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The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/lobsterxjohnson on 2025-05-10 21:39:40+00:00.

The house at 47 Sycamore Lane stood unassuming, its weathered clapboard facade blending into the quiet street. To passersby, it was just another old home, sagging under the weight of decades. But those who lingered too long might catch a whiff of something sweet, not rotten, but wrong, like sugar syrup left to fester. The neighbors didn’t talk about it. The realtors didn’t linger. And the tenants? They never stayed long.

Milo hadn’t slept right since moving into the house on Sycamore Lane. The smell hit him first,sweet, cloying, like syrup gone bad. Cheryl, the realtor, had twitched her way through the showing, her heels clicking too fast on the warped floorboards. She muttered about “character” and “history,” her eyes darting to the corners of the room. Milo, thirty-two, jobless, and one bad month from homelessness, didn’t care. The price was a steal. He signed the papers, ignoring the way Cheryl’s smile flickered, like a bulb about to burn out.

He moved in with a duffel bag, a folding chair, and a mattress he’d found on Craigslist. The house was bare but clean, the walls yellowed with age, the air heavy with that strange sweetness. He told himself it was just old wood, maybe a leak. He’d fix it later. For now, it was a roof, a chance to start over.

The first night, he heard it. A hum, low and wet, like a choir gargling molasses. It came from the walls,not singing or speaking, just vibrating, making his fillings buzz. Milo sat up, heart pounding, and fumbled for the light. The bulb flickered, casting jagged shadows. He checked the vents, the pipes, the attic. Nothing. The sound faded by dawn, leaving him shaky, eyes raw. He told himself it was the house settling.

Old places creak, right?By the third night, the hum had words. Not clear ones, but fragments, like a radio stuck between stations. Grow… join… sing. Milo tore apart the living room, peeling back wallpaper that felt too soft, too warm. Beneath it, the plaster pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. He laughed it off, blaming exhaustion. He’d been eating poorly canned soup, stale bread. Maybe it was mold. He bought bleach, scrubbed the walls until his hands burned. The hum only got louder.

On the fifth day, he found the lump. It was on his forearm, small, like a mosquito bite, but it throbbed when the hum started. He pressed it, and something inside moved,not like a bug, but deliberate, like a finger curling. He grabbed a kitchen knife, held it over the lump, then chickened out. Instead, he drank half a bottle of whiskey and passed out on the couch. The hum sang him to sleep, clearer now: Open… become… us.

Morning brought a new lump, this one on his neck. It was bigger, softer, and when he touched it, it sang. A tiny, reedy note, matching the walls. Milo gagged, ran to the bathroom, and stared at his reflection. His skin looked wrong,too tight, like it was stretched over something bigger. He called Cheryl, left a voicemail that sounded unhinged. She never called back.

He stopped leaving the house. The lumps multiplied—his chest, his thighs, his scalp. They weren’t tumors; they were voices. Each one hummed, a different pitch, blending with the walls into a grotesque harmony. He tried cutting one open, a small one on his wrist. The knife bit in, and blood welled, but so did something else thick, syrupy, amber-colored. It smelled like the house. The wound didn’t bleed long; it sealed itself, the lump now twice as big, singing louder.

Milo googled “body horror diseases,” “parasites,” “hallucinations.” Nothing fit. He found a forum post about Sycamore Lane, buried in a thread about haunted houses. User “Grinner88” wrote: The house at 47 isn’t empty. It’s alive. It wants a choir. The post was seven years old. Grinner88’s account was deleted. Milo emailed the forum admin, begging for contact info. No reply.

By the tenth day, he couldn’t ignore the mirrors. His skin wasn’t just tight, it was translucent in places, showing things moving beneath. Not veins, not muscles, but tendrils, thin and glistening, weaving through his flesh. His lumps weren’t random; they were nodes, connected, forming a pattern. He traced them with a marker, and the shape looked like a spiral, spiraling inward to his chest. The hum approved, swelling into a crescendo that shook the windows.

He tried to leave. Packed a bag, got as far as the front door. The hum turned sharp, a scream in his bones. His legs buckled, and the lumps wriggled, pulling him back. The door wouldn’t open. The locks were fine, the knob turned, but it was like pushing against a living thing. He pounded the wood until his fists bled. The house sang on.

Desperate, he broke a window. Glass shattered, but the air outside felt wrong, thick, like breathing honey. He climbed through, ignoring the shards slicing his palms. The street was empty, the sky too red, like meat left out too long. He staggered to the neighbor’s house, banged on the door. No answer. The hum followed him, louder now, coming from inside him. He looked down. His chest was glowing, faintly, the spiral pulsing amber.

He ran back to 47 Sycamore. Not because he wanted to, but because the hum demanded it. The house welcomed him, the door swinging open. The walls were different now soft, glistening, like the inside of a throat. The hum was a lullaby, soothing, promising. Join us. Sing forever.

Milo sobbed, clawing at his chest. The spiral was complete, the lumps merging into a single mass, heavy and alive. He found a notebook, started writing. If he couldn’t leave, he’d warn the next tenant. His hand shook, the pen slipping in his slick fingers. The words came out wrong, not his own: The choir is beautiful. The choir is home. He screamed, threw the notebook. It landed open, the pages now blank except for one word, scrawled in amber: Sing.

Milo’s reflection wasn’t his anymore. His face was a mask, eyes too big, mouth too wide. The tendrils were visible now, knitting his flesh into something new. He wasn’t Milo; he was a vessel. The house didn’t want him. It wanted this. The final lump, the one in his chest, split open. Not blood, not pus, but a note, pure and deafening, joining the choir.

He didn’t feel the floor when he fell. He didn’t feel the walls closing in, soft and warm. He only felt the song, endless, and perfect. The house was singing, and he was its voice. The last thought, before Milo was gone, was that the hum had always been inside him, waiting.

When Cheryl showed the house again, it was quiet. The new tenant, a young woman with tired eyes, didn’t notice the smell. Cheryl smiled, steady this time. The papers were signed. That night, the hum began again, soft, patient, searching for its next voice.