The Signal Beneath the Noise
After a strange hum infects his city, a man struggles to resist a subtle yet overwhelming force twisting reality around him. But even after breaking free, he realizes the manipulation runs deeper than he ever imagined.
It started with a hum so low you could feel it more than hear it—a vibration under the skin, just faint enough to make you wonder if it was real. By the time anyone noticed, it was already too late.
I first heard it while riding the subway home, a slight buzz that seemed to pulse with the lights overhead. People shifted in their seats, agitated, scratching their arms or tapping their feet to some rhythm that wasn’t there. A woman across from me mouthed silent words, her eyes glazed and unfocused.
Over the next week, things got worse. Conversations felt scripted, predictable. Friends laughed at jokes I hadn’t finished telling. Strangers stared just a second too long, as if waiting for a cue. News anchors blinked out of sync with their own words.
I started sleeping during the day, sealing myself inside with layers of white noise just to think straight. But even then, dreams came—fragmented images of cold rooms, wires embedded in flesh, a voice whispering directives just beyond understanding.
One night, I cracked. I tore apart the walls of my apartment, hunting for hidden speakers, transmitters—anything. Instead, I found a tiny slip of paper taped behind the mirror. No logo, no signature. Just four words, handwritten in uneven black ink:
"Change the frequency now."
The moment I read it, the hum grew deafening, a roar that swallowed every thought. My vision blurred, hands moving on their own, smashing the mirror into glittering shards.
When I woke up, hours—or maybe days—had passed. The hum was gone. The world outside my window looked the same... but it wasn’t. People smiled too wide. Cars moved too smoothly. Even the birds sang in patterns too perfect to be natural.
And somewhere deep inside, under my own heartbeat, I could still feel the faint, rhythmic pulse—waiting.
I first heard it while riding the subway home, a slight buzz that seemed to pulse with the lights overhead. People shifted in their seats, agitated, scratching their arms or tapping their feet to some rhythm that wasn’t there. A woman across from me mouthed silent words, her eyes glazed and unfocused.
Over the next week, things got worse. Conversations felt scripted, predictable. Friends laughed at jokes I hadn’t finished telling. Strangers stared just a second too long, as if waiting for a cue. News anchors blinked out of sync with their own words.
I started sleeping during the day, sealing myself inside with layers of white noise just to think straight. But even then, dreams came—fragmented images of cold rooms, wires embedded in flesh, a voice whispering directives just beyond understanding.
One night, I cracked. I tore apart the walls of my apartment, hunting for hidden speakers, transmitters—anything. Instead, I found a tiny slip of paper taped behind the mirror. No logo, no signature. Just four words, handwritten in uneven black ink:
"Change the frequency now."
The moment I read it, the hum grew deafening, a roar that swallowed every thought. My vision blurred, hands moving on their own, smashing the mirror into glittering shards.
When I woke up, hours—or maybe days—had passed. The hum was gone. The world outside my window looked the same... but it wasn’t. People smiled too wide. Cars moved too smoothly. Even the birds sang in patterns too perfect to be natural.
And somewhere deep inside, under my own heartbeat, I could still feel the faint, rhythmic pulse—waiting.
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