The Constant Hum

August 20, 2012

by Chris

In the summer of 2019, my grandmother, Lola Ising, lay in a room that used to be our laundry room, converted for her failing body. Our house in Pampanga was old, with walls that sweat in the heat, and a persistent low hum from the water pump that no one could fix. Lola Ising was a devout Catholic, her rosary never far from her fingers, but she also spoke of the *engkanto* who lived in the *balete* tree by the river and the *tiyanak* that cried like a baby in the cane fields. As a child, I thought she was just a superstitious old woman, but now, at twenty-three, I had come to believe her stories were more than just tales.

She had suffered two strokes and could no longer climb the stairs, so we cleared out the storage space beside the kitchen. My younger brother, Paolo, and I took turns staying with her at night, but we both hated it. The room had a single window that faced a dense grove of bamboo, and the hum from the water pump was louder there, a constant, almost musical drone that invaded your bones. The neighbors had warned us about the house, saying that the last owner had gone mad after hearing whispers in the walls, but we ignored them. For me, it had always been a place of comfort, filled with the scent of Lola’s cooking and the sound of her humming old lullabies.

The first night I was alone with her, she gripped my hand with surprising strength. ‘The hum is not from the pump, anak,’ she said, her voice a dry rasp. ‘It is the earth singing. It knows we are here. It is waiting.’ I just nodded, patting her hand, and turned up the TV to drown out the noise. But the hum seemed to seep through the speakers, a low thrumming just beneath the broadcast. I fell asleep in the armchair, exhausted, and dreamed of roots growing through my feet, anchoring me to the ground.

The next morning, Lola Ising was worse. Her skin was pale, and she kept muttering about ‘the one who walks through walls.’ Paolo, who had come to relieve me, laughed nervously. ‘She’s just dreaming, Ate.’ But I noticed that the water pump hummed louder than before, even when no one was using water. I tried to ignore it, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching us from the bamboo grove.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay on the floor mat, listening to the hum, which had taken on a rhythmic quality, like a heartbeat. Lola Ising was awake, her eyes fixed on the corner of the ceiling. ‘He is here,’ she whispered. ‘He has been counting our breaths.’ I followed her gaze, but saw only shadows. Yet, I felt a presence, a weight in the air, and the temperature dropped. The hum rose to a crescendo, and then fell silent. In the silence, I heard a faint scratching, like fingernails on the wall, coming from inside the room.

I flicked on the flashlight, but the beam revealed nothing. Lola Ising began to cough violently, and when she stopped, she spoke in a voice that was not her own, a deep, resonant voice that made my blood chill. ‘You have been chosen, child. The house is hungry.’ I stumbled back, hitting the wall, and the voice laughed, a sound like stones grinding. Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone, and Lola Ising was herself again, exhausted and gasping.

I ran to get my uncle, who was sleeping in the main house, but when we returned, Lola Ising was dead. The doctor said it was heart failure, but I knew better. As they took her body away, I noticed that the water pump had started humming again, but now it was a mournful tune, almost like the lullabies she used to sing. I haven’t slept in that house since. I moved to the city, but the hum follows me. It’s in the air conditioning, in the refrigerator, in the hum of the city itself. And sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear that deep voice whispering, ‘You are chosen,’ and I know the earth is still waiting.

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