Earworm
Short Story — An audio engineer unwittingly uncovers a sound that's eager to be heard, and learns too late just how far it will go to reach your ears
You probably never give a second thought to the work it takes to make your favorite films sound good, but if I yanked out the sound bed—all that ambience—you’d be walking out of the theater. No room is totally silent; you’ve got buzzing lights, squeaky fans, hissing radiators… all of that needs to be edited in. But first, it has to be collected.
Between gigs I travel to remote locations with my microphone, collecting unique sounds like some foodie chef sourcing exotic ingredients. This particular trip took me to a tiny mountain town in Idaho, where I rented an ancient A-frame smelling like cigarettes and mildew.
After settling in, I hit the trail with my microphone and no real plan. I pressed record, gathering chirping birds, creaking pine trees, and rushing water.
When the creek I followed upstream arrived at a waterfall, the rush became a roar. I filled a few minutes of my memory card with the ambience, before exploring further. Behind the waterfall was a half-flooded cave, snaking deep into the rock.
I trudged through water shallower than my knees until the falls faded beyond me, leaving me with the sporadic drip-drop of developing stalactites. My phone flashlight lit the way until this sound faded as well.
For a moment, I just took it all in: the almost oppressive sound of the mountain vault. Like any space, it still wasn’t totally quiet. There was a deep, almost yawning hum. Unlike usual background noises that felt far off, this was oppressive; like a speaker blasting a base beat’s ghost just inches from my ears. I felt it in my teeth.
“Weird,” I muttered. My voice banished the sound, filling the cave with its own echo. When the space fell silent, the hum returned.
I left unsettled, but ultimately excited for having stumbled upon a fantastic effect for a horror project. After a frustrating few hours in the studio however, I ran into a problem. Any track I added on top of the cave ambience muted it completely.
Thinking the problem could’ve been my headphones, I repeated the process over my speakers. The result was the same bone-buzzing hum that set my teeth on edge. Paranoia crept over me, as my brain became increasingly suspicious someone or something was in the room with me.
I tried to put the feeling aside for the time being and focus on the task at hand.
Was there a problem with my entire system?
I sent the file to a buddy in the music biz, asking him to test it on his setup. He assured me he would, and I went for a walk to clear my head.
He called me an hour later, clearly shaken. “I can’t get rid of it, dude.”
“Get rid of what?”
“The noise. I unplugged the board, cut the power—it’s not coming from the speakers. It’s like it’s burned into the background of the room.”
“Does it go away when you make other noise?”
“Yeah, but it always comes back.”
The full scale of the problem didn’t sink in until I returned to my own office to find that oppressive hum waiting for me. This isn’t a bug or software problem; the noise from that cave seems to permanently replace the ambience of whatever room it is played in.
I think I've discovered an invasive sound. Aside from the effect it could have on someone who listens for too long, I'm worried about how far it could spread.
Thank You for Reading!
This short story is part of the Kerristead collection. Subscribe to make sure you don’t miss future stories and installments.
Access the full archive by upgrading to a paid subscription.
If you don’t have the money for a paid subscription, telling a friend about me is pretty cool too. Getting your words in front of eyeballs is honestly harder than doing the actual writing and editing…