The night wore on, and Liam didn't shift from his spot on the floor.
The hum had faded just before dawn, leaving him in silence so heavy it felt alive.
He sat there with his back against the wall, eyes open but glassy, trying to remember when he'd last slept. His throat was raw, and the taste of metal still coated his tongue.
The vial was gone.
That single thought pulsed in his skull like a heartbeat. Every few seconds, it repeated: It's gone. It's gone. It's gone.
He finally stood, bones stiff, and walked into the bathroom. The mirror showed someone else hair matted, eyes bloodshot, jaw tense.
He whispered to his reflection, "You just need to find it. That's all."
But as soon as he turned away, he heard the sound again faint, rhythmic, like water running through old pipes.
Except it wasn't water.
He pressed his ear to the wall. The noise was coming from beneath the apartment.
A steady thrum, deep and low.
He stepped back. The hum seemed to follow him as he crossed the room. It grew louder near the vent, as though something beneath the floorboards was vibrating,pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
He knelt, unscrewed the vent cover, and peered inside. Darkness. Dust. Nothing else.
But then, somewhere deep inside the shaft, something dripped.
Tap… tap… tap.
He closed the vent quickly.
"Not real," he muttered. "You're just tired."
Still, he could feel the vibration under his feet. It wasn't stopping.
Liam skipped classes that day. He didn't eat, didn't text anyone. Every sound in the apartment seemed amplified the fridge hum, the clock tick, the rustle of his own clothes.
He tried to ignore it, but the more he focused on silence, the more he heard it. The hum. Always there, somewhere below.
By noon, he was tearing through his drawers, his bag, under his bed, inside the bathroom cabinet searching again and again for the vial even though he already knew it wasn't there.
When he lifted his mattress, a folded piece of paper slid out and fell to the floor.
It wasn't his handwriting.
He opened it with shaking hands.
"You left something important at the field.
Come alone tonight."
No name. No number. Just that.
He read it five times. His vision tunneled.
The hum under the floor grew stronger, as if in response.
"Tonight," he whispered. "Okay. Tonight."
The field was empty again by the time he got there. The mist was heavier now, clinging low to the ground. The air smelled faintly of bleach and wet earth.
He parked under the floodlight, engine still running, eyes scanning the dugout.
Nothing.
He stepped out anyway, pulling his jacket tighter. The gravel crunched beneath his shoes, each sound echoing like gunfire.
The dugout door creaked open on its own.
"Hello?" he called.
Silence.
He stepped inside. The benches were slick with rain. The smell of rust and mildew filled the air.
Then drip… drip… that same sound again.
It was coming from under the floorboards.
He knelt, pressing his ear down. The hum was there too, deep and constant.
He whispered, "Where are you?"
The reply came as a faint click the unmistakable sound of a camera shutter.
He jerked up, eyes darting toward the fence.
A flash, quick, white, gone.
His breath hitched.
He ran out of the dugout, slipping in the mud, scanning the trees. No one was there.
"Show yourself!" he shouted. "You think this is funny?"
Only the wind answered.
He stumbled back toward the field, but something on the ground caught his eye, a small, glass shard reflecting the floodlight. He picked it up carefully.
It wasn't from the vial.
It was from a camera lens.
By the time Liam returned to his apartment, he was drenched and shaking. The hum greeted him before he even opened the door.
It was louder now.
The floor seemed to vibrate beneath his feet, and the air itself felt charged like a storm was trapped inside the walls.
He followed the sound to the living room, crouched low, pressed his ear against the floor. The vibration was strongest there.
"Alright," he whispered. "You win."
He grabbed a screwdriver and started prying at the floorboards. One by one, he lifted them until he'd opened a small square of darkness.
Cold, damp air rushed out. The smell made his stomach turn metallic, sweet, wrong.
He leaned closer.
Something glistened below not light, but movement. A thin trail of silvery liquid trickled between the cracks, pulsing faintly with each hum.
It looked like the stuff inside the vial.
His hand shook as he reached down.
The hum grew so loud it felt like it was inside his skull.
He touched the liquid and flinched back immediately.
It was warm.
And it was moving on its own.
He scrambled backward, heart hammering, staring as the silvery fluid slithered upward, as if pulled by gravity in reverse. It reached the edge of the floorboard and stopped trembling like something alive trying to breathe.
Then it sank back down.
The hum stopped.
Liam sat there in total silence, chest heaving, palms slick with sweat.
His mind was breaking. It had to be. Nothing else made sense.
He stood, closed the vent, and whispered to the floor:
"If this is what you want, take it. Just stop."
But as he turned to leave, the lights flickered twice the same rhythm as before.
He froze.
Somewhere outside, a camera clicked again.
He barely slept that night. The dreams, when they came, were blurred flashes silver light, the sound of dripping, Emily's face half-submerged in darkness.
He woke up gasping, soaked in sweat. The hum had returned, softer now, almost like breathing.
He pressed his palms against his ears, whispering, "Stop, please."
But the sound didn't stop. It pulsed quietly, patiently like something waiting.
Something beneath him.
He felt like he was loosing his mind but at the same time he knew what he could see and hear.