The Hum

by D. W. Brown

  I give all this background on Ignatius, because I believe I actually saw him once. I know how this might sound, and at first, I thought I was going crazy myself. Living and working in the town and in the church, I saw numerous portraits as well as sculptures of the man, so let me assure you that the person I saw was either Ignatius himself or an exact look alike. Initially, I believed it was the latter, but there were too many strange circumstances surrounding my happening upon the great Saint.

  December 19th, 2000

  It was the coldest winter on record for our great state, so my going on a hunt in the Hiawatha National Forrest might not have been my brightest idea to date. Still, I loved the outdoors, and the thought of hunting the vast woodlands there greatly appealed to my sense of manliness. You’re probably thinking it a little weird for a priest to go hunting and actually kill a living, breathing animal, but if you lived in the Upper Peninsula of my state, you’d change your mind. Besides, God gave us the animals to use for food and clothing, not to treat better than other humans. This probably isn’t the right time or place, but I feel the need to rant about animal lovers putting their cats and dogs above their fellow brothers and sisters. How did we get so off track from what God intended? Sorry for my digression.

  “I like this man already.” George Jent said. “Of course, I’ve never been much of an animal lover. I think we need to send our dog lovers and their pets to China for a year, so they can see how mutts should be treated.”

  “Are you finished?” Ruth Jent asked. George flushed and nodded his head. Russell continued reading.

  I made it into the woods at around five in the morning, walked for a good hour and took up position just to the right of a clearing surrounded by four perfectly placed pines. Things were silent for a spell, but it wasn’t long before I began hearing movement about fifty yards to my front. Thinking it my prize kill, I pulled up my shotgun and waited for it to come into view. You’ll have to forgive my sloppy penmanship from this point on, because of what I saw this morning. Father Joseph, a priest from another church in the area was walking with a man whom I didn’t immediately recognize. Putting my gun aside, I came out of my hiding spot and went over to speak with the two men. I made it within fifteen feet, when Father Joseph suddenly disappeared. He simple vanished. The other man appeared to be looking down, so I jogged over to his side, and tried to find the missing priest.

  It took Russell a few seconds to decipher the next few sentences, because they were pretty jumbled and almost indiscernible.

  When the man’s eyes locked upon mine, I was shocked to see the face of St. Ignatius staring back at me. In my current state, I almost fell headfirst into the black hole that I was somehow standing at the brink of. Slowly, my mind began to understand what had become of Father Joseph, but I was still having a hard time with Ignatius. Finding my tongue, I asked him what was going on, and who he was, but he didn’t bother responding to either of my questions. He simply stepped forward and dropped into the same hole. I was terrified by this time, and everything within me screamed run. But it wasn’t until that hole began to close up that I actually found my feet. I ran without looking back, until I made it to the safety of my car. Needless to say, I have no plans to ever go hunting again, nor a shotgun to do so—mine is still somewhere out in that Forrest.

  December 21st 2000, 2 Days After I Happened Upon

  The Hole & The First Day of Winter

  I haven’t left my home since my little hunting excursion and the things I saw there. As I sit here drinking my coffee, reading the morning paper...Oh no!

  CHAPTER 37

  Russell paused and picked up the story at the next entry.

  December 22nd

  It took me awhile to recover yesterday, after seeing the face of Father Joseph plastered on the front page of our local paper. The caption read: Body of Local Priest Found in Hiawatha National Forrest. I’m not sure what’s going on around here, but dead priests and resurrected ones aren’t exactly something I want to be a part of. I’m afraid to leave, terrified at the thought of seeing Ignatius again. I saw Father Joseph disappear into that hole, and two days later, his body magically appears in that same forest? Am I losing my mind? Did I kill him? Why? Nothing is making any sense.

  December 24th Christmas Eve

  Went back into work today. Everything’s back to business as usual, but I’m finding it hard to minister after everything I’ve seen as of late. I’ve been haunted by horrible nightmares, sleep is no longer a friend of mine. St. Ignatius’s body, dead and decaying keeps chasing me to the brink of that same hole. It always ends the same: I fall helplessly into the darkness, never to return. I yell out, but no one’s around to hear my cries. I fear my God has forsaken me, by allowing me to see this evil. I admit my naiveté’ in thinking such things were of times past, never to be seen or heard of again. I was wrong, dead wrong.

  May 15th, 2002

  It has been nearly two years since my last entry, and my prayers that this thing was finally behind me have gone unanswered. Either that or what I just witnessed is my answer. I was performing my normal Friday afternoon confessional duties, when the individual next to me started talking. She led off with the required Forgive me Father, for I have sinned, which honestly is offensive even to me. I’ve slowly come to realize that I have no power to forgive sins, only God can do so. Still, ten years of schooling and brainwashing is enough to convince anyone that they’re on equal terms with the Creator. This realization only dawned on me as of late, and it has made me rethink my current line of work, as well as my faith in general. More digression—sorry. The woman went on to tell me that she started hearing a strange humming sound about a month prior, but thought nothing of it until it began to consume her days and nights. She said extreme headaches soon followed, as well as a desire to kill. At that point, I knew I had to intervene right away. I did something we priests are never supposed to do—I pulled back the curtain and looked at the woman’s face. She was shocked by my actions, but agreed to speak with me in my private chambers. After an exhausting four hours of talking with her, I learned that she had indeed killed someone. She’d lured a local Senator’s son from the area into her home and murdered him. It was major news in our area, and I knew the police were still looking for the killer. Every instinct within me screamed, kick her out and call the cops immediately, but I could tell the woman hadn’t acted of her own accord. She kept telling me that the hum made her kill the man, and I initially thought her mad. I was sitting in my small office with a crazy woman, and my heart went out to her. She needed help, my help. She came to me seeking not only repentance, but a means to help rid her of the headaches and relentless hum inside her head. I eventually talked her into allowing me to call the authorities, by telling her that they could help stop the humming sound inside her head.

  The Day After Christmas

  I received a call today from the police, stating that the woman committed suicide inside the temporary holding facility they’d placed her in. I’m devastated inside. What have I done? What is going on here?

  Two Days Later

  Senator Holden announced today that he won’t be running for a fourth term in office. He cited the loss of his son, and lack of time spent with his wife and daughter as his reasoning for leaving office. I’m left with more questions, none of which I understand.

  July 4th, 2003

  I’d like to say everything ceased and I’m back to normal again, but the arrival of a certain stranger to our town has once again sent my life into flux. Aaron Rosario was by all accounts your average young man. He stood around five foot eight, was of medium build, and had brown hair, blue eyes. But I could tell right away there was something wrong with him. He looked old for his age, worn. His blue eyes looked sad, haunted almost. He’d moved into my apartment building the year prior, and regularly sought my advice for the goings on in his life. He said he was from a s
mall town called Taos, in New Mexico, and that he felt led to this area. With the woman from my confessional that committed suicide also being from that same place, I was naturally drawn to Aaron. It took a few months, but I eventually learned that he left his hometown because he was accused of killing a tourist there when he was only sixteen. Like the woman the year prior, he claimed to hear a strange humming sound and experienced nose bleeds and migraines. He went on to say he hadn’t dealt with any of the above mentioned things since arriving in St. Ignace. Warning bells rang through my head day in and day out, but once again I felt compelled to be there for the man.

  It all blew up in my face two days ago, when Aaron lost it and killed a family vacationing at Kewadin Casino Lakefront Inn here in town. I was left in shock and with a feeling of being duped by the man.

  July 6th, 2003

  Just learned that the family Aaron killed two days ago was that of a prominent Protestant Minister, Carl McGammon. I’m fearful of what might come next.

  Marking his place in the journal, Russell excitedly said, “I remember that murder. If I wasn’t working on the Stalker Case, I would’ve gotten it. This thing is getting scarier by the minute. Resurrected Catholic Saints, sacrificial priests, and one murder after another.”

  “I don’t get it. Didn’t Mr. Roseburg say this had something to do with the Catholics trying to regain power? This sounds more like they’re trying to get rid of religion altogether.” Sam said perplexed.

  “Surely the Catholic Church knows the hurdles they will run into, if they’re attempting to take over as the supreme religion around the country? There are numerous sects throughout each state, let alone the entire country.”

  “It’s not as daunting a task, if you remove the obstacles in your way.” Russell said, realization dawning on him as to what was going on around them.

  “If that’s the case, then how do we stop it?” George

  Jent asked.

  A loud crash put an immediate halt to their conversation. Russell jumped up and ran to the window to see what the commotion was all about. He kept his shotgun at the ready position, prepared for the worst. Outside, he saw a big blue Ford F250 pickup truck backing away from his cruiser. The damage was hard to look at—the trunk was now part of the back seat, and the front end of his car looked like it was hugging the large oak tree in front of it.

  The driver hopped out, and to Russell’s surprise, it wasn’t Kevin Black. Sheriff Bowman’s sun beaten body began making his way towards the front porch. He was carrying a sawed-off pump shotgun, and Russell realized too late that he was planning on using it. The Sheriff sighted in on the front door and sent it flying inward into itself. It somehow managed to hold onto its hinges, but the damage was irreparable.

  As he pulled away from the window, Russell thought he heard another door close on the vehicle that had just assaulted his prized cruiser, but he couldn’t be sure. Running back to where his family lay huddled together on the floor, he quickly got them moving towards the basement.

  The door to his bedroom suddenly flew open and a scared little boy and girl threw themselves around his legs. “We’ve got to get down to the basement,” he yelled over more shotgun blasts. “Move it! Go, go!”

  Russell returned fire with his own shotgun, not

  bothering to take aim.

  “I know you’re in there, Sheriff Jent. Look, I don’t want to harm your family. If you’ll just come with me, I’ll leave them alone.”

  For a brief second, Russell entertained the idea. It was Sam’s hard yank on his arm and the stern look on her face that talked him out of it.

  The basement door stood ajar at the far end of the hallway, taking Russell off-guard. He never left it open, because he truthfully didn’t like the idea of all the heat from upstairs heading in that direction. Even though it wasn’t a large area, the extra square footage would still put a strain on his heat pump over time.

  When Kevin Black stepped out from behind the door and sent a burst spraying into his father’s abdomen, Russell knew right away that Kevin was the passenger that he’d heard exit the vehicle shortly after Sheriff Bowman. He quickly brought up his own weapon and pulled the trigger. When the smoke and dust cleared, Mr. Black had somehow managed to evade his return fire.

  The feeling of hot led slamming into his back and legs sent Russell to the floor, clutching his wounds. He watched helplessly as his precious family was pelted with the same spray. He thought he saw his sweet baby boy being lifted off the floor and…everything went black.

  Smoke filled his lungs, threatening to smother him to death. Russell woke up screaming and flailing. He quickly found that he couldn’t move his arms or his feet. Looking around the smoke-filled room, he noticed that they’d tied him to his own bed and set his place on fire. Sam! The kids! He had to do something. He had to find them, save them. He pulled against the duct tape holding him hostage, but it wouldn’t give enough for him to slip his wrists free. Exhaustion and a lack of oxygen had him on the brink of passing out, when an idea suddenly occurred to him. Kick the wooden footboard and see if you can break the bed!

  The bed collapsed to the floor after five consecutive

  blows from the heels of his hiking boots. Using his strong abdominal muscles, Russell then kicked his legs back and over to his right side, managing to rip the tape from them.

  Russell took a few minutes to gather what little breath he could, and then he jumped upward and threw his legs underneath him. In theory, he would now be able to use his legs and arms together to rip his wrists free from the tape. Five, six, seven unsuccessful attempts and he was once again left an exhausted mess on the bed.

  “Russ? Russ? Where are you?”

  CHAPTER 38

  Hearing his father’s weakened voice; Russell tried again to break free. It could’ve been sheer adrenaline or the extra motivation from his father, but the reason didn’t really matter. What mattered was the fact that the tape tore, and he was finally free. As he made for the door, the wounds on his back and legs decided to make sure he was aware of their presence.

  The doorknob to his bedroom felt warm to the touch, telling Russell that opening it could leave him with a face full of fire. Painfully, he bent onto his knees, and turning his head to the side, he quickly flung it open. The fire whooshed in ripping the door the rest of the way from his hand. Slowly, he peeked around the corner and was thankful to see that the blaze had receded back down the other side of the hallway.

  In much pain and barely able to breathe, Russell crawled through the narrow corridor on his hands and knees. He could still hear his dad calling for him, but his voice seemed to trail off as time lapsed. When he made it to the living room, Russell saw the aftermath and it tore him apart. His wife and kids were sprawled at odd angles along the floor, blood was everywhere. On the sofa, he saw his mom. She was almost unrecognizable from the amount of buckshot on her face and body. Tears filled his eyes, and rage began to consume him. He forced it back, only because he had

  to find his father and if possible, get him out of there.

  Moving forward, Russell saw his dad lying next to the front door. He imagined his old man fighting against the Sheriff and Mr. Black with everything in him, but in the end, they’d left him lying in his own blood like a rodent squished on the highway by an errant driver.

  “Russ? Is…is that you?” George Jent managed to get out.

  “I’m here, Dad. Just relax. I’m going to slide your body to the side, so I can open the door and get you outside.” It took Russell a few minutes to maneuver his dad’s body out the door and onto the front lawn, and it depleted what little energy he had left. Knowing he couldn’t allow the others to burn up inside the house, he left his dad lying, and went back in and retrieved the rest of his family. With each body, the flames grew worse. By the time he retrieved his mom’s body, the center beam from the living
room collapsed down onto the sofa where she lay. Tugging on her unmoving form, he managed to free her from the burning wood. The smell of her charred flesh sickened him, even more so knowing this was the woman that had birthed him.

  Seeing Gary’s journal lying open next to the coffee table, Russell grabbed it on his way out the door. Out in the hot sun, he looked around at the massacre and cried. Curled into a ball, he wept uncontrollably for his family. At some point, he blacked out.

  * * *

  “Sir, we’ve taken care of those loose ends. Sheriff Jent and the FBI won’t be bothering us again.”