The Constant Hum of the Marsh

The first thing I noticed was the hum. It wasn’t a sound you heard so much as felt, a low vibration that settled in my teeth and made the fillings ache. It started two weeks ago, right after the neighborhood association sent out that email about the ‘unusual growth’ in the marsh. But the hum wasn’t coming from the marsh. It was coming from my back porch, just beyond the door.

I live in a house that backs onto the edge of the Cattail Fen, a sprawling wetland that’s technically part of the county park, but really it’s just a forgotten stretch of mud and reeds that the local kids dare each other to enter. The old highway that runs by here, the one that used to be the main route before the interstate, is about a quarter mile away, and it’s been abandoned for decades. The only thing that moves along it now is the occasional security truck from the nearby rail yard, and the trains themselves rumble past every few hours, shaking the foundation of this old farmhouse.

When the hum started, I chalked it up to the trains. But the trains come and go. The hum stayed. It was constant, like a refrigerator motor, but deeper, more pervasive. And it pulsed with a rhythm that didn’t match my heartbeat or my breath.

My neighbor, an old retired marine named Hank, was the first to mention it. We were standing at the fence line, him deadheading his roses, me pretending to weed my overgrown garden. He said, ‘You feel that? That’s not normal.’ I nodded, not sure what to say. Then he added, ‘It’s coming from the fen. And I’ve seen something out there at night. Between the cattails. Something that hums.’

I didn’t ask what he meant. I just went back inside and closed the door, but the hum followed me. It was louder in the kitchen, right near the back door. I put my hand on the doorframe and felt it vibrate. There was a faint greenish glow seeping through the gap under the door, just a sliver, but it was there.

I decided to investigate the next morning. The fen is a confusing place, full of standing water and islands of peat that look solid but are actually floating mats of vegetation. I followed a deer trail that wound through the reeds, the hum growing louder with each step. Eventually, I came to a clearing where the water was black and still, and the reeds formed a perfect circle around a mound of dark, wet soil. On the mound was a stone, about the size of a bowling ball, covered in a thick layer of green moss. But the moss wasn’t just green. It pulsed with a faint, sickly light, in time with the hum.

As I approached, the stone seemed to shift. No, not shift. It vibrated, and the moss on top began to slough off, revealing a surface that was dark and smooth, like obsidian. The hum intensified, and I felt a pressure in my ears. I knelt down, and I saw my reflection in the stone, but it wasn’t my reflection. It was me, but my mouth was open in a silent scream, and my eyes were black.

I backed away, stumbled, and ran back to the house. When I got back, the hum was still there, but it was different. It was almost like it was expectant. I locked the back door and didn’t go out for two days.

On the third day, Hank didn’t show up to tend his roses. I knocked on his door, but no answer. I went around to the back, and his porch was empty, but the door to his kitchen was ajar. I pushed it open and called out. Nothing. The hum in here was even more pronounced, and I could see that his back door was covered in a thin film of green residue, the same pulsing moss from the stone. I followed a trail of the residue to the fen, to the same clearing. The stone was still there, but now it was larger, maybe the size of a car tire, and it had a fissure running through it, oozing a dark, viscous liquid that dripped into the water. And Hank was there, crouched by the stone, his hands pressed against its surface, his face almost touching it. He was humming. But it wasn’t a human hum. It was a low, guttural drone that matched the stone’s frequency.

I called his name, but he didn’t respond. I grabbed his shoulder, and he turned to look at me. His eyes were black, like the reflection in the stone, and his mouth opened, but no sound came out. Instead, the hum shifted, and I felt a voice in my head, not words, but a feeling, a command: ‘Join us. You are needed.’

I ran. I didn’t look back. I called the police, but when they came, the stone was gone. The clearing was just mud and water. Hank was found later, wandering along the old highway, disoriented, with no memory of what happened. But he kept saying the same thing, over and over: ‘The hum. The hum is the call.’

I haven’t gone to the fen since. But the hum is in my house. It’s in my walls, in my bones. I’ve tried to move, but my feet refuse. I’m writing this from my kitchen, with the back door locked and the shades drawn. The hum is louder tonight. And I saw the green light pulsing under the door again. It’s not just at the door anymore. It’s seeping through the cracks in the floorboards. It’s in the room. And I keep thinking about Hank’s black eyes, and the way he looked at me, not with malice, but with a terrible, desperate longing. He didn’t want to be there. He was compelled. And I feel that compulsion now, tugging at the back of my mind like a fishhook in a throat. It wants me to open the door. It wants me to go to the marsh. It wants me to touch the stone.

I don’t know if I can resist. But if you’re reading this, know that there’s a place where the world thins, where the hum of the marsh meets the silence of the abandoned highway. And if you ever hear that hum, don’t follow it. Don’t ever follow it. Because the marsh isn’t just a place. It’s a mouth, and it’s always hungry.