There's an app for that

After Lucy committed suicide, she began to haunt Don Stafford’s mobile phone. In his opinion, that only confirmed what an ungrateful bitch she really was.
That mobile was a state of the art razor-thin playing-card size triumph of cool design and advanced technology. It was Don’s best friend
and constant companion. Using the camera function one day to take an embarrassing view of a female colleague, he was about to email it to all the men in the office when he saw the picture.
It was Lucy, pale and dead, holding up her slit wrists with a ghastly smile.
“Oh, very nice, Brad, very tasteful.”
“What are you drivelling about?”
Don leaned across and displayed the screen to his neighbour. Brad
Clinger was a colleague of some five years standing and often the two had duelled practical jokes.
“This! Poor taste, dude.”
Brad gave it only a glance. “Well, you wanted that colour.” He looked across to Don’s desk.”You all right?”
The picture was of Don’s new vermilion Ferrari.
Later that day in a business meeting, the phone rang with a “Guns n’ Roses “ theme tune. Don’s boss glared across and he blushed. “I swear I turned it off boss!”
“Answer the damn thing then!”
Don went to the back of the room. “Hello?”
“Don, darling! Can we talk?”
“Lucy? Bloody Hell, who is that?” He stopped. Boss and customer were staring at him. “Sorry, crank call.”
That night, she called twelve times. He got no sleep, and made several mistakes next day that nearly cost him an account.
“Beginning to look frazzled, Donny,” Jimmy the Schneid sneered. “Pressure getting to you?”
Don made a rude gesture. ”Up yours.”
The offices of Masterman and Son were a very combative environment
in which men like Don normally thrived. Sales targets were macho points and boasting and put downs encouraged. Now, a grey pall settled over Don that he could not shake.
'He’s losing it,” he heard someone whisper.
He got the train in the following day, fearful to drive. The phone rang.
“Stafford.”
“Darling! When are you coming home? What did the police say?”
Don screamed and threw the phone across the carriage, putting his head in his hands, trembling. The other people in the carriage quickly moved as far away as they could.
“Sorry, Don.” The tech said. “There’s no alteration to your phone’s circuits. Maybe someone hacked into the program somehow.”
Don stared glumly at the phone screen. It said “DEATH-THERE’S AN APP FOR THAT.”
“Can that be done?”
“Only in Hollywood, usually, it would require a lot of money and an intense hatred for you.”
Form a queue of suspects, you smug git, The engineer did not say.
Stafford determined to track down the hacker and destroy him. Revenge, in his view, was best served hot.

Ring. Stafford forgot to be afraid in his intense fury, and answered the phone.
“Darling, why did you murder me? I was in the bath, getting ready for you. I’d told you-our little surprise- and you cut my throat. Why did you cut my throat? Didn’t you want our baby?”
Stafford remembered the surge of pure fear when she’d told him. Commitment? Fatherhood? No way! But even if he dumped her, she’d slap a paternity suit on him and take his money. His money! The little bitch was trying to trap him!He’d been drunk. He didn’t remember much-but somehow he’d got away with it. It was her fault anyway.
'Mr Stafford!” The icy, furious voice cut through to him. It was Mrs Scott, one of hi“s best customers.”Mr Stafford, I am trying to give you an order and you babble and scream at me. You must be drunk or crazy. I will now speak to your boss and tell him exactly what I think.”
He dropped the phone limply into the wastebasket, aware of the curious stares of his colleagues. Jimmy the Schneid sniggered.
That afternoon, as he was driving to see a client, he received a text message saying he had been dismissed for “persistent drunkenness and disruptive behaviour.” At that moment the phone rang and he rammed the car into a tree, severely damaging the left front wing.
“That’s –“ he paused. Hadn’t he thrown the phone in the wastebasket?
Could it escape from the river? He hurled the thing with all his strength and stumbled in search of a taxi. He would get a new phone. A blank one with no ghosts. Another company would take him on like a shot.
That evening, after waiting until his colleagues had left, he went in to clean out his desk. There in the drawer was the phone. He wasn’t surprised. He turned on the camera feature and she was there, mouldering, smiling at him. He felt sick.
“What do you want?” he pleaded.
“To be together for eternity,” she came back with a sinister smile.
“Yeah?” Stafford’s face twisted in a manic smile. ”Eternity this, bitch!”
He plunged the screwdriver violently into the phone, and instantly a colossal bolt of energy shot up his arm and stopped his heart. No natural phone had so much power: but that knowledge did him no good at all.

He was in a vast, dark, cold space, and Lucy was there, oozing, smiling at him with both red mouths.
“Together, forever, darling,” she smiled. “Kiss me.”
“Amazing,” Samantha said some days later. ”They found him still clutching that damn phone in his cold, dead hand.”
Barney hefted it. ”Yep, it’s a cool phone. There’s nothing wrong with it, except that all the information on it is deleted.”
“Strange. Did he leave it to you?”
“No, his mother said she didn’t want the damn thing. I’ve got no horrors about it. I never liked the creep anyway.”
“I thought you were his friend.”
“Bastard had no friends Samantha, sometimes I sucked up to him to advance my career. No one liked that dirt bag.” He hefted the phone curiously. ”Odd thing. The only record left on the phone was this.”
The movie clip showed Stafford, screaming and apparently banging on the phone screen, while the zombie Lucy extended bony fingers to caress his cheek.
She looked up for just a moment, and her dead eyes met Barney’s. He shuddered.
“Typical of that sick bastard,” he said. “Better delete this too.”

CLICK.