The Hollow Tune of the Aurora

It was late September, five years ago, when the birch trees along the ridge turned brittle and pale, like the fingers of a dead woman. I’d come to stay with my grandmother in her old farmhouse just outside the village of Thornewood, waiting for my sister’s funeral the next day. She’d died in a car crash on the highway near the coast, not even a week ago. The house had a peculiar quiet to it, as if the walls had absorbed every sound that had ever been made within them and were holding their breath.

I was sitting in the upstairs loft, a converted space with a low sloped ceiling and a window that faced the woods. My friend Marius had driven out to keep me company, though we’d barely spoken. We’d been watching an old German thriller on the dusty television, the kind with grainy images and dubbed voices that didn’t quite match the lips. It was almost one in the morning when the film ended, and the screen flickered to a silver static. I reached for the remote to turn it off, but Marius put his hand on my arm. ‘Listen,’ he said.

I heard it then: a low, resonant hum, like the drone of a cello string, coming from outside. It was not loud, but it was deep, and it seemed to vibrate through the floorboards and up into my teeth. We both got up and went to the window. The moon was bright, casting pale shadows across the yard. Beyond the fence, the birches stood in a crescent, their trunks like white bones. The hum grew a little stronger, and then I noticed something odd: the air around the trees seemed to shimmer, a faint wavering, as if heat was rising off the ground, though the night was cold.

Marius whispered, ‘What is that?’ I shook my head, not wanting to speak. The shimmer began to coalesce, forming a shape: a column of pale light, about six feet tall, that pulsed gently in time with the hum. It was not a solid thing, but it had a presence, a weight. I felt a pull, an inexplicable urge to walk toward it, to step into that light. Marius grabbed my shoulder. ‘Don’t,’ he said, his voice tight. ‘Something’s not right.’

We watched for what felt like minutes, though it might have been seconds. The hum changed, becoming something like a melody, a series of notes that seemed to form a tune I’d never heard but recognized deep in my bones. It was a sorrowful tune, the kind you might hum at a graveside. And then, as if it had been waiting for us to hear it, the light began to move, gliding between the trees, and the hum faded until it was just the wind again. We stood there, breathing hard. ‘We have to see what that was,’ Marius said. I told him no, that it was probably just some atmospheric thing, but my voice didn’t sound like my own. I think I knew it wasn’t natural.

The next day, after the funeral, I couldn’t shake the memory. My grandmother, a woman of few words, noticed my distraction. Over a cup of tea, she asked what was wrong. I didn’t want to alarm her, but I described the light and the hum. Her face went pale, and she set down her cup. ‘You saw the aurora,’ she said. ‘It comes when someone is about to die. It’s been in this family for generations. Your grandfather saw it before his brother died. I saw it before my mother passed. It sings their favorite song, the one they loved most in life.’ I felt cold. ‘It was humming a tune,’ I said. ‘What was it singing?’ Grandmother looked at me, her eyes suddenly wet. ‘It was singing your sister’s lullaby, the one I used to sing to her when she was small. But she’s already gone, so why would it come again?’

I didn’t know what to say. I went to bed early, but I couldn’t sleep. I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house creak. Around two in the morning, I heard the hum again, coming from outside. I got up, my heart pounding, and went to the window. The light was there, closer than before, now standing at the edge of the yard, just beyond the fence. It seemed to be waiting. I felt the pull again, stronger now, and I had the uncanny feeling that it wanted me to follow. I thought of my sister, how she’d always been the brave one, how she’d dared me to climb the old water tower when I was ten. I opened the window.

The hum swelled, and the light brightened, and I climbed out onto the roof and dropped to the ground below. The grass was cold under my bare feet. The light did not move, but I felt it beckoning. I walked toward it, and as I drew near, the melody became clear: it was my sister’s lullaby, but there was a wrong note in it, a discordant tone that made my skin crawl. I stopped a few feet away. The light pulsed, and I heard a voice, not quite human, that seemed to come from everywhere: ‘You are not the one. Go back.’

The hum stopped suddenly, and the light vanished, leaving me in darkness. I stood there, frozen, a cold wind sweeping through the yard. I heard a rustling, and then from the direction of the birch trees, a sound like a child’s soft laugh. I turned and ran back to the house, climbing through the window, my hands shaking. Marius was in the loft, his face white. ‘I saw you from the window,’ he said. ‘You were talking to it. It… it told you to go back.’ I collapsed onto the couch. ‘It said I’m not the one,’ I whispered. ‘But if not me, then who?’

We didn’t sleep that night. We sat in the loft, watching the window, but the light did not return. The next morning, I told my grandmother what had happened, how it spoke. She grew very still. ‘It has never spoken before,’ she said. ‘At least not to anyone I know. But there are old stories, about the aurora being a guide for the dying. It comes to lead a soul, but if you hear it speak, it means the soul is not ready. It will keep coming until it finds the one it’s meant for.’ I felt a chill. ‘What if it’s meant for someone who isn’t dying?’ I asked. Grandmother shook her head. ‘It only appears when death is near. But who is near death now?’

Marius had to leave that afternoon. I walked him to his car, and he hugged me. ‘Be careful,’ he said. ‘I don’t like this. It feels like it’s waiting for something.’ I watched him drive away, and as his car disappeared down the road, I heard the hum again, faint, from the woods. That night, I stayed up, determined to understand. I searched the house for any records about the aurora, anything my grandmother might have kept. In an old chest in the attic, I found a journal, yellowed with age, written by my great-great-grandfather. It described similar encounters, but with more detail. He wrote of a ‘pale guide’ that would appear before a death, but also of a time when it appeared and spoke to him, saying ‘The blood line is thinning. A choice must be made.’ He wrote that he believed it was a guardian of the family, and that it required a soul to cross over, or it would take one itself.

I closed the journal, my mind racing. My sister’s death had occurred just before I arrived, but perhaps that had been a mistake, a misdirected call. The aurora might still be looking for its proper target. But who? I was the only other family member here. My grandmother was old but healthy. Could it be that it wanted me? But it said ‘You are not the one.’ So maybe it was her. But she was not dying; she was full of life despite her age.

That night, I waited by the window. At 1 AM, the hum returned, stronger, and the light appeared, now at the edge of the porch. I opened the door and stepped outside. The light pulsed warmly, and the melody was clearer: it was my sister’s lullaby, but the wrong note was gone, now perfect and sweet. I felt a deep sadness, and a peace. I took a step toward it. ‘What do you want?’ I asked. The light flickered, and I heard my sister’s voice, faint but unmistakable: ‘To bring you home.’ I froze. ‘But I’m not dying,’ I said. ‘No,’ the voice replied, ‘but you will be. That’s how it works. She sent me for you. She says it’s beautiful here.’

I felt tears streaming down my face. I thought of my sister, and how much I missed her. The light seemed to embrace me, and I felt a tug at my chest, like a hook, and I understood: the aurora was not a warning; it was a lure. It had taken my sister, and now it wanted me to join her. But something held me back. The memory of Marius’s face, the fear in my grandmother’s eyes, the unfinished life I still had. I stepped back. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not yet.’

The hum turned into a shriek, a sound that drove me to my knees, covering my ears. The light flared, blinding me, and then it was gone, leaving me in silence. I crawled back into the house and collapsed on the floor, shaking. The next morning, I found my grandmother in her chair, but she was cold and still. She had died in her sleep, a peaceful smile on her face. The aurora had taken her instead.

I moved away after that, but the fear never left. Sometimes, at night, I hear a distant hum, and I see a flicker of pale light at the edge of my vision. I have not searched the internet for others’ experiences, because I know now that this was not a random occurrence. It is a family affair. And I know, deep down, that the aurora will come for me again, when my time is near. And I can only hope that when it does, my sister will be there, and we will find that beautiful place together.

But until then, I live with the memory of that hollow tune, and the certain knowledge that some things are not meant to be understood. They are only meant to be feared.