The Ticking Hum

I was six when we moved into my great-aunt Edna’s house after she passed. I don’t remember her face, only the smell of mothballs and the way she always wore a heavy brooch shaped like a beetle. My parents said we’d stay until they fixed up our own place, but I knew we were there because they couldn’t say no to a free roof.

The house sat on a quiet cul-de-sac in a town that smelled of wet asphalt and pine. The living room was the heart of it, dominated by a brick fireplace that wasn’t for burning wood—it was an electric unit with fake logs and a dial that clicked when you turned it. Next to it, my aunt’s armchair, upholstered in scratchy maroon velvet, stayed exactly where she’d left it. My parents joked that she’d haunt anyone who sat in it, but I never laughed. That chair felt occupied, even when empty.

One night, I woke up with my pajamas soaked and the sheets cold. I was too old for that, but fear does strange things. My mother’s voice came through the dark: ‘Go get the dry sheets from the basement dryer, love. Don’t wake your father.’ The basement was down a narrow hallway that ran past the living room, and to get there, I had to pass the fireplace.

I crept out of bed, my bare feet sticking to the hardwood. The hallway light was off, but a sliver of moon came through the front window, casting long shadows. As I reached the living room doorway, I stopped. The armchair sat like a patient animal. My heart thumped. I took a breath and tiptoed across, hugging the wall opposite the fireplace.

Halfway, a soft *click* broke the silence. The electric fireplace hummed to life, its fake logs glowing orange. Heat washed over me, and I froze. My aunt used to sit there every evening, knitting, and the sound of that hum was her constant companion. I turned, reached out, and twisted the dial to off. The glow died, and the room went dark again.

I waited, listening to the silence. Then I continued toward the corridor, my eyes fixed on the doorway ahead. But I hadn’t taken three steps when the *click* came again, and the fire blazed up, brighter this time, the hum louder. I spun around. The chair was empty. The fireplace stood against the wall. Nothing moved.

I turned it off again, my hand trembling, and backed away slowly. The moment I reached the corridor, the fire roared on a third time, and I heard a sound that made my blood run cold: a low, rhythmic creak, like someone settling into the armchair.

I ran to the basement, grabbed the sheets, and ran back upstairs without looking. As I passed the living room, the fire was still on, and the armchair was gently rocking, as if a heavy body had just sat down. I didn’t stop. I dove into my bed, buried my head under the pillow, and prayed for morning.

In the days that followed, I told my parents, but they laughed. ‘It’s just a faulty switch,’ my mother said, and my father said, ‘Aunt Edna’s way of saying hello.’ But I noticed they never turned the fireplace off completely, and they always left a space by the chair, as if expecting someone.

I grew up, moved away, and forgot the house’s quirks. But last week, my mother sent me a box of Aunt Edna’s belongings. Among the moth-eaten sweaters and costume jewelry was a small, handwritten note, folded into a tiny square. It said: ‘The hum is my heartbeat. When it stops, I’m gone. But I’ll always be in the chair. Don’t sit there, or you’ll hear it too.’

I laughed it off, but that night, I dreamed of the armchair. In the dream, I sat down, and the hum of the electric fire filled me, and I felt a weight settle on my lap—not a body, but a warmth, and a voice that whispered, ‘I’ve been waiting.’

I woke up drenched in sweat. The dream was so vivid that I still feel the vibration in my bones. And now, whenever I hear a low hum—from a refrigerator, a computer, a distant engine—I stop, my heart racing, because I know it’s not just a sound. It’s a summons. And one day, I’ll have to go back to that house, sit in that chair, and never get up.