The Tuesday Hum

The sky began humming on a Tuesday.

It wasn’t a loud sound, not at first. It was a low, mechanical vibration that settled over the neighborhood like background music no one had selected. It buzzed faintly in the teeth and rattled the window glass in the guest bedroom. By noon, the birds had stopped singing, and by dinner, the clouds had turned a stagnant, bruised purple that didn’t move with the wind.

"Pass the carrots, dear," Arthur said, adjusting his napkin.

Ellen handed him the bowl. Her hand was shaking, just enough to make the ceramic clink against the table, but her smile was as set as the gelatin dessert cooling in the fridge. "Did you hear from the Johnsons today? They said the new mulch is arriving tomorrow."

"Mulch is good," Arthur replied. He took a bite of the roast. Outside, a flock of crows fell out of the sky. They didn't fly; they simply dropped, hitting the patio with soft, wet thuds. Arthur glanced through the sliding glass door, noted the black feathers scattered across the slate, and then returned his gaze to his plate. "The garden could use the nutrients. It’s been a dry spell."

"A bit dry," Ellen agreed. A low-frequency pulse from the sky made the water in their glasses jump, spilling a ring of moisture onto the tablecloth. She dabbed at it with her thumb. "The forecast mentioned a change in pressure. I suppose that’s what we’re feeling."

"Probably the local substation," Arthur said, though the substation had been decommissioned five years ago. "They’re always fiddling with the grid."

The hum intensified. It was no longer just a sound; it was a weight. It felt like the air was being replaced by something thicker than oxygen, something that tasted faintly of copper and old coins. In the corner of the dining room, the shadow cast by the floor lamp began to move independently of the light. It stretched upward, a flat, two-dimensional tear in the world, unzipping the wallpaper.

"I was thinking of repainting the hallway," Ellen said, her voice rising half an octave to compensate for the rhythmic thrumming of the walls. "A nice sage green. Or perhaps a toasted almond."

Arthur looked at the shadow. It had reached the ceiling now, and a pale, multi-jointed finger—far too long to be human—poked through the rift, testing the air. "Almond is a safe choice. It holds the light well."

"Exactly my thought." Ellen stood up to clear the plates. She walked past the rift in the wall, her shoulder brushing against the cold, void-like darkness. She didn't shiver. She didn't scream. She simply adjusted the tilt of a framed photo on the wall that had been knocked crooked by the finger’s emergence. "Oh, look at that. The glass is cracked. I’ll have to take it to the shop on Saturday."

"I'll go with you," Arthur said. "I need to pick up those lawn bags. The crows are going to be a bear to rake up if I leave them until Monday."

"Don't work too hard, honey. The heat is supposed to be quite oppressive tomorrow."

They moved into the living room. The television was on, but the screen was showing nothing but a series of geometric shapes that pulsed in time with the sky’s hum. On the sofa, their golden retriever, Buster, was staring at the ceiling. He wasn't barking. He was simply vibrating, his fur standing on end as he hovered four inches off the cushions.

"Buster, down," Arthur said mildly.

The dog didn't move. He couldn't. The gravity in the room had become selective, a patchy quilt of physical laws.

"He’s just excited about the walk," Ellen said, sitting down and opening her book. The pages were blank, the ink having migrated off the paper to form a swirling cloud of letters near the lamp, but she turned the pages with practiced regularity. "He always gets like this when the barometric pressure shifts."

A sound like a tectonic plate snapping echoed from the street. One of the neighborhood houses—the Millers’ place—was slowly folding in on itself, the wood and brick sighing as it compressed into a space no larger than a mailbox.

"The Millers are downsizing," Arthur noted, looking out the front window. "Efficient. It’s a lot of house for just two people."

"It really is," Ellen said. She didn't look up from her blank book. "I hope they kept the crown molding, though. It was original to the property."

The hum peaked. The ceiling of their own home began to dissolve into a fine, grey powder that drifted down like snow, coating their hair and the furniture. Through the opening, the stars were visible—not the familiar constellations, but angry, red pinpricks of light that moved in chaotic, jagged patterns.

Arthur reached over and took Ellen’s hand. His skin felt like parchment, and his pulse was a slow, heavy thud that matched the rhythm of the sky.

"It's a lovely evening, isn't it?" he asked.

Ellen leaned her head on his shoulder, ignoring the fact that his shoulder was now translucent enough to see the flickering red stars behind him. "Lovely," she whispered. "Simply lovely. We should do this more often."

Outside, the world continued to unravel, but inside, the tea was still warm, and the silence was perfectly, racialistically normal.