The Man Who Hated the Hum

My grandmother’s house sat at the end of a gravel road in the foothills of the Appalachians, a place called Cold Springs Hollow. The house itself was a weathered farmhouse with a wraparound porch and a cellar door that always seemed to be slightly ajar, no matter how many times we latched it. Every summer, my brother Marcus and I would spend two weeks there, and every summer, without fail, Marcus would bolt from the car before the engine died, shouting for his friend ‘Derrick.’

I was six, Marcus was nine. Derrick was somewhere in between, or so Marcus claimed. I never saw Derrick, but I heard about him constantly. Derrick liked to play hide-and-seek in the tall grass, Derrick had a pet snake that lived under the porch, Derrick thought Grandma’s cooking was ‘gross’ because she used too much thyme. But the thing Derrick hated most, according to Marcus, was the hum. Grandma had an old refrigerator that emitted a low, persistent drone, like a distant swarm of bees. She also had a dehumidifier in the basement that kicked on every hour, adding a rhythmic thrum to the house’s baseline noise. Derrick, Marcus said, would stand in the corner of the kitchen, pressing his palms against his ears, his face twisted in agony.

I told Grandma about Derrick’s dislike of the hum. She was kneading dough, her flour-dusted hands working the mass with practiced ease. She paused, wiped her brow with the back of her wrist, and looked at me with an odd intensity. ‘Derrick,’ she repeated, as if tasting the name. ‘Well, that hum is just the appliance, honey. Can’t turn it off, or the food’ll spoil.’ But her eyes flickered to the basement door, and a shiver ran through her shoulders. I thought nothing of it then.

That night, I woke to a strange stillness. The refrigerator’s hum had ceased. The dehumidifier was silent. The house was wrapped in an unnerving quiet, the kind that presses on your eardrums. I slipped out of bed and padded to Marcus’s room. He was sitting up, wide awake, staring at the wall. ‘He did it,’ Marcus whispered. ‘He stopped the hum. He said he’d been trying for years, but Grandma just kept turning it back on. This time, he found where it lives.’

I asked what he meant, but Marcus just shook his head and lay back down, pulling the covers over his head. The next morning, Grandma was frantic. She couldn’t find the main power breaker. The refrigerator was cold, but the light inside wouldn’t turn on. The dehumidifier was unplugged, and the cord was coiled neatly on the basement steps, as if placed there with intention. She muttered about faulty wiring, but her hands trembled as she made us breakfast.

Over the following days, Derrick’s influence grew. He started leaving signs of his presence: a small pile of pebbles on the kitchen windowsill, a single black feather under Marcus’s pillow, and once, a drawing on the frosted glass of the bathroom window—a crude stick figure with X’s for eyes, pointing at the basement. Marcus became increasingly withdrawn, speaking to Derrick in hushed tones when he thought no one was listening. He told me that Derrick was getting stronger, that he’d found the source of the hum, and that he was going to make it stop forever.

On our last night, the power in the house flickered and died completely. Grandma lit candles, and we sat in the living room, the shadows dancing like caged things. A low growl emanated from the basement, a sound I’d never heard before. Marcus stood up, his face slack, and walked to the cellar door. He turned the knob, and the door swung open, revealing a black void. ‘He wants us to come down,’ Marcus said, his voice distant. ‘He says the hum is trapped in the walls, and he’s tearing it out.’

Grandma grabbed my hand, her grip painfully tight. ‘Don’t you dare,’ she said, but her voice was thin, reedy. Marcus descended the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the dark. We waited, the silence oppressive. Then, from below, we heard a sound like ripping metal, followed by a high-pitched squeal, then nothing. After what felt like hours, Marcus emerged. He was pale, his eyes glassy, and in his hands he held a tangle of copper wires, frayed and twisted. ‘It’s gone,’ he said. ‘He’s gone.’

The next morning, we packed to leave. The house felt… empty. The hum was gone, but so was something else—an undercurrent of life that had always been there. As we drove away, I looked back at the house. A figure stood in the kitchen window, watching. It was tall, thin, and featureless, but I knew it was Derrick. He was still there. He just wasn’t in our world anymore.

Years later, Marcus would never speak of that summer. He’d flinch at the sound of any electrical appliance starting up. But I never forgot. And sometimes, when I’m in a room that falls silent, I hear it—a faint, mocking hum, just at the edge of hearing, as if Derrick found a new home, and he’s waiting for someone to try and turn it off.