing. I swear I heard the noise the entire night, until it finally awoke me in the early hours of the morning.
The noise of tinkling piano keys that should have been removed from my phone forever. Instinctively, I grabbed my phone and stared at the screen as I disabled the alarm that substituted the harsh beeping I had selected from the new, crap app the night prior. As if I had never done a thing, the alarm gave way to the AI message.
Make your arrangements.
I swore and threw my phone across the room. It had to be a hack, a virus, like they said on reddit. Dawning sweatpants and a sweater over my unwashed frame, I placed the phone gingerly in the outer pocket of my purse. I tried to ignore the buzzing in my chest, the roiling in my stomach that threatened to give way to nausea. The daily tool seemed a filthy vessel for something else now; I thought of all of the sensitive information that may be at risk if this was a hacker, and latched onto that as the source of my queasiness. I made my way to the closest mobile store, realizing on the way that I hadn’t even washed. Deciding I didn’t care, about anything really, I pushed onward. I was willing to pay any sum of outstanding payments or even switch providers, as long as I could get this soiled device out of my possession.
When I arrived, already agitated and overly eager to be rid of my old phone, the store had just barely opened. A middle aged man with a nearly full cup of coffee smiled at me as I approached the counter, arm already outstretched with the undamaged mobile. “I need a new phone.” I said simply, rolling the sleeve of my hoodie between my thumb and index finger as I avoided eye contact. “Okay…Do you want to put a new phone on an existing contract or the whole deal?” He had a quizzical but friendly tone, and I looked at him briefly, eyes apologetic. “Whichever is faster. I just really need a new one.” I was suddenly very aware of my unwashed hair, the smell of morning breath every time I spoke. In one of the polished glass panes behind the desk, I caught a ghost image of my appearance. I zipped up the front of the hoodie a couple inches and shrugged deeply into its’ folds. “Yeah, of course. We can probably switch you over.”
We did the very classic new phone conversation. I had to pay off the difference in price on this phone if I wanted a new one. I’d had the phone for a while, so before long and with only a measly $600 spent, more payments to come and an increase to my monthly plan, I was in the clear. As I walked home, dragging fingers through my knotted hair, I glanced at the new device. The salesman had said I could take the old device, but I happily refused. Since it was in perfect working order (other than possibly being corrupt by an evil application, though I omitted that) he’d given me $60 cash for it. Glancing at the unmarked screen, I made a mental note to buy a phone case for whatever new model I had ended up buying. In my urgency I hadn’t thought much about protecting the new phone, as much as getting rid of the old one. I slipped the phone delicately into my purse, in the inner pocket, to avoid any contamination with the pocket touched by the previous device.
I slept well that night. Better than I had expected, as the anxiety had never fully subsided, even as I added my desired contacts and apps (no alarm, I would take my chances with my natural sleep schedule for now). But we both know I wouldn’t be writing here if this was the end of the story. And you can probably guess what happens next.
I awoke, at first with a normalcy that exists only in dreams, to the sound of piano keys. The phone was in my hand before I opened my eyes to the hazy, dim light of the winter morning. The sky outside was glowing a soft, almost plush looking shade of navy as the clouds enjoyed their extra hours without the sun.
And the AI message followed, as always, after the alarm.
24 Hours left. Ready?
And that was it.
I already checked my phone; the app isn’t downloaded. And it’s brand new, down to the SIM card. New number, not even connected to any of my social media yet.
So, I guess I have 24 hours to ask,
What the hell do I do next?