The Hollow Hum

We moved into the old farmhouse in early spring, when the mud on the lane was still soft and the fields around us were bare. I was six, and my brother Sam was four. Our parents had inherited the place from a distant aunt, and they were thrilled to escape the city for the quiet of rural Vermont. But quiet was not what we found. There was a constant hum, a low drone that seemed to come from the earth itself, especially at night. I mentioned it to my parents once, and they said it was just the wind in the power lines. But there weren’t any power lines for miles.

The house itself was charming in a dilapidated way, with a wide porch and a weathervane that creaked. But the previous owner, old Mrs. Harlow, had died in the house, and the realtor had been strangely eager to sell. Our favorite spot was the enormous attic, which we used as our playroom. It was musty and filled with old furniture draped in white sheets, and it felt like a secret world. But after dusk, the attic took on a different character. The shadows seemed to move, and the hum was always louder up there. Sam refused to go up alone, and I felt a chill I couldn’t explain.

One sweltering July night, I couldn’t sleep. The hum was particularly insistent, a vibration that seemed to resonate in my bones. I got up to get a glass of water and passed the attic door. It was slightly ajar, which was strange because we always kept it shut. A thin, pale light seeped from the crack, and the hum was now a distinct thrum, like a giant’s heartbeat. My heart pounded, but something compelled me to push the door open. The attic was bathed in an eerie glow, not from any lamp, but from the air itself. In the center, where there had been nothing before, stood an old upright piano, its keys yellowed and dusty.

I had never seen that piano before. I approached it slowly, the hum now filling my head. On the music stand was a sheet of music, yellowed and brittle, with a single line of notes. They were written in a shaky hand, and the title at the top read ‘The Hollow Hum.’ As I stared, the keys began to move on their own, playing the melody slowly and mournfully. My breath caught, and I tried to back away, but my feet felt glued to the floor. The music swelled, and I felt a presence behind me. A cold whisper in my ear said, ‘You can hear it too, can’t you?’

I spun around, but there was no one there. The piano stopped, and the room fell into darkness. I stumbled downstairs and woke my parents. They went up, but found nothing. They said I had a nightmare. But the next day, I went back, and the piano was gone. Yet the hum remained, and I knew that the house was not empty. It was haunted by a sound, a vibration that had been here long before us, and it wanted to be heard. I never went back to the attic alone, and we moved away by autumn. But even now, in the dead of night, I sometimes wake to that low hum, and I know it will follow me forever.