The Clockwork Hum

The summer we moved into Aunt Hester’s house, I was six and my sister, Clara, was eight. Our parents had to spend the summer in Switzerland for work, so we were sent to stay with our great-aunt in the hills of Vermont. The house was a sprawling Victorian with a wrap-around porch and a turret that looked like a witch’s hat. Aunt Hester was a thin, brittle woman who smelled of mothballs and lavender, and she spoke rarely, as if words were coins she didn’t want to spend.

Our bedroom was on the third floor, at the end of a long, creaking hallway. The room had a sloped ceiling and a single dormer window that overlooked the overgrown garden. Clara and I had twin beds with quilts that were older than our grandmother. The first night, I couldn’t sleep. The bed was too soft, and the house made noises—the ticking of a clock in the hallway, the groan of settling wood, and something else. A low, steady hum, like a giant tuning fork, vibrating through the floor. It was rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat. I asked Clara if she heard it. She sat up, listened, then shook her head. I lay awake, listening to the hum, and eventually it lulled me to a strange, dreamless sleep.

The next morning, I told Aunt Hester about the hum. She was peeling apples at the kitchen counter, her knife moving in precise strokes. She didn’t look at me. ‘That’s just the house settling, child.’ But her hands trembled, and she cut her finger. She wrapped it in a tea towel, and I noticed she was staring at the ceiling, her face pale.

Over the next weeks, the hum became a constant presence. It was strongest at night, but sometimes I could feel it during the day, especially when I stood in the hallway outside our room. I noticed the grandfather clock at the top of the stairs had stopped at 3:33, and no matter how many times Aunt Hester wound it, it never moved. I asked her about it, and she snapped, ‘Don’t touch that clock.’

Clara began to change. She was always the adventurous one, always exploring, but now she would sit for hours in the dormer window, staring at the garden, a blank look on her face. When I tried to play with her, she’d say, ‘Not now, I’m listening.’ I asked her what she was listening to. She just smiled, a thin, tight smile, and said, ‘The hum.’

One afternoon, I was in the hallway, and I noticed the door to the attic, which had always been locked, was slightly ajar. I pushed it open. A narrow staircase spiraled up into darkness. The hum was louder here, and I felt a vibration in the floorboards. I climbed the stairs, heart pounding. At the top, there was a small, dusty room with a single window. The walls were covered in old photographs, all of the same woman—young, with dark hair and a sad smile. Beneath the window, there was a music box. It was open, and a tiny ballerina was spinning, but there was no music, just a low hum. The ballerina’s face had been scratched out.

I ran back down and told Aunt Hester. She was in the kitchen, but she wasn’t moving. She was staring at the wall, her eyes wide. ‘You saw her?’ she whispered. ‘Who?’ I asked. ‘Eleanor,’ she said. ‘My sister.’ I didn’t know she had a sister. Aunt Hester told me that Eleanor had died in this house, many years ago, when she was just a girl. She had fallen down the stairs, right at the spot where the clock stood. Her neck had broken. Aunt Hester was the one who found her. She had been playing with her music box in the attic.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The hum was louder than ever, and it felt like it was coming from inside my head. I got up and walked to the hallway. The grandfather clock was gone. In its place was a dark shape, a silhouette of a girl. It was Eleanor. She was standing there, her head tilted at an unnatural angle, a faint smile on her lips. ‘You can hear me,’ she said. Her voice was like the hum, vibrating through me. ‘You can see me. She made me quiet, but you can hear.’

I tried to scream, but no sound came out. Eleanor moved closer, and I saw her neck was broken, a deep gash. ‘She locked me in the attic,’ she said. ‘She didn’t want me to tell. But you can tell. You can tell the truth.’ Then she started to hum. The same tune I couldn’t place, but now I recognized it—it was a lullaby. My mother used to sing it to me.

Eleanor began to fade, and the hum grew to a crescendo, then stopped. The clock reappeared, its pendulum swinging, but the time still said 3:33. I ran back to the bedroom, shaking. Clara was sitting up, her face pale. ‘I saw her too,’ she said. ‘She spoke to me. She said she’s been waiting for someone to listen.’

We told Aunt Hester the next morning. She broke down, sobbing. She admitted she had locked Eleanor in the attic, but not because she was angry. Eleanor had fallen, and Aunt Hester blamed herself. She couldn’t bear to look at her, so she shut the door and never opened it again. But she never forgot. The hum, she said, was Eleanor’s voice, trying to be heard.

That summer, we learned the truth. And we never told anyone. We didn’t know how. But the hum never stopped, not for the rest of our stay. And when we left, Aunt Hester gave us the music box. It still doesn’t play music, but if you hold it to your ear, you can hear the hum, like a heartbeat, a voice, waiting for someone to listen.

I’m grown now, and Clara is too. We don’t talk about it. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I still hear that hum. And sometimes, I think I hear Eleanor’s voice, whispering, ‘You can tell. You can tell the truth.’ But I don’t. Because some secrets are best left buried.

Yet, I can’t shake the feeling that Eleanor isn’t done. She wanted to be heard, and she chose us. Perhaps she’s still waiting. And perhaps, one day, I’ll have the courage to set her free.