One summer

Every year, my family visits my grandfather’s cabin near a lake. It’s deep in the forest, far from any big town. There are a few other cabins, and we all grew up spending summers together, running through the woods until late at night.

One summer, when I was fifteen, something strange happened.

We always played games in the open field near the trees. That night, we were playing Tag in the dark. Since some younger kids got scared easily, we had a rule—if anyone got too frightened, they’d clap three times, and we’d stop to find them.

It was close to midnight when we started a new game. The trees stood tall and thick, and only our flashlights lit the way. As I ran, I suddenly heard humming.

At first, it was soft, just drifting through the trees. Someone was humming a slow, strange tune. But here’s the thing—nobody should’ve been out there. Our cabins were far from the roads, and there was no reason for a stranger to be wandering the forest so late.

I looked at my cousin, and we both knew something wasn’t right. We clapped three times, signaling everyone to stop and gather. The humming got louder, like someone was coming closer. But we saw no one.

Then, just like that—it stopped. The woods went silent. No wind, no insects, nothing. It felt like the whole forest was frozen.

We ran back to the cabin, feeling uneasy. My cousin and I made sure everyone was safe inside.

The next night, at exactly 11:17 PM, we heard it again. The same humming, slow and steady, coming from the trees. Again, we gathered everyone, and again, it stopped after a minute.

That was seven years ago. We never heard it again. But whenever I think about it, I still hear that tune in my head. And I still don’t know who—or what—was singing.