The Hollow Hum of Interstate 9

The summer I turned sixteen, my parents dragged my younger brother to my aunt’s anniversary party in the next county. I begged off, claiming a stomach ache and a mountain of summer reading. My mom, a worrier by nature, made me promise: stay inside, lock the doors, don’t answer for anyone, and if the phone rings, never say I’m alone. I rolled my eyes, agreed, and they left at dusk, their car’s taillights winking out at the end of our gravel drive.

Our house sat at the edge of a dying town called Pemberton, a place where the interstate’s constant hum was the only lullaby. The nearest neighbor was a half-mile down the road, and beyond that, nothing but scrubland and the skeletal remains of an old drive-in theater. I had the whole place to myself, and I intended to enjoy it. I cranked my music, microwaved a questionable burrito, and spread my textbooks across the kitchen table as a token effort before collapsing onto the living room couch with my phone.

My best friend, Lena, lived on the other side of town, near the old water tower. She was on the phone with me, gossiping about the popular kids who were skateboarding in her cul-de-sac. I laughed at her play-by-play, half-listening, when she suddenly went quiet. ‘Hey,’ she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘There’s a car parked at the end of the street. A white van. It’s been there for a while.’

I shrugged, pulling at a loose thread on the couch cushion. ‘Probably someone lost. Or maybe the Millers are getting a delivery.’ But a chill ran up my spine. The Millers were on vacation. And the street she described was a dead end. ‘What’s it doing now?’ I asked.

‘Nothing. Just sitting there. The windows are tinted. I can’t see inside.’ She paused. ‘Okay, it’s pulling away now. Weird.’ I tried to laugh it off, but the image stuck in my head like a burr. We talked for another hour, the conversation drifting to school and music, until Lena’s mom called her for dinner. I hung up, and the house suddenly felt too big, too quiet.

I turned the TV on for background noise, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. I walked through the house, checking locks for the third time. The front door was solid, the windows latched. I pulled the curtains tight, sealing myself in a cocoon of lamplight. The interstate’s hum was louder than usual, a low, vibrating drone that seemed to seep through the walls. I told myself it was just the AC, or the old refrigerator, and settled onto the couch with a book.

At around 9:30, the phone rang. The sharp trill made me jump. My parents said they’d call when they got there, but they’d already done that an hour ago. I let it ring, counting the rings. On the fourth, I picked up, remembering my mom’s rule. ‘Hello?’ I said, trying to sound casual, like I had a house full of people behind me.

There was a crackle, then a voice. It was low, male, and oddly smooth. ‘Is this the residence of the Marlow family?’ My heart skipped. My last name wasn’t Marlow. I said nothing. The voice continued. ‘I’m calling about a package delivery. The address on the label says this house, but the name isn’t matching. Could you confirm your name, please?’

I tightened my grip on the receiver. ‘Sorry, wrong number.’ I hung up. My hands were shaking. That was a lie, I was sure of it. No delivery service calls that late. I unplugged the phone from the wall, a foolish, superstitious act, but it made me feel better.

The hum from the interstate grew louder. It wasn’t just a sound anymore; it was a vibration in the floor, in my teeth. I went to the kitchen for a glass of water, and that’s when I saw it through the window above the sink: a white van, parked at the end of our gravel drive, its headlights off, its engine idling, sending a faint tremor through the ground. My blood ran cold. I dropped the glass, which shattered on the tile, and I stood frozen, watching the van.

The van didn’t move. It just sat there, like a predator waiting. I ducked below the counter, my heart pounding so loud I thought it would give me away. I crawled to the front window and peered through a gap in the curtains. The van was still there. I could see a silhouette in the driver’s seat, head turned toward the house.

I had to get out. But my car keys were on the kitchen table, and the doors were locked. I wouldn’t make it. I frantically dialed my parents on my cell phone, but it went straight to voicemail. I texted Lena: ‘White van outside my house. Call the police.’ She didn’t reply. I was completely alone.

The van’s engine revved. Then, slowly, it pulled forward, turning into my driveway. I heard the crunch of gravel as it came closer, then stopped. The headlights turned off. The engine died. Silence, except for the eternal hum of the interstate.

I pressed my back against the wall, trying to make myself as small as possible. What was he doing? Why was he just sitting there? Minutes crawled by. Then, I heard a metallic click from the side of the house, like someone testing the kitchen window. I bit my fist to keep from screaming. Another click, then a rattle. He was trying to get in.

I crept to the kitchen, grabbing a heavy cast-iron skillet from the stove. I crouched behind the island, gripping the handle so tightly my knuckles paled. The window above the sink was one of those old single-pane jobs, and I could see the silhouette of a hand against the glass, trying to slide it open. It was locked, but the latch was flimsy. I watched, frozen, as the hand moved away.

A loud bang shook the front door. Then another. He was kicking it. I screamed involuntarily, a choked sound. The kicking stopped. A voice, muffled through the wood, called out: ‘I know you’re in there. I just want to talk.’ I didn’t believe him. I backed away, clutching the skillet, and ran to my parents’ bedroom, locking the door behind me. I shoved a chair under the knob, my hands shaking so much I could barely manage it.

I huddled in the corner of the closet, wrapped in my mom’s heavy coat, phone clutched to my chest. The house fell silent again. I didn’t know if he’d gone or was just waiting. I called 911, but my hands were so sweaty I dropped the phone twice. When the dispatcher answered, I whispered, ‘There’s a man trying to break into my house. I’m alone. Please help.’ The dispatcher asked for my address, and I gave it, my voice trembling. She told me to stay on the line and that a unit was on its way. But I didn’t feel safe.

I could hear him moving around the outside of the house, testing doors, windows. I heard him at the back porch, and then a window shattering. The sound was impossibly loud. I held my breath, listening. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, crossing the kitchen. The floorboards creaked. He was inside.

I pressed my hand over my mouth, praying he wouldn’t find me. The footsteps came down the hallway, past the door. They stopped. I could see the shadow under the door, blocking the sliver of light. A hand twisted the knob, but the chair held. He pushed harder, and the frame groaned. ‘I just want to talk,’ he repeated, his voice calm, almost reassuring. ‘I know you’re scared, but it’ll be easier if you come out.’

I stayed silent. Then, his hand dropped. I heard him walk away, and then the creak of the stairs. He was going up to the attic. I didn’t know what was up there, but I knew I had to leave. I waited until the footsteps faded, then I unlocked the door, slowly, carefully, and crept out. I made it to the living room, and through the front window, I saw flashing red and blue lights approaching. Tears of relief streamed down my face.

But then I heard him behind me. He had come back down, faster than I expected. I spun around, and for the first time, I saw his face: young, unremarkable, a slight smile playing on his lips. He held a screwdriver, its tip glinting in the lamplight. ‘You’re the one who called them?’ he asked, and his voice was laced with amusement. ‘I was only trying to help. Your father sent me to check on the place. He was worried you were here alone.’

I didn’t believe him, but the police were banging on the door. I ran to open it, and he slipped out the back. The officers searched the house, but he was gone. They found the broken window, the kitchen mess, and the shattered glass. They told me it was probably a burglar, but they couldn’t find any signs of forced entry except the window.

My parents came home early, frightened by my frantic calls. I told them everything, but the police were never able to identify the man. No white van was ever found. The next day, I heard on the news about a break-in at a house ten miles away, where a family had been terrorized by a man claiming to be a delivery driver. But that was the last incident. Or so I thought.

Years later, I moved to a city far away, but I never forgot that night. Every time I hear the low hum of traffic, I think of that voice, that smile, and the way he said, ‘I know you’re here alone.’ And I wonder if, somewhere, he’s still out there, listening for the sound of a house that’s too quiet.