The Hum at Mile Marker 17

I've been meaning to write this down for a while now, but every time I sit at this desk, the words feel wrong. Like I'm trying to describe a color that doesn't exist.

Three nights ago, I was walking back from the creek—the one where I check my water line—and I heard it. A low hum. Not like power lines, not like a transformer. Deeper. More... intentional? I know how that sounds.

Mile marker 17 on the old logging road. That's where it's strongest. I've walked that road a hundred times and never noticed anything. But now? Now I can't unhear it.

I brought my portable shortwave out there last night. The needle went crazy around 4.2 MHz. Nothing but static on the speaker, but the needle was dancing like it was picking up a symphony. I recorded about twenty minutes of it. When I played it back at the cabin, there were gaps. Clean gaps, like someone had taken scissors to the audio.

Could be equipment malfunction. Could be my old recorder finally giving up. But the gaps were too regular. Every 47 seconds. I timed it.

The coffee doesn't help anymore. I've gone through two cans this week just sitting on the porch, waiting for 2:17 AM. That's when it starts. 2:17 on the dot.

I asked Earl at the supply drop if he'd heard anything. He got quiet. Too quiet. Said something about the old mining surveys and changed the subject.

Patterns matter more than names. That's what I keep telling myself. But this pattern... I don't know what it's pointing at yet.

Bad signal tonight. The shortwave is mostly static. But I'll be at mile marker 17 again. Same time. Notebook ready.

Something wants to be noticed.