The Porcelain Hum

Aunt Rosa came to stay with us in our creaking old house on Acacia Street that sweltering August. She was finishing her doctorate in Manila, but the summer break brought her to our dusty town, away from the city’s noise. With her came a trunk of books and a way of looking at things that made me feel small. My mother, her younger sister, doted on her, and our helper, Emilia, moved about the house with a nervous energy whenever Aunt Rosa was near.

We had a history with that house, or rather, with its upper floor. The stone that clattered down the stairs one evening last winter had been the talk of our small family for weeks. It was a smooth, grey river stone, warm to the touch, and it had appeared from nowhere. My cousin Miguel was staying with us then, and he swore he saw it drop from the air, right at the top of the stairs. But Aunt Rosa, with her sharp cheekbones and steady gaze, dismissed it with a wave of her hand. ‘The past is buried,’ she said, toasting her glass of iced tea. ‘Grandmother is at peace. These old houses simply settle.’

One night, after a dinner of fish and rice, Emilia and I watched a soap opera on the small television in the living room. Aunt Rosa and my mother sat on the mismatched armchairs, their voices a low murmur over the fan’s spinning blades. I caught fragments: ‘she never did like the noise,’ and ‘but the stone meant something.’ I tried to listen, but the show was too loud. Then Aunt Rosa called me over, her voice flat. ‘Tell me about the stone again, Miguel. From the beginning.’ I recounted the story, how I’d heard a dull thud, how the stone sat on the landing, warm as a body. She listened, her lips pressed into a thin line. When I finished, she turned to my mother. ‘It wasn’t grandmother’s soul. It was a sign. They’re still here.’ I felt a chill despite the heat, and looked up at the ceiling, but there was nothing there.

We settled in for the night. My mother and Aunt Rosa insisted on sleeping in the living room, where the TV flickered low. Emilia and I were to go upstairs. As I climbed the creaking stairs, I noticed a faint humming sound, coming from the hallway. It was a high, porcelain-like hum, as if a glass were being rubbed with a wet finger. I stopped, but it was gone. I told myself it was the old pipes. I fell asleep quickly, my window open to the hot night air.

I woke to the sound of sobbing. It was not human, exactly, but a low, mournful wail that seemed to vibrate through the walls. My room was dark except for a sliver of moonlight from the window. I sat up, heart pounding. The sobbing stopped, replaced by a soft, rhythmic tapping, coming from the bathroom door. Was it Emilia? Or my cousin? But they were surely asleep. I yanked the door open. The bathroom was empty, the porcelain tub gleaming in the dim light. But as I stood there, I heard the hum again, now from inside the tub. I knelt down, my ear to the cold ceramic. From within, I heard a voice, muffled, as if speaking through water: ‘Don’t trust her.’ I stumbled back, a cold sweat breaking out.

I ran downstairs, my feet silent on the worn carpet. The living room was bathed in the pale glow of the television, where static fizzled. My mother and Aunt Rosa were asleep on the floor, under thin sheets. I shook Aunt Rosa’s shoulder. She woke with a start, her eyes sharp. ‘What is it?’ I told her about the voice. She sat up, her face pale. ‘They’re not gone,’ she whispered. She grabbed my arm, her fingers cold. ‘It’s the porcelain. They’ve always been in the porcelain.’ She led me to the kitchen, where a set of delicate teacups with blue flowers sat on a shelf. ‘Grandmother’s china,’ she said. ‘She never used them. She said they hummed.’ She picked up a cup, and I saw a thin crack running along its rim. ‘One for each time the stone fell,’ she said. ‘There will be a third.’

As she spoke, the house shuddered. A loud crash came from upstairs, and then the unmistakable thud of something heavy hitting the floor—a stone, falling. We ran upstairs, my mother now awake, her eyes wide. In the hallway, near the bathroom door, lay a smooth river stone, identical to the one from before. But this one was cracked down the middle, and from the crack, a fine dust seeped out, like powdered bone. Aunt Rosa’s triumphant look turned to horror as she realized what it meant. ‘No,’ she gasped. ‘I broke the circle. I shouldn’t have spoken of it.’ The humming grew louder, filling the hallway, a chorus of porcelain teeth. The house seemed to groan, and the light bulb above us flickered and died.

We stumbled back, but the hallway stretched, impossibly long. The walls bled moisture, and the air grew cold. A door appeared where none had been before, a white, porcelain door, gleaming with wetness. It was the bathroom, but it wasn’t. It was a vast space, filled with porcelain tubs, each filled with dark water. And in the water, shapes moved, pale and undefined. One shape rose, a woman with long black hair, her face a smooth, white, porcelain doll’s face, with painted red lips. She opened her mouth, but instead of a scream, a low, pulsing hum escaped, the same hum I’d been hearing. It was the hum of all the dead, trapped in the glaze of every broken cup, every chipped sink, every cracked tile.

Aunt Rosa fell to her knees, her hands over her ears, but the hum only grew. My mother pulled me back, but my feet wouldn’t move. The porcelain woman extended a hand, and her fingers were sharp, like shards. She touched my cheek, and I felt a sharp sting. Then, everything went black.

I woke in my bed, covered in sweat, the morning sun streaming through the window. The house was still. I went downstairs. Aunt Rosa was packing her trunk, her face pale and withdrawn. My mother was making tea in the kitchen, her hands shaking. She poured the tea into cups, but they were not the delicate china. They were plain, chipped mugs. ‘Where are the teacups?’ I asked. My mother looked at me, her eyes hollow. ‘They’re gone,’ she said. ‘All of them. And there’s a new crack on the bathroom mirror.’ I walked to the bathroom. The mirror was indeed cracked, but the crack wasn’t a zigzag. It was a single, smooth line, and in the reflection, I saw not my face, but the porcelain woman’s, her red lips curved in a smile.

I never spoke of it again. But that summer, I learned the truth: the past is never truly buried. It hums, faintly, beneath the skin of every ordinary thing. And sometimes, if you listen too closely, it answers back. Aunt Rosa left the next day, and we never saw her again. But sometimes, in the quiet of the house, when the wind stills and the pipes settle, I hear it: the porcelain hum, a reminder that some things are better left undiscovered. And in the back of the bathroom mirror, where the crack runs deep, I sometimes see her, still smiling, as if waiting. I know now that the stone was not a warning. It was a key.

Emilia left us that autumn, and my mother refused to speak of the summer. But I kept the cracked stone in a drawer. Sometimes, at night, I take it out, and I hold it. It is warm, and it hums, just a little. I don’t know what will happen when it breaks. I’m afraid to find out. But some nights, when the humming grows loud, I feel a pull, a curiosity, a desire to open the door again. I know I never will. But the porcelain woman, she doesn’t need to wait. She’s already in the mirror, in every cup, in the water I drink. And one day, when I least expect it, she will hum her final note, and my story will end. But I’ll be ready. I’ve gathered my own stones.

They are smooth, and grey, and warm. They are my only comfort in the hollow hours. And when I hold one, I feel a strange peace, as if I’m holding a piece of the past that won’t let go. The cracked stone in the drawer hums more each night. I’ve started sleeping with it under my pillow. It’s the only way to silence the other hum, the one that comes from the walls. I know it’s only a matter of time. But until then, I’ll keep my stones close, and I’ll never, ever listen to the bathroom mirror. I’ll cover it with a cloth. I’ll stop drinking the tap water. I’ll switch off the lights when I go upstairs. It won’t help, but it’s all I can do. The hum is everywhere now. It’s in the floorboards, in the windowpanes. It’s in my own breath. And I’m starting to hum along with it, a low, quiet sound, like a hymn to something ancient. I am becoming part of the song.

Perhaps, one day, I’ll be the stone. And another child will find me, and wonder why I hum.

But until then, I’ll tell no one the truth. This is my story. I am the keeper of the hum. And the porcelain woman is patient.

She knows every story ends, and she will be there to sing the final verse. I hope she finds some peace in the rhythm of our shared breath. But I doubt it. The broken teacup in my drawer has a hairline crack, and I’ve seen it glint under my lamp. It’s mocking me, I think. It’s waiting.

And tonight, as I write this, I hear the hum from the bathroom. It’s louder now. I haven’t been in there for days. But the air is thick with it. And I know, deep in my bones, that when I finally open the door, I will not be alone. The porcelain woman will be there, her hand extended. And I will take it, because I have no strength left. And we will hum together, a duet that spans the witching hours. And the house will fall silent, as if it has never been disturbed. And no one will remember the stone that fell, or the hum that followed. It will be as if I never existed. But the hum will remain, a tiny echo in the world, waiting for the next unsuspecting ear. It is a patient, porcelain thing. And it will endure.