The Constant Hum

I was nine, maybe ten, the summer we moved into the old farmhouse on Mulberry Lane. It wasn’t the first house we’d lived in, but it was the first one that felt like it had a pulse. My parents bought it from an estate sale, and the realtor had been eager to get rid of it. ‘Character,’ she kept saying, as if the sagging porch and peeling paint were features, not warnings.

The house was a two-story Victorian, set back from the road, surrounded by overgrown hedges that seemed to swallow the yard. My room was at the top of the stairs, the first door on the left. It had a window that overlooked the backyard, where an old oak tree scraped its branches against the glass on windy nights. The hallway stretched past two other bedrooms and ended at a bathroom with a clawfoot tub.

We had a dog, a golden retriever named Biscuit. He was usually a cheerful, boisterous animal, but from the moment we walked in, he was different. He refused to go upstairs. He would stand at the foot of the stairs, whining, his tail between his legs. We thought it was just the new smell, new sounds. But he never shook it off.

The first night, I couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t the novelty of a new room; it was the noise. A low, constant hum, like a refrigerator, but deeper, more insistent. It seemed to come from the walls themselves. I pressed my ear to the wall, but the sound was everywhere. I tried to ignore it, pulling the covers over my head, but the hum vibrated through the mattress, through my bones.

I got up and went to the bathroom. The hallway was dark, but I knew the light switch was near the bathroom door. As I flipped it on, the hum stopped. The silence was sudden and oppressive, ringing in my ears. I stood there for a moment, listening. Nothing. I did my business, washed my hands, and turned off the light. The hum returned instantly, as if it had been waiting.

I went back to my room, but the hum was louder now. It seemed to come from inside my closet. I opened the door, half expecting something to be there. The closet was empty, just a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. But the hum was definitely louder in there. I closed the door and backed away.

The next morning, I told my parents about the noise. My father shrugged. ‘Old houses make noises. Settling.’ My mother gave me a worried look, but she didn’t say anything. Biscuit still wouldn’t go upstairs. He spent his days in the kitchen, lying on the linoleum, staring at the ceiling.

The hum continued every night. It was always there, a monotone drone, sometimes barely audible, sometimes so loud I could feel it in my teeth. I tried sleeping with music on, but the hum cut through it. I tried putting pillows over my head, but it was no use. I started to feel like I was going crazy.

One night, I woke to silence. The hum was gone. I sat up, wondering what had changed. The room was dark, but I could see the faint outline of the furniture. Then I heard something else: a scratching sound, coming from the closet. It was rhythmic, like fingers dragging across wood. I held my breath. The scratching stopped, and the closet door creaked open.

I didn’t want to look, but I couldn’t help it. In the darkness of the closet, I saw a pair of eyes. They were yellow, slanted, and they were looking at me. A voice, low and gravelly, spoke from the closet: ‘You are not welcome here.’

I screamed. I ran to the light switch, but it didn’t work. I stumbled out of the room, down the hall, to my parents’ bedroom. I burst in, shaking. ‘There’s something in my closet!’ My father groaned, but my mother got up and led me back to my room. She flicked the switch, and the light worked. The closet was closed. She opened it. Empty. She sat on my bed. ‘It was just a dream, sweetie.’ But I knew it wasn’t.

I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. I lay in bed, staring at the closet door. The hum had started again, but it was different now. It was lower, more ominous. I felt like the house was pulsing with it, like a heart beating.

The next day, I decided to investigate the source of the hum. I looked under my bed, behind the dresser, in the attic hatch. I even put my ear to the walls and followed the sound. It seemed to lead me to the basement door in the kitchen. I had never been down there. The door was locked, but I found the key on a ring in the pantry. When I opened the door, the hum grew louder. It was coming from down there.

I stood at the top of the stairs. The basement was damp and dark, and the stairs were wooden and rickety. But I had to know. I took one step, then another. The stairs creaked. The hum enveloped me. At the bottom, I saw a workbench, old tools, and in the corner, a furnace. The hum was coming from the furnace, but it was off. I walked closer. The metal was cold. Then I noticed a small, square hole in the wall behind the furnace, just big enough for a child to crawl into.

I got on my hands and knees and peered in. It was too dark to see anything. But I could feel something. A breath of cold air. And the hum was coming from inside that hole. I reached in, my hand brushing against something soft. It felt like hair. I yanked my hand back, and as I did, I felt a grip on my wrist. Something was holding me.

I screamed and pulled with all my might. The grip was strong, but I was stronger. I yanked my hand free and scrambled up the stairs. I slammed the basement door and locked it. I ran to my room, my heart pounding. Biscuit was at the bottom of the stairs, growling.

I didn’t tell my parents. They would think I was lying. But I knew what I felt. And the hum was louder than ever that night. It was almost unbearable. I lay in bed, the covers over my head, praying for morning.

That night, I had a dream. I was in the basement, crawling through the hole. It was a tunnel, leading to a small dirt room. In the center, there was a wooden box, child-sized. I opened it. Inside was a doll, but it wasn’t a doll. It was a girl, mummified. Her hair was long and brown, and her eyes were open. She was staring at me, and her lips moved, forming words I couldn’t hear. But I understood. She had been there for a hundred years, forgotten, abandoned. She was lonely. She wanted me to stay.

I woke up screaming. The sun was rising. The hum was gone. But I knew it would be back. And I knew that the girl wasn’t going to let me go.

We moved out a month later. My parents said it was for ‘a better school district,’ but I knew the truth. They had heard the hum too. They had seen Biscuit’s fear. And one night, my mother screamed in her sleep. She never said what she dreamt.

I still hear the hum sometimes, in quiet moments. It reminds me of that house, of that closet, of the basement. And I know, wherever I go, that girl will find me. She always does.