The Hum of the World

By Grant Wamack

In this story collection Grant Wamack shows the reader what lies beneath everything. Office workers subject to otherworldly beings and events, a martial artist with experimental supplements that transform him into something entirely new, cardboard homeless encampments where all is not as it seems. If you listen close enough you can hear the hum of the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nictitating Books
• Release date: May 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223457541

Book preview

The Hum of the World & Other Stories

Grant Wamack

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Nictitating Books

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Copyright © 2023 by Grant Wamack

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

All rights reserved

Cover Art and Design by Don Noble

Edited by Sean Malia Thompson

Interior eBook formatting by Kelby Losack

This book contains Suicide

Dedicated to W.H. Pugmire

From birth, man carries the weight of gravity on his shoulders. He is bolted to earth. But man has only to sink beneath the surface and he is free.

—Jacques Yves Cousteau

Contents

1. WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THE CRICKETS STOP SINGING

2. AND THE FLIES WILL FOLLOW

3. CARDBOARD CITADELS

4. VERMILION BORDERS

5. DARK SCRIPTURES

6. BLACK STATIC, HOW LOVELY THE SOUND

7. FLUTE OF RIBS

8. FIRE IN THE BLACK NIGHT

9. TIME TO SHINE

10. THE FOSSILIZATION METHOD

11. THE HUM OF THE WORLD

12. A HOUSE LAY DESERTED

13. WHERE OLD PEOPLE GO TO DIE

14. THE DREADHEADS

15. ROLLING WITH THE GOD$

16. Vibrations That Linger

About the Author

Acknowledgments

Publication History

Also from Nictitating Books

WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THE CRICKETS STOP SINGING

The corn fields were dying and had been for months. Stalks brown and brittle swam by Anthony Rice like a funeral procession. Someone had told him this process was necessary for the production of sweet corn. He found the whole thing rather unsavory, and wondered if the sea of waning plants felt some fragmented form of pain underneath the weight of the scorching sun.

He moved to Toledo, Ohio after a teaching position was offered to him out of the blue. Desperate for steady work, he moved away from New York City and settled down in Lucas County, telling himself the move was only temporary. A mere stepping stone became his mantra and the lie he told his peers and colleagues, but seven years later, he became accustomed to the Glass City despite his misgivings and even managed to settle down with a kind woman named Lauryn. She loved the Midwest and Anthony wasn’t sure if he had it in him to uproot her for his own selfish desires.

Driving down 33 miles of long winding roads with nothing but health podcasts and a cartoonish Mole Man bobblehead to keep him company, Anthony wished he had a different view outside his smudged windows, preferably palm trees or maybe even some desert terrain, a team of construction workers building an imaginary two-story house on top of ancient ocean floors was ideal. He dreamed of convincing Lauryn to move with him to Miami or maybe somewhere exotic like Phuket, Thailand. Heard the American dollar goes a long way out there.

He dug around the glove compartment, stretching his right arm in the darkness until his fingers clasped around a brown bottle. Snapping the lid off with a pop he tossed back three purple pills, meant to get rid of his anxiety and release a rush of dopamine.

After he arrived in the cramped office with low-hanging ceilings and sterile walls, he poured himself a strong cup of dark coffee with tons of sugar, wiped the sleep from the corners of his eyes, sat down at his mahogany desk, and turned on his desktop computer.

When the hell are these pills going to kick in?

It was simple enough work, crunching numbers, updating records, comparing data sets, and checking boxes. He checked some emails and opened a new one from one of their biggest clients, a pharmaceutical company overseas. There was an attachment, which he assumed came from their data warehouse in need of data organization. It seemed to take an eternity to download, freezing every other application on his computer. When it was done, he attempted opening the file called ostara.exe and received a notification saying it was corrupted. His screen went haywire and green blocks smeared across his monitor in sickening patches.

Stop. Stop. Stop. For the love of god don’t be a virus.

Anthony clicked the mouse continuously, but there was nothing he could do to stop the digital infection. The damage was done and he’d have to call technical support for assistance. He unplugged the computer, hoping that would do something positive. Stepping on his own foot, and relishing the flare of pain, he glanced up at the digital clock on the wall.

It read 8:05 a.m.

That’s impossible, he thought, how can it be this early? I swore it was just 9 am.

The birds bordering the clock face seemed to laugh at him, twittering about the edges of the frame.

Anthony took a deep breath and closed his eyes tight, digging his fingers into the meat of his thighs, despite the slim barrier of duck canvas fabric between his nails and flesh.

One, two, three…

He opened his eyes, and looked up with a ball of hope lodged inside his chest. Time remained the same. Numbers frozen.

Suspicious and paranoid, he surveyed the room, expecting to find a giggling coworker hiding behind a cubicle wall. All he found were empty chairs and silence.

It seemed like everyone left the office, just up and disappeared, leaving Anthony out of the loop. And these damn pills weren’t doing their job. He picked up the wireless office phone and dialed technical support. The phone screeched like a banshee and he dropped it.

Anthony paced the room, circling around deserted cubicles in ever-widening circles and dizzying lines, the screech still ringing inside his ears. He sat with a sigh and gripped the armrests of his ergonomic chair until his knuckles turned white, whiter than the sterile walls that enclosed him.

Think Anthony think, he commanded himself, but nothing sprung out of the empty wasteland he called his brain.

My cell phone, he thought and slammed his fist on his desk. He flipped it open, but the screen remained black, reflecting the worry lines etched across his sweaty forehead, and a brown age spot etched on his cheek like a tattoo. He pressed the buttons frantically, battering them with clammy thumbs, waiting for the screen to light up. Nothing happened.

He threw the cell phone clear across the room and relished the sound of the device smashing into pieces. It broke the silence and managed to calm his nerves for a moment.

Maybe I need some more coffee, he thought, savoring the imaginary flavor. Anthony tried to stand, but he was glued to his seat, unable to move.

What the fuck, he muttered, struggling to get out of his chair.

Sweat ran down his ruddy face, coming to rest on the tip of his broad nose. His button-up shirt seemed too tight, closing in around his neck. He tugged at the collar, desperately searching for air.

What would Lauryn think of this, he suddenly thought. She knew how to calm him down, knew how to say the right order of words to reassure him during the times anxiety wanted to take him under. His wife’s soft voice filled his ears.

You’re a damn fool Anthony. That’s what you are. Look at you getting all worked up over nothing. Get out of your head.

Her hearty laughter filled the room for what felt like forever, but eventually faded into the cold, foreboding silence.

This is all wrong. Nothing makes any sense. Am I having a mental breakdown? Am I going through a bout of psychosis?

He sniffled and took a few breaths, trying his damnedest to hold his tears back. He studied his desk and noticed a layer of dust that wasn’t there before. He surveyed the room with his cold gaze, and noticed a thick accumulation of dust lying on top of every surface.

How did this place get so dirty so quick? He questioned no one in particular; the cleaning company was just here last week.

Anthony closed his eyes, hoping this was all just a terrible nightmare, the result of some bad combination of spoiled tacos and liquor. When he opened his eyes, the room remained the same and the silence intensified…and now there were spider webs that laced the corners of the room in thick layers of albumen white.

Anthony tried to clear his mind, push the thoughts away in the dark recesses, and bask in the empty silence. However, the silence was no longer there. Instead, there was a primal hiss that snaked its way through the air, and a mysterious scent that vaguely reminded him of spring showers and mildew. He looked at the fluorescent lights softly humming overhead.

A few flies crawled on the panels of light, skittering back and forth. The lights flickered, alternating between intervals of light and darkness, threatening to die out.

Anthony’s head filled with the sound of his blood rushing through his veins, vast oceans of red sloshing underneath his skin. He inadvertently swallowed his spit, and desperately prayed to any God listening.

That springtime scent became sickening, filling his nostrils full of rot and decay. He gagged, clutching at his own throat for air. Two ceiling tiles fell to the ground and clouds of dust rained down.

Click.

The lights went out and no God came. But something else did. An indistinct shape, a mass of darkness, lumbering overhead, bubbled out. Row upon row of glossy eyes stared down at him and thousands of limbs encased in a blob-like structure struggled to find purchase on the tiles.

Anthony darted through the darkness, pushing aside office chairs, wheels spinning in the air, and headed for the doors leading to an escape from the office. He didn’t dare turn back to see if the monstrosity was gaining on him. Instead, he charged out the exit and headed towards the stairs, guided by muscle memory, unsure if the elevators were out of commission along with the lights.

By the time he made it down three and half flights of stairs, he heard the dreaded sound of the door whining open above him. Becoming hyper-aware of the sweat dripping down his back and covering his neck and seeping out of his armpits, he felt all too human, too soft, too fleshy.

He picked up the pace despite his lungs burning and his sides cramping. Barreling through a twin set of doors that led outside gave him a sense of relief and he hunched over. Hands on knees. Heavy breathing. The nighttime air smelled sweet and clean.

Anthony eyed the parking lot and the cornfields, looking back and forth, knowing that thing was going to come busting through the doors behind him any minute. He decided on the cornfields, figuring his car was too far and gambling on the chance he’d find plenty of cover in the swaying stalks.

Maybe I can hide out there and wait until this thing—

"My man Tony!"

Anthony almost couldn’t believe his eyes. His department manager Benoit casually walked towards him in his Armani suit, shiny Chelsea boots, and Ferragamo shades as if he didn’t have a care in the world, as if that monstrosity wasn’t going to pay them a visit from