The House That Hums

I never believed in haunted houses. That was the kind of thing people whispered about in old diners or posted on forums with usernames like “GhostHunter88” and “DeadInside13.” I believed in creaky pipes, bad wiring, and wind howling through gaps in the roof. That was before I moved into the house on Brookmere Lane.

It was a beautiful rental—far too cheap for its size. A little isolated, yes, but I chalked that up to luck and a desperate landlord. Two stories, ivy creeping along its brick walls, and a porch that overlooked a meadow often swallowed by fog. The inside had character: crown molding, stained glass panels, and a fireplace I imagined reading beside in the winter.

On the first night, I noticed the hum.

It was faint, like the low vibration of a distant engine. I turned off every appliance, checked the vents, and even stepped outside to see if the sound was coming from the road. It wasn’t. The hum wasn’t constant—it pulsed, almost like it was breathing. And stranger still, it came from within the walls.

I tried to ignore it. I told myself it was probably something mechanical, old plumbing or faulty insulation. But the humming never stopped. It followed me from room to room, louder in the hallway upstairs, softest in the kitchen.

On the third night, I woke up at 3:12 AM to the sound of soft knocking. Not at the door—from inside the walls.

Three slow knocks.

I sat up, heart pounding, and held my breath. Then, again:

Knock. Knock. Knock.

It sounded deliberate, like someone was tapping with a single knuckle.

The next morning, I asked the landlord if anyone had reported weird noises. He laughed nervously. “Old houses make all sorts of sounds,” he said. “Could be raccoons.” I asked if anyone had lived here long-term before me. His smile faltered, and he changed the subject.

That night, I left my bedroom door open. The hallway was pitch black, but the humming had grown louder. It seemed to echo just beneath the floorboards, like something was crawling through the structure of the house itself.

I recorded it on my phone. When I played the audio back, the hum wasn’t there.

But something else was.

In the background, faintly layered under the static, I heard what sounded like a voice. It was whispering in a language I didn’t recognize. Guttural, slow, and deliberate. I stopped listening halfway through. My hands were trembling.

On the fifth night, I woke up and the humming had stopped.

That terrified me more than the sound ever did.

Because in its place, there was something else—breathing. Not mine. Heavy, raspy, wet breathing coming from behind the wall next to my bed. I couldn’t move. My body froze the way prey must freeze when they know they’ve been spotted. The breathing grew louder, as if something was leaning in, pressing its face against the wall, smelling me through the wood and plaster.

I bolted from the room and didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

By morning, I made the decision to leave. I didn’t care about the lease. I didn’t care about the deposit. Something was in that house—and it was watching me.

As I packed, I noticed something strange. In the hallway, near the attic door, the humming had returned. But this time, it was rhythmic, almost musical. Like a chant.

I made a mistake then.

I opened the attic.

The ladder groaned beneath me as I climbed. The hatch creaked open, and the warm, stale air hit me like breath. The attic was empty, except for dust, old furniture, and one thing that made my blood run cold: a circle of dead birds, arranged perfectly around a pile of dirt in the center of the floor.

Buried in that dirt was a jawbone. Human.

I heard the hatch slam shut behind me.

The hum turned into a screech. Deafening, shrill, ancient.

I don’t remember how I got out. I think I jumped. When I came to, I was lying in the front yard, the house looming behind me. Its windows looked like eyes—wide, watching, waiting.

I left everything behind and drove. I didn’t stop until I reached the next town.

Later, I did some research. I found a police report from 1976. A man named Thomas Greaves had lived there. He believed the house was alive. He said it spoke to him, taught him its name, and showed him how to feed it. His family disappeared. He claimed the house took them.

They found him in the attic. He had carved a circle of birds around himself and pulled out his own teeth.

Before he died, he said, “The house hums when it’s hungry.”