The Hum of the Overhead Lines

At sixteen, I was sleeping over at my friend Delia’s place in the dusty farm town of Morrow, where the only road, County Road 9, cut straight through cornfields and ended at the reservoir. Delia’s house was an old Victorian with a wraparound porch, and her bedroom faced the road, which at night was as silent as a grave. The nearest neighbor was half a mile away, and the only sound was the low, constant hum of the power lines strung overhead on wooden poles that marched along the roadside like silent sentinels.

It was late July, and the air was thick and warm, so Delia and I had pushed her bed right up against the open window, lying on our stomachs with our chins on the sill, watching the empty road. We were both sixteen, feeling rebellious, and Delia had sneaked a pack of cigarettes from her older brother. We took turns lighting up and blowing the smoke out into the night, watching it curl and vanish in the moonlight. ‘I dare you to touch the pole,’ Delia whispered, pointing to the nearest one, about twenty feet away, its wood grain rough and dark.

I laughed, but something about the way she said it made my skin prickle. ‘Why would I do that?’ I asked. She shrugged, taking a drag. ‘Because it’s there. And because I heard from the old lady who used to live here that kids who touch the pole at midnight hear the hum.’ I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the hum had grown just a little louder. I put out my cigarette and leaned out the window, stretching my arm toward the pole, my fingers just grazing the wood. At that moment, the hum stopped.

The silence was sudden and deafening, like the whole world had held its breath. Delia and I looked at each other, and I saw her face go pale even in the dim light. ‘Did you do that?’ she breathed. I shook my head, pulling my hand back as if burned. The air felt heavy, and the streetlight above us flickered, casting dancing shadows. Then, from down the road, where the darkness was thickest, came a sound—not a scream, but a low, rhythmic thumping, like a heartbeat, or bare feet running on asphalt.

We both froze, staring into the black. The thumping grew closer, and we could make out a shape—tall and thin, moving erratically, veering from side to side as if drunk or injured. As it passed under the next streetlight, we saw it clearly: a man, or what used to be a man, with skin that hung loose and gray, and eyes that were empty sockets. He walked with a limp, dragging one leg, and his mouth was open in a silent wail. He stopped directly beneath the streetlight in front of Delia’s house, and his head turned toward us, fixing those hollow eyes on us.

We didn’t dare move. The hum from the power lines returned, but it was different—it was a buzzing, like a swarm of bees, and the streetlight began to swing violently. The figure raised a hand, pointing at us, and his mouth moved, but no sound came out. Instead, we heard a voice in our heads, clear as a bell: ‘You touched the wire. Now you hear what I hear.’ Then he was gone, vanished as if he’d never been, and the hum returned to its normal, steady drone.

Delia and I stared at the empty road, our hearts pounding. We didn’t sleep that night, and we never spoke of it again. I left Morrow a few years later, and I’ve never been back. But sometimes, when I’m in a quiet place and I hear the hum of power lines, I feel a pull, like something is waiting for me to touch them again. And I wonder if that man was once a boy who dared to touch the pole, and what he heard that made him that way. The hum is always there, if you listen closely, but I’ve learned to block it out. Because I know some sounds are meant to be ignored, and some doors, once opened, never close again.