The Last Mechanic

In the autumn of 2019, I received a call that Colin, my best friend’s husband, had been found in his workshop, an apparent suicide. Colin was a master mechanic, known for his ability to fix anything with an engine, but he couldn’t fix the fractures in his own life. His marriage to my friend, Dana, had been crumbling under the weight of his drinking and his obsession with a vintage motorcycle restoration project that never seemed to end. They had a young daughter, Lily, who I adored, and I was her godmother.

Colin’s workshop was a cavernous, rust-streaked building on the outskirts of our small town, nestled against a dense pine forest. It had once been a thriving garage, but Colin had let it fall into disrepair, filling it with the skeletons of old cars and bikes. The air inside always smelled of oil, gasoline, and something else—a metallic tang that I later realized was the scent of decay.

After the funeral, Dana and I inherited the task of clearing out the workshop. It was a morbid chore, but we thought it might help Dana find closure. We went on a gray, drizzly Saturday, armed with boxes and trash bags. The place was a maze of rusted tools, greasy rags, and half-disassembled engines. In the far corner, under a tarp, sat the motorcycle Colin had been restoring—a 1972 Norton Commando, still gleaming despite the neglect.

As we cleared a workbench, I found a small, leather-bound notebook tucked beneath a pile of receipts. It was Colin’s handwriting, but the entries were strange. Dates and times, coordinates, and cryptic notes like ‘the hum returns’ and ‘it knows my name.’ One page had a crude diagram of the workshop, with an X marked in the center of the floor. Beneath it was scrawled: ‘The sump is not for oil.’

I showed it to Dana, who shrugged and said, ‘He was always a bit odd. Probably just his paranoid ramblings.’ But I couldn’t shake the feeling that the notebook was important. I kept it, slipping it into my jacket.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the diagram and the X. The workshop floor was concrete, but in the center, where the X would be, there was a rusted metal plate, about two feet square, that I had noticed earlier. I decided to go back the next morning to check it out.

The next day, I returned alone. The workshop felt different—darker, colder. The air was thicker, and I could hear a faint, low hum coming from beneath the floor. I moved the plate aside to reveal a shallow pit, not a sump, but a hollow in the concrete. Inside was a small, intricately carved wooden box. My hands trembled as I opened it.

Inside was a set of keys, a folded piece of paper, and a small, black stone that seemed to drink the light. The paper was a handwritten letter from Colin to me. ‘If you’re reading this,’ it began, ‘then I’ve failed. The stone is a weight. It keeps the hum at bay, but it’s getting stronger. There’s a door in the forest, half a mile from the workshop, behind the old radio tower. The keys open the lock. I’m sorry for dragging you into this, but you’re the only one I trust. Please, destroy the stone. Throw it into the quarry. But whatever you do, don’t touch the hum.’

I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. I knew the radio tower—an abandoned relic from the 60s, covered in graffiti. The hum seemed to emanate from the stone itself, a vibration that I could feel in my teeth. I pocketed the stone and the keys, and drove to the quarry, hoping to end this madness.

The quarry was a flooded pit, a deep blue green, ringed by sheer cliffs. I stood at the edge, the stone heavy in my hand. The hum had become a palpable thrum in the air, and I could swear I saw something moving in the water below, a dark shape that churned the surface. I hesitated, and in that moment, the hum surged, and I heard Colin’s voice—but it was wrong, deeper, layered with other voices.

‘Don’t, it’s a lie,’ the voice said. ‘The stone binds me to this place. If you throw it, I’ll be free.’

I was frozen, unsure what to believe. The stone grew warm in my hand, and I saw visions: Colin, huddled in the workshop, whispering to the floor; a door in the forest, pulsing with light; and Dana, crying, holding Lily, saying ‘He’s gone, but he won’t leave.’

I wanted to throw it, to destroy whatever this was, but the voice was so real, so pleading. It said, ‘I can come back. I can be with them again. Just keep the stone safe.’

I don’t know what came over me, but I felt a sudden, absolute certainty that I was being manipulated. I looked at the quarry water, and for a moment, I saw my own reflection—but it was wrong. My eyes were black, and my smile was too wide. I screamed and hurled the stone with all my strength.

It hit the water with a splash, and the hum died instantly. The silence was deafening. I fell to my knees, sobbing. I thought it was over.

But when I returned to the workshop to clean up, I found the metal plate was gone, revealing a gaping hole. And from the darkness below, I heard a sound that made my blood run cold: the unmistakable ignition of a motorcycle engine.

I ran out, never looking back. But since then, I often hear that hum at night, and sometimes, when I pass the radio tower, I see a figure on a Norton Commando, waiting. I’ve told no one, not even Dana. Because I’m afraid that if I do, the hum will come for me. And I’m not sure I can resist it a second time.