The Microwave’s Low Hum

The old textile mill had been converted into a shared workspace, but the industrial past clung to its bones. We called it ‘The Loom’ because of the constant, faint mechanical hum that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves. That evening, after a long day of coding, we packed up around seven. The place was deserted, the only light a greenish glow from a forgotten server rack. As we stepped into the break room, a low, raspy hum rose from the microwave oven. It wasn’t the usual electrical buzz; it was a guttural, rhythmic thrum, like a giant insect trapped inside. My supervisor, a pragmatic woman named Diane, dismissed it. ‘It’s just the magnetron cooling down,’ she said, and we left, locking up for the night.

The next morning, we found the microwave’s door ajar, the interior smeared with a dark, viscous substance that smelled faintly of ammonia and burnt copper. We cleaned it, shrugged it off, and continued our work.

That afternoon, my colleague, a quiet man named Ethan, asked me to accompany him to the loading dock, which we’d converted into a makeshift recycling area. The rain pattered against the high windows, and the sound of our footsteps echoed in the vast, empty space. We were sorting cardboard, chatting about nothing, when a wave of pungent, barnyard odor hit us. It was the smell of a goat, unmistakable, thick and musky. We froze. The odor seemed to come from everywhere, from the walls, from the floor, from the air itself.

Ethan’s face went pale. He grabbed my arm and pulled me back inside, his grip trembling. ‘My grandmother,’ he whispered, ‘she used to tell me a story about a creature that lived in the walls of the old mills. It would mimic sounds to lure people, and its breath smelled like a goat. She said it was a… a ‘wool man’.’

I tried to laugh it off, but Ethan wouldn’t let go. ‘There’s something in the walls here,’ he said, his eyes darting. ‘Not just in the walls. In the machines. That microwave. It’s not just a microwave. It’s a gateway.’

That evening, as we packed up, the microwave began to hum again, but this time it was louder, more insistent. And from the vents above, I swear I could hear a faint, high-pitched laughter. We left quickly, but as we locked the door, I realized the hum didn’t stop. It followed us into the parking lot, a low buzz that seemed to vibrate in our chests.

We drove away, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching us from the dark windows of The Loom. And when I got home, I found a strand of coarse, black hair on my coat, with a smell of goat that no amount of washing would remove.