The Neon Hum

My name is Diego, and I work the graveyard shift at a call center in the heart of Makati’s business district. I’m from Batangas, but I rent a narrow townhouse in a dense subdivision in Mandaluyong. The place is a typical vertical box: you step in, and you’re already in the living room. A few steps more, and you’re in the kitchen, with a stairway to my right leading to a single bedroom and a cramped bathroom. I keep every light on, even when I sleep. The dark here is suffocating, like it’s waiting for something.

It was Saturday, just after my shift. I was exhausted, but I had to pack for a weekend trip to my family’s farm in Lipa. I climbed the stairs, my eyes burning from the screen and the fluorescent lights. In my room, I tossed my bag on the bed and went to the bathroom to wash my face. That’s when I heard it: a low hum, like a refrigerator’s compressor but more melodic, almost like a distant chant. It seemed to come from the wall behind the toilet. I pressed my ear to the cold tile, and the hum grew clearer, rhythmic. I thought it was my neighbor’s AC, but the sound was too close, too organic.

I shrugged it off, grabbed my things, and headed down. As I reached the living room, the hum stopped. I stood still, listening. The silence that followed was heavier than normal. I shook my head and locked the door, then rode my motorcycle to the bus terminal. The whole trip, the hum replayed in my mind, like a tune I couldn’t shake.

I spent a peaceful weekend with my family. The air smelled of rice paddies and carabao dung, a stark contrast to the city’s car exhaust. But at night, I couldn’t sleep. The bed was too soft, the crickets too loud, but the absence of the hum was what bothered me. I realized I had grown accustomed to that eerie sound, and its absence felt like a missing tooth.

Sunday evening, I headed back. The bus ride was uneventful, but as I neared Mandaluyong, a cold dread settled in my stomach. I walked into my townhouse, and the lights were still on, just as I left them. The air was stuffy. I dropped my bag, opened the fridge, and that’s when I heard it again: the hum, clearer now, coming from the living room wall. I pressed my ear to the wall, and I could make out patterns, like someone whispering in a language I didn’t know. I knocked on the wall. The hum paused for a second, then resumed, louder.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the hum a constant companion. It was coming from the shared wall with my neighbor, but I’d never heard anything from their side before. In the morning, I knocked on my neighbor’s door. An old woman with a wrinkled face and milky eyes answered. She smiled, revealing teeth stained yellow. ‘Ah, you hear it too,’ she said. ‘It’s been there for years. It only welcomes those who listen.’

I didn’t know what to make of her cryptic words. But that night, as I was about to leave for work, I saw a crack in the living room wall that I didn’t remember being there before. It was hairline thin, running from the floor to the ceiling. I touched it, and it was warm, and the hum seemed to seep through it. I tried to peer inside, but it was just darkness.

Over the next few days, the hum grew more insistent. It started to follow me around the house. If I moved to the kitchen, it was there. If I went upstairs, it was there. It was as if the house itself was humming, and I was the only one who could hear it. My co-workers at the call center started to notice dark circles under my eyes. ‘You look haunted,’ one of them said. I laughed it off, but in truth, I was scared.

One night, after my shift, I came home and decided to investigate. I tore down the wallpaper near the crack. Beneath it, I found a strange symbol etched into the concrete, like a spiral with thorns. The hum intensified, and I felt a pressure in my ears. I touched the symbol, and the room went silent. For a moment, I was relieved. But then the silence stretched, and the air grew cold. I could see my breath.

A voice, soft as a lullaby, whispered from the wall: ‘You’ve seen it. Now you can’t unsee it.’ My blood ran cold. I backed away, but the hum returned, thrumming in my bones. I ran out of the house, down the street, and didn’t stop until I reached the 7-Eleven at the corner. I stood under the flickering fluorescent lights, trembling. The attendant asked if I was okay. I couldn’t speak.

I went back to work the next day, but I couldn’t concentrate. My supervisor pulled me aside. ‘Diego, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Take a few days off.’ I didn’t want to go back to that house, but I had nowhere else to go. My family in the province was a five-hour drive away, and I couldn’t afford the time.

That evening, I called my landlord to ask about the symbol. He paused for a long time. ‘That house… there was an incident before you moved in. A tenant scratched those symbols into the walls before he disappeared. They never found him. But he kept talking about walls humming.’ I dropped the phone.

I decided to stay with a friend in Quezon City for a few nights. But even there, the hum followed me. It was fainter, but it was there. It was in my head. My friend, Marco, noticed I was jumpy. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. I told him everything. He looked at me with a mix of pity and fear. ‘Maybe you should see a doctor,’ he said. ‘I’m not crazy, Marco. It’s real.’ But even as I said it, I doubted.

That night, I woke up to find myself standing in front of the bathroom mirror, a pen in my hand, drawing a spiral on the glass. I gasped, dropping the pen. The hum was deafening. I ran back to my townhouse, because I felt like I needed to be there, to face it. The front door was unlocked, and the lights were off. I flicked the switch, but nothing happened. The house was in darkness, but I could see a faint glow coming from the living room wall. The crack had widened, and now it was a gaping hole, three feet high. Inside, I saw a corridor, dimly lit, and at the end, a figure stood, its back to me. It wore my work uniform.

It turned around. It was me, but my face was gaunt, my eyes hollow. It smiled and beckoned. The hum was so loud I felt my bones vibrate. ‘Come home,’ it said. I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. My legs moved on their own, stepping into the crack. The wall closed behind me, sealing me in eternal hum.

Now, I am the one in the wall. I hum the melody that calls out to the next weary soul who presses their ear too close. I wait for a tenant like I was, who listens, who scratches the symbol, who opens the door. The townhouse stands, the lights always on, and the hum never stops. It’s a lonely existence, but the sound is a kind of comfort. And someday, someone else will hear it, and I’ll have company.