The Teeth of the Soil.

The humming didn't stop after that evening.

If anything, it grew bolder.

At first, Priscilla told herself she was imagining it.

Living alone on three hundred acres gave a person plenty of opportunities to invent things.

The human brain hated silence.

It filled empty places.

Created patterns.

Looked for meaning.

At least that was what she'd always been told.

The problem was that the humming wasn't happening inside her head.

It was happening beneath her feet.

By June, she could predict where it would be strongest.

The limestone ridges hummed louder than the creek beds.

The north timber hummed louder than the south.

And every time she crossed the western ridge, the vibration grew so powerful she could feel it behind her teeth.

That part bothered her.

Land wasn't supposed to do that.

One afternoon she marched into town and bought six little survey flags.

The bright orange kind contractors used.

Then she spent the rest of the day placing them around the property wherever the humming felt strongest.

By sunset she'd mapped nearly forty locations.

The flags formed a rough circle.

Not perfect.

Not precise.

But close enough to make her stomach tighten.

Priscilla stood in the fading light staring at the pattern.

The circle surrounded the oldest section of timber on the property.

A place locals simply called The Hollow.

That should have been another clue.

Places only got names when people had stories about them.

And people only stopped talking about stories when those stories scared them.

The next morning she drove back to the gas station.

The same cashier was working.

The same coffee pot sat burning itself into oblivion.

The same mounted deer head stared judgmentally from the wall.

Priscilla tossed a photograph of the survey markers onto the counter.

"What's in The Hollow?"

The cashier looked down.

Then looked away.

That answer told Priscilla more than words would've.

"Nothing."

"That the official answer?"

The woman sighed.

"That's the answer folks settled on."

Priscilla folded her arms.

The cashier folded hers.

Neither moved.

Finally the older woman pointed toward the photograph.

"My grandfather said there used to be burial mounds out there."

Priscilla blinked.

"Used to be?"

The cashier shrugged.

"Said they disappeared."

"Burial mounds don't disappear."

"Neither do roads."

That ended the conversation.

Or should have.

Instead the cashier leaned closer.

"Let me ask you something."

Priscilla nodded.

"Have you heard it yet?"

For the first time since buying the land, a cold knot formed in her stomach.

"Heard what?"

The cashier stared at her.

"The singing."

The knot tightened.

Priscilla laughed.

The cashier didn't.

That was becoming a pattern.

By the time she got home, the sky had turned the color of old iron.

Wind moved through the burr oaks.

The branches creaked overhead.

She parked near the gate.

The NO TRESPASSING sign swayed gently.

The CROSS sign stood perfectly still.

The LAND BACK board knocked softly against the post.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Priscilla frowned.

There wasn't enough wind for that.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

The sound stopped the instant she stepped through the gate.

The humming rose immediately beneath her boots.

Stronger than before.

Deeper.

Almost eager.

The vibration spread through the soil and raced toward the timber.

Not away from her.

Toward something.

Toward The Hollow.

The fog was already gathering beneath the trees.

And for the first time since buying the acres...

The land felt less like it was welcoming her.

And more like it was trying to show her something.