The Hum of the Seraph

Greyhaven had always been loud.
A constant churn of traffic, drones, the low drone of air vents coursing through the veins of its glass towers. But this… this was different.

It began on a chill morning in late autumn, the sky a blank sheet of bruise-colored cloud. Commuters first noticed it in the transit tunnels—a deep, thrumming note, as though the concrete itself was vibrating.

At first, Elena Voss didn’t hear it.

She sat alone in her studio, insulated behind layers of foam and shielding, headphones clamped over her ears. An audio engineer by trade, she sculpted sound for the immersive films that passed for religion these days.

When the client call came through—another emergency post job—Elena barely glanced at the city-wide alert.
“Urban anomaly under investigation.”
She’d seen dozens. Air handling gone wrong, solar interference, a construction mishap.

But outside, Greyhaven was already changing.

By day three, the hum had settled into every surface. Low. Sub-bass. Complex. Alive.

Apartment towers vibrated faintly. Glass trembled without cracking. The power grid fluctuated erratically.

And the people…
The reports trickled in first. Whispers of visions. Of winged shapes glimpsed behind eyelids. Of chanting heard when alone.

Religious fervor bloomed like mold.

Elena noticed the change in her neighbors first—Mr. Halbrecht on floor 17, once a quiet accountant, now gibbering scripture scrawled in blood across his walls.

Transit collapsed. The net flickered, then went silent. Greyhaven stood alone.

Elena’s rational mind clung to disbelief—until the dreams came.

They began soft.
A chorus of voices beneath the hum, speaking in impossible harmonies.
Then visions: a vast form in a burning sky, wings unfurling, a halo of eyes peering through the veil of thought.

When she awoke, sigils traced themselves faintly across her skin—spirals and eyes and branching wings.

She scrubbed until raw. They returned the next night, brighter.

On day ten, Greyhaven’s streets flowed red.

Public squares transformed into makeshift altars. Families gathered, chanting in tongues. Children were offered up with serene smiles.

Elena watched from the shadows, recording with trembling hands.

Each ritual seemed to thin the crowd further, yet those remaining glowed—their bodies subtly shifting, bone jutting, skin etched with celestial patterns.

The Hum was no mere sound.
It was a call.
A reshaping.

Elena fled deeper underground—seeking quiet, seeking escape.

But the Hum followed.
It pulsed through the earth. Through her bones.

She found abandoned terminals—looping distorted messages:
“ASCEND.”
“YOU ARE CALLED.”
“THE CITY IS THE ALTAR.”

She smashed her headphones. It did no good. The sound was inside her now.

Then came the pull.

Her body moved without will. Each step toward the ruined central plaza carved new spirals into her flesh.

The plaza had become a cathedral of bone and metal. Eyeless angel statues towered overhead, their mouths open in eternal song.

A circle of survivors remained—barely human—chanting, writhing in ecstasy.

Elena resisted, sobbing, as her limbs betrayed her.

The Hum peaked.

A vast form descended—not physical, but present in every mind. Wings of blinding light, a thousand eyes weeping molten gold.

Her skin split. Bones twisted. Veins surged with alien fire.

Others fell, consumed or shattered. Elena alone endured the full transformation.

Burning wings erupted from her back.
A crown of eyes encircled her head.
Her scream merged with the Hum as her body rose into the air, framed by the crumbling skyline.