The Humming Dryer

I was nineteen, fresh out of a revival meeting where I’d given my life to Christ, and I believed with all my heart that no demon could touch me. My name is Elena, and I lived in a small apartment above my aunt’s flower shop, where the smell of wilted roses and damp soil clung to the walls. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and I had a list of chores to do: fold the laundry, call my grandmother, and prep the soil for the new seedlings. But my eyelids were heavy, and I thought a short nap would help.

I lay down on my creaky bed, the afternoon sun filtering through the blinds, casting zebra stripes across the ceiling. I was just drifting off, my mind replaying the day’s errands, when a low hum filled the room. It wasn’t the refrigerator or the buzzing of a fly. It was a rhythmic, mechanical hum, like the sound of a hair dryer left on a low setting, but deeper, more resonant. I tried to open my eyes, but my lids felt like lead. The hum grew louder, vibrating through my skull, and then a voice—not a whisper, but a deep, resonant growl—spoke directly into my mind.

‘You think you’re safe, little lamb?’ It wasn’t a question; it was a taunt. The voice was like gravel and rust, and it seemed to come from all directions at once. My heart hammered in my chest. I tried to scream, but my throat was closed. I tried to move, but my limbs were paralyzed. The hum intensified, like a thousand hair dryers, and the voice continued, ‘The Shepherd’s mark doesn’t protect you from me. I’ve been here since before you were born. I’ll always be here.’

Terror flooded my veins, cold and absolute. I clung to the words of my faith, reciting Psalm 23 in my head: ‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want…’ But the words felt hollow, and the hum only grew, until it was a deafening roar. Then, as suddenly as it began, the sound cut off. My body went limp, and I snapped awake, drenched in sweat, gasping for air. The room was silent, save for the distant traffic outside. I checked my phone; only ten minutes had passed. I sat up, trembling, and tried to convince myself it was just a nightmare, a side effect of too much cheese before bed.

But it happened again a week later. Same time, same afternoon nap. This time, I was on the couch, an old floral-print thing that smelled of my aunt’s lavender sachets. The hum started as I was dozing off, and I felt a chill, as if a cold draft had seeped into the room. The voice returned, but now it was more insistent, almost gleeful. ‘I see you, Elena. I see the cracks in your faith. You doubt, don’t you? You wonder if the Holy Spirit is really in you.’ It laughed, a low, guttural sound that made my skin crawl. ‘I’ll wait. You’ll let me in eventually.’

I fought with all my might, whispering prayers, but my voice was a strangled whisper. The hum became so loud I thought my eardrums would burst, and then I felt something—a pressure on my chest, like a heavy weight pressing down. I couldn’t breathe. I saw a flash of a face in my mind: not human, with hollow eyes and a mouth stretched in an unnatural grin. It was the face of a thing that had no place in this world. Just as I felt I would lose consciousness, a sharp pain in my side made me flinch, and I woke up with a jolt, my hand clutching my ribs. I had rolled off the couch and hit the coffee table.

I sat on the floor, shaking, and I knew this was more than a nightmare. It was real. My pastor said demons couldn’t possess the born-again, but he never said they couldn’t harass them. He said the enemy prowls like a lion, seeking whom he may devour, but we have the armor of God. I started sleeping with my Bible under my pillow, but the afternoon naps still terrified me. I tried to stay awake, downing coffee and energy drinks, but my body would betray me, and I’d drift off.

The third time, I was in my old bedroom at my parents’ house, visiting for the weekend. The room was the same as when I was a child: pale pink walls, a white vanity, a window that looked out onto the apple tree. I lay down for a nap, exhausted from a long drive. The hum began, and I knew it was coming. This time, I was ready. I clutched a small wooden cross I’d bought at a flea market, pressing it to my chest. ‘In the name of Jesus, I command you to leave,’ I said aloud, my voice thin but resolute. The hum sputtered, like a machine low on power, and the voice shrieked, ‘You can’t silence me!’ But the pressure in my head eased, and the sound faded away.

I woke up with a start, the cross still in my hand, dented from my grip. I felt a strange sense of victory, but also a lingering dread. I had won this battle, but I knew the war was far from over. The humming dryer had become my gavel, a warning that evil was patient and ever-present, even in the sunniest of afternoons. I now take my naps with a lamp on, the radio playing softly, and a friend on speed dial. But deep down, I know that the hum is always there, waiting at the edge of sleep, and that it will never truly leave me alone.