The Saltwater Hum

I started sleeping in my cousin Edwin’s house when my sister’s kids turned our home into a daytime circus. My own house, a modest two-story on Mangrove Street, had become unbearable with the thundering of small feet and the shrieks of toy lasers. Edwin’s place, a single-story bungalow on the same street but nearer to the bay, was quieter. He and his wife had moved to the mainland a year ago, leaving the house empty except for the caretaker, old Mrs. Alvarez, who came by every few days to dust and check the pipes.

The house itself was not old, but it had a peculiar hum. It was faint, like the way a seashell hums when you hold it to your ear, but it was constant. I noticed it the first night, as I lay in the spare room, a narrow space that had been a storage room for fishing gear. The walls were thin, and I could hear the hum from every angle. It was almost soothing, like the sound of a distant engine. I slept better than I had in weeks.

One evening, about a week into my stay, I was reading in the living room when I saw a small driftwood carving on the mantelpiece. It was a figure, perhaps a mermaid, but with eyes carved too deep. I picked it up; it was smooth, worn by salt. I asked Old Mrs. Alvarez about it the next day. She looked at me sharply, her weathered face tightening. ‘That was Edwin’s wife’s,’ she said. ‘She used to carve things from the drift. Said she heard the sea calling to her. She was a strange one.’ I asked if she was the one who passed from cancer. Mrs. Alvarez nodded. The hum seemed to get louder for a moment, then softened.

A few nights later, I woke to the sound of water dripping. The house had no leak; I had checked after a storm. And yet, the drips were rhythmic, like a heartbeat. I followed the sound to the bathroom. The faucet was off. But the mirror was fogged, and written in the condensation was a single word: ‘STAY’. I wiped it away, telling myself it was condensation from my own breath, but the bathroom was cold.

Over the next days, the hum evolved. It began to sound like a voice, a woman’s voice, singing lullabies in a language I didn’t know but somehow understood. The songs were about the sea and lost children. I started to see her in the periphery: a silhouette in the kitchen, a reflection in the window. Always gone when I turned fully. I told Mrs. Alvarez, but she just crossed herself and said, ‘That house is between worlds. Be careful.’

On the twelfth night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the hum, which was now a clear voice. It was coming from the wall behind the headboard. My hand touched the paneling, and I felt a pulse. I pressed harder, and a section slid open, revealing a small hidden compartment. Inside, I found a stack of water-stained journals and a tiny seashell with a hole through it. The journals belonged to Edwin’s wife, Elena. I opened one, and the pages were filled with diagrams of tides and drawings of eyes. In the margins, she had written: ‘The house hears the tide, and the tide hears me.’

I contacted Edwin, hoping for some explanation. He told me that Elena had become obsessed with the sea after her diagnosis. She would sit on the shore for hours, whispering to the waves. He also told me that the house was built on reclaimed land, over an ancient burial ground that the locals once said was a doorway to the underworld. He laughed it off, said it was just folk tales. But he said, ‘If you hear a hum, it’s the old water pipes.’ He suggested seeing a doctor. I didn’t tell him of the hand I saw rising from the floorboards.

The final night, the hum was a full chorus. I woke to find the house filled with fog, though the doors and windows were sealed. In the living room, the driftwood carving was on the floor, its eyes glowing red. The air was thick with brine. Then I heard a child’s laughter coming from the spare room. I rushed there, and the bed was wet, as if from a wave, and a small footprint, like a child’s bare foot, was on the pillow, but it was oddly webbed.

I fled to my own house, despite the noise. I’ve been home for two weeks now. The kids still run and scream, but it’s a relief. I haven’t slept at the bungalow since. But last night, I was in my room, and I heard it. A faint, familiar hum, coming from my own walls. And when I looked at my hand, I saw a small, pink mark, like the imprint of a shell, forming on my palm. I don’t know if it’s the sea calling, or something else. But I know one thing: I’ll never sleep near the coast again.