It was late October, well past midnight, and I was standing at the window on Maple Street, listening to a sound I'd never heard before. A low hum, constant, like a refrigerator in an empty house. At first I thought it was the streetlight, the one that flickered every few seconds, casting the same patch of pavement in a sick yellow pulse. But the hum came from the end of the block, from the house that had been empty for three years. The one with the boarded windows and the FOR SALE sign that never sold. I went to the porch, stood on the damp wood, and pressed my ear to the gap in the door. What I heard inside wasn't a machine. It was something breathing, in time with the hum. I didn't go inside. But I came back every night for a week, and each time the hum was lower, the breathing deeper. On the seventh night, the door was open. I stood on the porch and listened to the silence. It was worse.

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