So there's this thing in Taos, New Mexico. Been going on since the early nineties. A low hum. People describe it like a diesel engine idling somewhere just over the hill, except there is no hill and there is no engine.
Only about two percent of the people up there hear it. The rest think the two percent are making it up, which is the usual arrangement.
Now, they brought in everybody. The university, the national labs, acoustics people with very expensive microphones. They measured everything. And at the end of all of it, nobody could point to a source with any confidence.
I've driven through that country at night. Out in the desert, two in the morning, engine off, and the quiet out there isn't quiet the way people think. It has a weight to it. Did I hear the hum? I heard something. Whether it was the earth or my own blood moving, I couldn't tell you.
So I think the lesson here is one I've carried a long time: there's always an explanation if you look hard enough. We just haven't looked in the right place yet. Or, and this is the part Selene likes, maybe some things hum at a frequency meant for exactly two percent of us, and the rest is none of our business.