The Buzzing Return

March 17, 2026

by Connor

In the autumn of 2011, I lost my border collie, Bram, to a sudden seizure disorder. He was only five, and his death was so unexpected that I felt the world had tilted off its axis. Bram was my constant companion, a gentle soul who would rest his head on my lap whenever I wept. The night he died, I whispered into the darkness of my small apartment, ‘Please come back to me, just once, so I can say goodbye.’ I was a firm believer in the supernatural, a collector of ghost stories, and I foolishly thought I could summon a memory, a dream, a sign.

Three nights later, I woke to a buzzing, not from my phone or the flickering streetlight outside, but from within my own skull. It was a low, persistent hum, like a trapped fly against glass, and it grew louder as I tried to move. My limbs were leaden, pinned to the mattress by an invisible weight. I could see the familiar outline of my room, the pale moonlight casting long shadows from the bookshelf, but everything felt wrong, as if the air had thickened into gel.

In the corner, by my closet door, a darker shape began to coalesce. It wasn’t Bram; it was a silhouette that shifted and swirled like smoke, with two faint, glowing embers where eyes should be. The buzzing morphed into a distortion, a garbled voice that seemed to speak in broken syllables, ‘You… called…’ My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. I wanted to scream, but my throat was sealed.

The shape drifted closer, and I felt a cold, paralyzing pressure on my chest, as if it sat upon me. The voice clarified, no longer a buzz but a rasping whisper that scraped my eardrums: ‘I came to take you with me.’ In that moment, I realized my mistake. I had not summoned Bram’s gentle spirit; I had opened a door to something older, something hungry. The entity’s form began to solidify, revealing a distorted canine face, but with too many teeth, and eyes that held no love, only a bottomless void.

With every ounce of will I possessed, I forced my lips to move, and I choked out the words, ‘You’re not him. Leave.’ The buzzing spiked to a piercing shriek, and the pressure eased. The silhouette unraveled, dispersing like smoke into the ceiling. I gasped for air, drenched in sweat, and found I could move again. The room was silent, the streetlight steady, but a lingering chill clung to my skin.

I never spoke of that night to anyone who would believe me, and I stopped seeking paranormal evidence. I learned that some doors should remain closed, and that grief, if not tended with care, can summon things far worse than a memory. Bram never visited me again, and for that, I am grateful. The buzzing return, however, still haunts my quietest nights, a reminder that some invitations are better left unmade.

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