Bruce walked home just as the sun was surrendering, bleeding a weak, bruised-purple light across the horizon. The air was sharp, smelling of pine and the first real bite of autumn. He walked fast, his head down, hands jammed in the pockets of his thin jacket.
The hum was bad today.
It was a constant, high-voltage thrum deep in his bones, a soundless, endless vibration that was his only real companion. It was the static between radio stations, the buzz of a neon sign, the shiver of a tuning fork, all inside his skull. On good days, it was a background irritation. On bad days, like today, it was a migraine made of pure energy, making his teeth ache and his vision blur at the edges.
He'd felt it spike when that hiker's body was found. The news was all over town, a low, fearful whisper that seemed to feed the hum, making it angrier.
He turned off the gravel road and onto the dirt path that led to his house. The house wasn't just on the edge of the woods; it felt of the woods. It was an old, two-story structure, its paint peeling in long, curling strips, its porch sagging like a tired sigh. It was half-swallowed by shadow and climbing ivy, and to the rest of Oaktown, it was a place to be avoided. To Bruce, it was just home.
The hum in his bones always got worse when he got close, as if the ancient trees were whispering to it. But tonight, something else cut through the air.
A smell.
It wasn't Anah's usual kitchen smell of simmering rosemary, thyme, and baking bread. This was sharp, pungent, and metallic, like burnt herbs and ozone. It was the smell of a snapped power line.
He pushed open the screen door, its hinges giving their usual groan. The kitchen was where Anah spent her life, and it was always dim, always warm. But tonight, the air was thick, almost unbreathable. She was standing at the ancient, cast-iron stove, stirring a small, black pot. The kitchen was lit by a single, low-watt bulb above her, throwing her face into a landscape of deep, dramatic shadow.
She was humming.
It wasn't one of her usual, wandering, tuneless melodies. This was a low, single-note drone, a vibration that he could feel in his chest. It was a grating, unsettling sound, and it fought with the hum in his head, creating a sick, dissonant harmony.
"Evening news is all in a panic," she said, her voice a low rumble. She didn't turn around. Her arm, thin but roped with muscle, moved in a steady, counter-clockwise circle. "That hiker. They say it was an animal. It wasn't."
"Yeah," Bruce said. He dumped his bag by the door, the hum so loud he could barely think. The metallic, herbal smell was coming from the pot. It was making his eyes water. "I heard. It's... bad."
"It's a sign," she said, still stirring. "An old, bad sign. The kind I hoped you'd never have to see."
"A sign of what?"
Anah finally stopped. The sound of the metal spoon scraping the iron pot was loud, and then it was gone. She turned, and her face, illuminated by the single, bare bulb, was a mask of ancient, terrible gravity. He'd seen her sad, seen her angry, but he had never, in his seventeen years, seen her afraid.
It was the most terrifying thing he had ever witnessed.
"They're hungry," she said, as if that explained everything. "And you... you're a light in the dark, child. A bonfire. You just don't know it yet."
"Gram, you're not making any sense. You're scaring me."
"Good," she said, her voice rough. "You should be scared. Scared keeps you sharp."
She wiped her hands on her apron—an apron that had dark, sooty stains on it—and walked to the mantelpiece. Carved into the dark, heavy wood were symbols he'd never been able to identify. She reached for a small, wooden box, its surface worn smooth with time. She opened it.
"Your mother... she wasn't like them, but she knew them," Anah said, her back to him. "She knew what you were. She spent her life finding this. For you."
She turned around. In her palm, resting on a bed of dried, dark leaves, was an amulet.
It was nothing special, not at first glance. It was a piece of dark, almost black wood, polished smooth but knotted and gnarled, like a single, hardened root. It was bound in old, cracked leather strips, and in its center was a single, cloudy piece of grey-streaked quartz. It was heavy, and it felt cool, despite the heat of the kitchen.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"A lock," Anah said. "A shield. A... a quieter."
She held the leather cord up. "Come here."
He hesitated. The hum in his skull was screaming, a high-pitched, frantic no-no-no. It didn't want this.
"Bruce. Now."
He walked over, his legs feeling heavy. He ducked his head. The air around Anah was thick with the ozone smell. He could feel the heat radiating from her skin. She slipped the cord over his head.
The moment the cool, heavy amulet rested on his sternum, his world ended.
The hum. The constant, vibrating, lifelong companion in his bones—
It stopped.
It didn't fade. It didn't quiet down. It was gone, as if a switch had been thrown, cutting the power to his entire body.
The sudden, absolute internal silence was so profound, so total, that he gasped, his knees buckling. He grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself. His vision, no longer blurred by the internal static, snapped into a painful, terrifying high-definition.
He could see the individual cracks in the plaster ceiling. He could see a spiderweb in the far corner, its silk shimmering. He could smell the dust motes in the air, the rust on the water tap, the faint, clean scent of lye soap on Anah's hands, hidden beneath the metallic tang of her ritual.
The fog he had lived in his entire life was gone. He was... clear.
He stared at Anah, his eyes wide, his heart hammering in a chest that finally felt like it was his own.
"What... what did you do?" he whispered, his own voice sounding alien, too loud in the new, clear silence of his head.
Anah's face softened, the terror replaced by a deep, aching sadness. She reached out and touched his cheek, her hand calloused and warm.
"I put the dampeners on, child," she said. "I turned the bonfire into a candle."
She tucked the amulet under the collar of his shirt, her movements practiced and sure.
"Never take this off," she commanded, her voice regaining its iron. "Not for school. Not for sleep. Not for her," she said, and he knew she meant Ruth. "You do not take this off. Ever. It... quiets the mind. It helps you focus."
It helps me be normal, he thought, his mind reeling.
"The world is full of listeners, Bruce," she said, turning back to the stove, the moment over. "It's time you learned to be quiet