The Fourth Floor Hum

The day I moved into the old brick building on Maplewood, I had a feeling like an old wound. My fiancé, Carl, thought I was being dramatic—the way I paused at the foot of the stairs, the way I muttered a half-hearted prayer I didn’t believe in. But I had to admit, the place had charm: creaky wooden floors, tall windows that let in the afternoon light, and a rent that didn’t require selling a kidney. We were starting a family, and this was our first real nest.

I was six months pregnant then, and the climb to the fourth floor became my daily penance. Each step felt heavier, as if the air itself thickened. I’d joke that the baby would come out with calf muscles, but Carl never laughed. He’d carry the groceries, his face flushed, and say nothing. Our neighbors kept to themselves—just a nod in the hallway, a quick glance. The old woman in 4B, Mrs. Kowalski, sometimes stood in her doorway, watching. One day she said, ‘You’re going to feel things, dear. Things that aren’t the baby.’ I smiled and dismissed it, but her eyes were gray like the winter sky.

It started with the camera. I loved taking belly photos—my roundness in the mirror, our tabby, Miso, curled on my bump. In nearly every photo, there was a smudge: a fog over the lens, a floating ball of light. I thought it was dust, or a smudge on the glass. Carl said I was seeing things. But the smudges weren’t random. They always hovered near my abdomen, as if something was watching the new life inside me.

Then the house began to whisper. Not words, exactly, but a low, guttural hum that vibrated through the walls at night. It was strongest in our bedroom, where the ceiling had a water stain shaped like a crooked smile. The air was thick, and I felt a weight on my chest when I tried to sleep. I’d lie awake, one hand on my belly, and the hum would grow louder, like a thousand bees. Carl slept through it, but I saw him twitch, as if he felt something brush his face.

One night, I must have dozed off. I woke to a pressure on my stomach, not like the baby kicking but like a cold hand pressing. I turned on the lamp, and the room was empty. But the shadows in the corner were darker than they should have been, and they seemed to breathe. I woke Carl, and he grumbled, checked the corners, and turned off the lamp. ‘You’re just stressed,’ he said. ‘Get some sleep.’ But I knew better.

The worse it got, the more I researched. I found out the building was once a tuberculosis sanitarium, and the fourth floor was the ward for the ‘incurables.’ Pregnant women were often sent there, and many died in the very bed I was sleeping in. The owners had renovated, but the walls couldn’t speak. That night, I heard a faint conversation in the living room, too low to make out, but it was the sound of a woman sobbing, and a man’s voice, soothing, patient. I grabbed a pillow and went to the living room, but the voices had stopped. Only the hum remained, a new note, like a crying child.

I began to see things in my peripheral vision—a figure standing by the window, a wisp of gray. I’d turn, and it would vanish. But the baby moved constantly, as if sensing something. I took photos of the empty rooms, and the mist was everywhere, now forming into shapes. In one, I swear I saw a woman’s face, her mouth open in a scream, pressed against the back of my favorite chair.

Carl finally believed me when he heard the voices himself. He’d stayed up late, watching TV, and at 1 AM, he heard a terrible argument in the kitchen, two angry voices, then the crash of dishes. He ran to the kitchen, but it was pristine. He called my name, but I was asleep. When he came to bed, his eyes were wet, and he whispered, ‘I heard them. They were talking about a baby. About taking a baby.’ We held each other all night, and the hum pulsed like a heartbeat.

The next morning, I decided we had to leave. I started packing, but as I lifted a box of baby clothes, I felt a sharp cramp. I doubled over, and Carl rushed me to the hospital. The doctors said it was just Braxton Hicks, but they kept me overnight for observation. Carl went home to get my overnight bag. When he came back, he was pale. He said, ‘I found this in the bedroom, under the floorboard.’ He held out a small, dust-covered photograph. It was a woman in a white gown, holding a cradle. Her face was blurred, but the strain in her neck was clear. And in the corner of the photo, the date: 1923. The same room. The same stain on the ceiling.

We never went back. We left everything—the furniture, the cat, our deposit. We moved in with my parents, and I slept with a nightlight for weeks. But the humming didn’t stop. It followed me. It was in the walls of my parents’ house, in the hum of the refrigerator, in the buzz of the lights. And sometimes, when I looked at the reflection in the window, I saw her—the woman in the photograph, her hand reaching out, her mouth forming the words, ‘Don’t bring the baby here.’

Our daughter was born in the summer, and she is healthy and beautiful. But she rarely cries, and when she stares into the corner of the room, she giggles as if someone is playing with her. Last week, I took a photo of her for my mother. In the corner of the photo, there was a mist. It had a shape, a face, and it was smiling.