The HUM: The complete novel

by Michael Christopher Carter

  Other titles from this author:

  The Hum

  Paved with good intentions

  You don’t have to be dead to work here… but it helps

  The Nightmare of Eliot Armstrong

  Destructive Interference – coming December 2016

  Praise for Michael:

  “Stunning! Michael takes a mystery, and turns it into something extraordinary.”- Nicholas Caldwell, Author of ‘The Selfish guide to success’ series.

  “The Hum is a gripping story… almost makes one believe in aliens.” – Claire Fogel, Author of the ‘Blackthorne Forest’ series

  “This is a fabulous book and a unique story unlike anything I've ever read.” - Sabrina, Goodreads

  “The perfect novel?

  An Extraordinary Haunting really is extraordinary!” – Michelle, Goodreads

  “This is an author to watch, you MUST read this book...it's as scary as hell!” – J Putland, Amazon.

  “An amazing read that really plays with your mind…Worth every penny and more.” – S Mowatt, Amazon

  Dedication.

  To my wife Sherrie, and her kind and beautiful mother who we love and miss every day. Trish, may you rest in peace. I know you would have been so proud of my writing.

  The

  Hum

  Chapter One

  A strange noise again.

  Nuthampstead, a small village in Cambridgeshire, England, November 1989.

  The noise had been constant for days. It was at night when all other sounds were missing that it received the most attention. The husbands of the village, woken and sent to find out the cause, each discovered it wasn’t the refrigerator, or the washing machine, or the music centre, or the boiler.

  Upon deciding the source of the noise was outside, and venturing out to their respective patios or lawns in the dead of night, they were all still none the wiser.

  It was a low humming, similar to a diesel engine a short distance away, or perhaps a helicopter nearing. Only, it never changed. The diesel engine couldn’t be located, and the helicopter never moved closer or further away. The listener might stand outside forever and yet be unable to discern a direction. It came from everywhere and nowhere at once.

  Noise travelling for miles in this fenland village was common, but the curiousness of the omnipresent oddity proved perplexing. Theories abounded as to its source. The consensus blamed the council for secret drilling, or mining, or construction, or some unpermitted development.

  Farmers bemoaned that their own planning permission was turned down left right and centre, but it was okay for the council to do whatever it wanted. Everyone felt uneasy with the inconclusive speculations, but uniting against a shared perceived enemy extended some comfort.

  The noise even offered advantages to those usually chastised by the parish for their own noise pollution. One resourceful farmer who had turned part of his land into an Olympic quality clay shooting ground, despite rigorous efforts to block the sound of gun fire, usually received rife complaints from locals at parish meetings.

  Another ran a successful go-kart track, meeting only on the first Sunday of the month, but protests were common about this too. Even noise associated with general farming, such as harvesting, and incredibly, cows mooing, received complaints nowadays. The humming took attention from them at least.

  It hadn’t always been like that. Nuthampstead had once been a tolerant, neighbourly community where everyone knew everybody else and were always willing to lend a helping hand. Most saw the recent influx of new-comers as the culprit. Steep house prices meant those born and bred in the village couldn’t afford to buy a house there anymore. Families in residence for generations were being usurped.

  Some of the so-called new-comers had lived in the village for more than a decade. But it took a lot more than a mere ten years to be seen as ‘not new’ in the Fens. A three generation presence was a prerequisite.

  The Ellis family were genuine new-comers. Having moved into the corner white house in the centre of the upper village eighteen months ago, they still felt new. They didn’t know it, but they always would.

  Although Geraint Ellis wasn’t the local police officer, the villagers treated him as such, despite his duties laying in the nearby city of Cambridge. Every missing sheep and tool misplaced, he would be expected to investigate as though it were life or death. Particularly the missing sheep incidents, as their relocation from the Valleys’ of South Wales meant he was presumed to be something of an ovine expert.

  Geraint endured these inconveniences, and the inevitable nick-name of ‘Taffy,’ in order to fit in; along with a real sense of duty. He was a very diligent police constable.

  The large white house, now their home, had been carefully saved for whilst taking advantage of the security a police house gave them. A couple of years saving, and another year in a caravan, meant they now lived in an enviable home.

  Geraint named it Nutters after the fond shortening of Nuthampstead he and his wife Diane had adopted. It was a name he bitterly regretted since doctors upgraded her diagnosis of post-natal depression to Bi-polar disorder when it had failed to clear up after over three years of distress. The rest of the village whispered of the appropriateness of Nutters behind the family’s back.

  It was in the home of this family of unwelcome, odd, new-comers that the hum was feared most. Six year old Carys Ellis had heard the talk in the village, and at school, about what the noise might be. She wasn’t sure why, but she knew exactly what it was. She knew her mother was right to be afraid and wasn’t a ‘Nutter’ at all.

  No-one at school was privy to her secret because she had no-one to tell. The hostility she experienced as a funny sounding newcomer, who was also the policeman’s goody-goody daughter, made it difficult for her to make friends

  Today, after a tense journey home from school enduring her mother’s erratic driving, she noticed a subtle but unwelcome change. The awful humming noise had grown louder. Neither of them mentioned it to the other; Diane’s jitteriness was of no reassurance to Carys, whilst Carys’s youth made her only a last resort comfort to her mother.

  She slumped on the sofa in front of children’s television for two hours before the evening news signalled the imminent return of her father. Diane fumbled noisily in the kitchen as though a home cooked masterpiece would greet them all soon. Instead, the clattering, cursing and swearing, was from her attempts to produce an entire meal in the new microwave.

  The large, boxy appliances with the appearance of portable televisions were all the rage at the moment; and since buying theirs, Diane had barely cooked using anything else. Reading and re-reading the instructions for each element of the mass ready-meal, and the effort of keeping them all hot while the next component was ‘cooked’ caused immense agitation to the hapless chef in the kitchen.

  The front door slammed, announcing the arrival of the man of the house, a fact they were both grateful for. The unmistakable smell of processed food chemicals filled the air and declared dinner to be almost ready. With a final screech of louder expletives, and urgent cries for the table to be laid, it was upon them.

  Geraint always did surprisingly well with the dubious offerings. He must have worked up a heck of an appetite at work, Carys decided, as she struggled to swallow hers without retching.

  “I’m sorry,” offered Diane. “The instructions aren’t worth toffee on those packets. I’ve had to work out all new timings for the lasagnes and I haven’t quite got it yet. They’ll be better next time, I’m sure. Just eat what you can for now.”

  Carys was grateful for the get-out clause. Her mother at least knew she was a useless cook. The effort she put into working out microwave tim
es was surely greater than the effort it would take to prepare lasagne from fresh ingredients properly, Carys was sure.

  “It’s this bloody noise making it impossible to concentrate,” she said, a little tersely. “I swear it’s louder!” she excused herself, keen to broach the so-far-undiscussed matter of the hum.

  Geraint raised his eyes to heaven, careful it went unseen by his wife. Carys saw. He meant her to. ‘Isn’t mummy silly? Worrying about the funny noise’, was the message. But Carys worried too. She knew the noise was making her mummy ill.

  “I can’t understand how you can keep so calm,” Diane was saying. “We all know what it means. Or have you forgotten what happened to me not so long ago?”

  Geraint glared at her for risking upsetting their daughter. There was a time and a place, away from little ears, this sort of thing should be discussed, if at all.

  He softened his gaze, careful not to upset her. When Diane was agitated, placating her was the best practice. Taking the blame, and agreeing with her every fancy was all he could do. Once calmer, she never remembered what the fuss had been about anyway.

  Looking imploringly at their daughter, and back at Diane to imply later talks, he wasn’t sure if she’d got the message. But she stopped talking, and made moves to retire to the living room. Her countenance changed abruptly. Beaming at Geraint, she requested a cup of tea and left to ‘warm up the telly,’ ready for Coronation Street; leaving Geraint to clear the table, and the alarming mess left by the ‘cooking.’

  He and Carys joined her in the lounge just as the opening theme to the programme they watched religiously began. Carys realised with a sense of foreboding, she had only half an hour until her bedtime. Sitting stock still, dreading going upstairs to bed, she knew if she feigned interest in the next programme, and sat ever so quietly, she may go unnoticed for a while longer. Especially if it was something in which she might have a conceivable interest.

  Her heart skipped when she heard her mother say her name at the end of Coronation Street. She needn’t have worried. Like most children in the 1980’s, she was employed as the family television remote control. Walking over to the small, boxy set, she pressed the buttons to change through the four television stations.

  When David Attenborough’s distinctive tone wafted intelligently from the tinny speaker, she was virtually guaranteed a late bedtime. Sure enough, she sloped quietly back to her seat and settled down.

  Despite her genuine interest in the planet’s biology, she began drifting off to sleep, making bedtime certain. She wasn’t sure, but shared glances between her parents showed a reluctance from them to make the move as well. Tearfulness at the suggestion she should go to bed now, still got her a telling off. Geraint didn’t tolerate being manipulated by children’s crying. It always antagonised him and gave him determined resolve to complete whatever parental task was in hand.

  He carried his little daughter upstairs to her bedroom, commenting she would soon be too big for him to carry at all. Carys suspected an ulterior motive; that he was reminding her how grown up she was, now she was six. Far too old to be bothered by silly noises.

  But she couldn’t help it. So with irresistible, doe eyes, she asked her daddy for a bedtime story. He weighed things up. Staying up late would usually be in lieu of a story, but she risked a further telling off because being left alone was unthinkable. When he agreed to “Just a short one, then,” her heart skipped.

  After choosing a not particularly short one at all, she settled under her covers, listening to the comforting tones of her daddy’s sing-song, Welsh lilt; an accent she was unaware she shared with her father. Whenever they went back to The Valleys to visit her grandmother and uncles, there were always comments of how English she and Geraint sounded. The Nuthampstead locals would be incredulous if they knew.

  As the up and down singing tones lulled her to sleep, she drifted away. But, as soon as Geraint reached her bedroom door to leave, she sprung awake, anxious and tearful again. Returning to her bedside with a tut and a shake of his head, he sat on the edge of her duvet and prepared to have a talk.

  Tears stung the backs of Carys’s eyes as she listened to her daddy’s instructions to take no notice of Mummy. Did she remember how Mummy hadn’t been very well? That was why she should trust Daddy. And not to worry Mummy. It was too much for a six year old to understand, but she promised to try her hardest to be Daddy’s brave little princess and go to sleep.

  She really did try. She tried so hard, forcing her eyelids shut against the flutter-flutter of her pulsing veins. But sleep, inescapable listening to David Attenborough, snuggled up on the sofa, evaded her now, unsafe and alone. The hours crawled by until, at last, she heard the tell-tale sounds of doors being locked and light switches flicking on and off as her parents prepared for bed. Maybe she’d sleep now she could hear them coming upstairs.

  As they passed her slightly ajar door, hissed whispers floated in from the landing… her parents voices arguing about the humming noise as Geraint had alluded they would ‘later’. The whispering paused and they both peeped their heads round the door-jam into her room.

  She was sure they could tell she wasn’t asleep. Eyelids quivered rapidly as she tried with all her might to keep them shut. Breath, seeping slowly in and out of her lungs to disguise her alertness, made her short of breath, an explosive gulp of giveaway air only a moment away. As the loving gaze of her parents examined her for signs of sleep, Carys fought the urge to call out ‘Mummy, Daddy, I don’t want to be on my own. I’m scared.’ Gulping down a wad of emotion, she fought to make good on her promise to be brave.

  Surprised when her unconvincing pretence at sleep seemed to do the trick, she heard the door creak quietly back on its hinges and click shut. From beyond, the hushed conversation resumed; Diane’s whispered tone still harsh, reminding Geraint of her terrifying experience and demanding his support now. Everyone else had decided it was one of her ‘episodes’, but the family knew, didn’t they?

  Carys knew. She remembered that time clearly. Her mother had gone to stay in a hospital for weeks, and she’d been heartbroken. Whatever upset her then had something to do with the same humming noise tormenting them now.

  As they moved down the landing, the sound of them talking faded, but talk of the humming reached Carys’s delicate ears. Their proximity provided scant comfort; the calm dissolving further when the noise of her daddy’s violent snores filled the air. Mummy must be sound asleep too, or she would hear her waking him with shouts of “Turn on your side, Geraint. You’re snoring!!”

  There was no other sound but her father, and the hum; which was getting louder, she was sure. How could her mummy and daddy sleep through it? But the continuing snoring attested they could.

  That’s when it happened.

  Chapter Two

  Carys’s Terror

  Louder and louder, the noise shook Carys in her bed. Fighting the instinct to pull her covers over her head, her little body quivered as she prayed it was just her imagination. With the duvet covering half her face, her eyes skimmed around her bedroom.

  She squirmed, digging her heels into the mattress, squinting at a sudden searing white light bursting through her curtains, piercing the darkness. Different to daylight. Brighter somehow, but didn’t fill her room as daylight would. Her hands gripped the duvet so hard her fingers numbed. Aching to pull them back over her and make it all go away, she couldn’t. She had to see what was there.

  Her little mind, seeking a harmless explanation, forced a laugh as she decided it was just a police helicopter; some colleagues of her father out searching for a bad man. The beam shining back and forth from the sky shone into her room and her covers proved too tempting.

  Abruptly, the noise stopped. The light, so bright it burned to look at, was gone. All she could hear was the thump, thump, thump of her little heart as it beat furiously against her chest. All she could see was the weave of her duvet cover inches from her saucer eyes.

  Torn between the safety that hi
ding seemed to offer, and a macabre curiosity, slowly, she pulled the duvet from her head to peep into the room. At once, she wished she hadn’t.

  The bright light no longer shone through her window, but Carys would prefer if it was. Because now, she could see it breaking under the crack at the bottom of her door. It was inside the house! Gulping down bile, she peered, wide eyed, knowing now that it couldn’t be a helicopter. Somewhere inside her mind, she’d always known.

  Whatever it was had to be outside hers and her parent’s bedrooms. Gripping the covers up to her nose, she stared at the door, her heart beating so hard and so fast, she feared it might burst from her chest and runaway.

  Her short life flashed before her eyes, streaming with salty emotion. A rattling made her gasp. Timidly, her gaze darted to the door in time to see the handle shaking up and down. A whimper turned to a cry as it shook more before turning just the amount needed to open.

  It creaked ajar. Long, grey fingers gripped the edge of the wood. ‘Who are you?’ she wanted to scream, but no sound came and she just watched, her eyelids so far back ij her sockets, her eyeballs felt they might fall and tumble across the floor. From deep within terror expanded like foetid gas in a rotting rat. And when the inhuman hand pushed the door fully open, the screech which escaped her dry lips startled her with its velocity. She wished she could’ve kept it in, so that whoever, or whatever was creeping through the blaze of light from the doorway might be persuaded the room was empty. But she could be Daddy’s brave little princess no longer.

  Her mind couldn’t hear the words she screamed. Detached, she strained to comprehend her own hysterical squeals, she barely recognised her trembling voice. Over and over she cried for her mummy and daddy. But they didn’t come.