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The Vibrations, Louder

By A. A. Rubin

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Insanity? Sure, why not. My lawyer advised me to plead insanity, and maybe it will help me. At least I’ll be able to talk to somebody qualified. The state of mental health care is deplorable in this country. My insurance certainly doesn’t cover it, and I couldn’t afford to pay a therapist, even one as borderline incompetent as one appointed by the state. Besides, there is a lengthy prison sentence awaiting me if I don’t plead that way. So, insanity then, officially. Though I tell you truly, I did what I did, and not withstanding my plea, listen to how calmly and rationally I tell my tale.

It is impossible for me to say how the idea entered my mind. I loved the man. He was the perfect roommate. He always paid his rent on time, was as tidy as any single bachelor could reasonably be expected to be, and he did all the little chores around the apartment without complaint or condescension. He took out the trash when it was his turn (and sometimes when it was mine and I forgot), and always replaced the empty milk carton or the toilet paper when he finished it.

I think it was his cell phone. Yes, that was it! He was constantly bound to that infernal device. We’d be sitting on the couch watching television or having a pleasant conversation, when BZZZ, his phone would vibrate, and he’d lower his eyes to look at it. No matter what the activity, no matter what situation, his face would be bathed in the eerie, pale glow of that device. He’d continue the conversation in a way that showed he was engaged, but he’d never make eye-contact, and his fingers—damn those long skeletal, spider-like-fingers—would keep scrolling. We’d be having a pleasant dinner, or out watching a movie, and right at the most important part, his phone would ring, and the moment would be lost. It was rude and it ground on my nerves. It raised my ire with each iteration. Each vibration made me angrier, as I trained myself to pause when I heard it, to watch him bow to the gods of technology over that damned, infernal screen. Whenever it buzzed, my blood ran cold, and so by degrees—and very gradually—I made up my mind to take my roommate’s life, and rid myself of it forever.

At this point, you think me mad. We’re all bound to our devices these days, you might say. But you did not hear that infernal sound constantly buzzing in your ear.

Yet I did not act rashly. I was not sloppy. This was no crime of passion. Listen to how wise I was. You should have seen me. With what caution, with what foresight, with what dissimulation I went to work. I was never nicer to my roommate than during the week before I killed him.

And every night about midnight, I turned the doorknob and opened it—oh, so gently! And then, when I had opened it sufficiently for my head, to pass through, I made sure—oh, how ironic that this was my source of light as I contemplated my task—my own phone was covered between my two hands. I moved slowly, cautiously—you would have laughed to see me—so as not to disturb my roommate’s slumber. It took me a whole hour to enter the room. I knew each step, memorized the location of each piece of furniture, tested each floorboard to know which ones creaked. Ha! Would an insane person have been so meticulous? And then, when I crept as close as I dared, one-by-one, I lifted my fingers—cautiously, cautiously—from my phone, revealing in painfully slow gradations, the electric glow of its home screen. I tilted my hand so as to direct the light, which bathed my roommate in an eerie halo of artificial blue.

And this I did for seven long nights, every night just at midnight, but it was impossible for me to do the work. For it was not my roommate who vexed me, but the infernal notifications (and his reaction to them), and his phone sat silently on the nightstand until its alarm would awaken him each morning.

And when that alarm went off at daybreak, I went boldly into the chamber and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he had spent the night. So you could see he would have to have been a clairvoyant to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in on him as he slept.

Upon the eighth night, I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. As I stood outside, each minute on the clock seemed to take forever, and yet it moved faster than I did. Never before that night had I felt more confident I would actually do it. I could scarcely contain my feeling of triumph. There he was, sleeping blissfully, not ever dreaming that I, his best friend and roommate, was fixing to kill him.

I laughed to myself. And, perhaps he heard me, for he stirred suddenly as if startled. Now you may think I drew back, but no! The room was pitch dark, the midnight moonlight shut out by the drawn, blackout shades. He rolled over, and curled up like a baby in the other direction, as he returned to his peaceful slumber. There was no way he could see me as I opened the door, slowly and steadily.

I had just got my head through the door, and was about to remove my hand from my phone’s screen to give me a light in the darkness, when my roommates phone—as if on cue—started to buzz, It shattered the silence, and skittered, like a cockroach, across the cheap, pressed wood nightstand on which it sat. My roommate, trained by our postmodern world like one of Pavlov’s dogs, sprang up in bed, and fumbled, blindly for the electronic device.

He glanced at the screen, and murmured something about it being spam, but he did not return it to its place on his nightstand, but rather, he sat in bed, propped up by his pillow, and started scrolling through some social media app. I kept still and said nothing. For a full hour, I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime, he never put the phone down. He just sat there, scrolling endlessly, his face illuminated by the ghoulish glow, moving his spider-thin fingers in a death march through the inane drivel on his late-night feed.

Presently, I heard him groan. It was a groan not in terror of me, for how could he notice anything outside of the electric orenda of the device which he held in his hands, but it was a groan of terror nonetheless. Something in his feed had upset him, and he began to type furiously, as if the force with which his keys struck the keyboard could accentuate the plain text which would appear in response to whatever post had upset him so.

The phone buzzed again, as the replies came in, and my roommate typed even more furiously, letting out small grunts with each word typed in reply to the replies, in response to the responses. Vain responses, and all in vain, for one cannot convert the opiated masses online with reasoned arguments, much less self-righteous anger and insults.

Meanwhile, he was completely oblivious to the fact that death stalked him, creeping noiselessly through the gloom, as I inched through the door, first with my full head, and them with cautious footsteps, taking special care that my black shadow did not fall over the mournful circle of blue light, which transfigured my roommate’s normally angelic features monstrously into those of some lifeless, undead creature bent on futile destruction and revenge.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, and realized my friend was completely oblivious to everything outside of his virtual cocoon, I resolved to uncover my own screen so as to gain a bit more light to observe his monstrous metamorphosis. So I uncovered it, you cannot imagine how stealthily, moving my fingers one at a time to affect a gradual change in the light, and observing each time how close my own aura crept toward his.

As I removed the final finger, I tapped my phone’s flashlight widget, and a single ray of dim light, like the silken thread of a spider shot out of the device, piercing the dull blue circle, and striking across my roommate’s forehead midway between his furrowed brow and his hairline.

His expression chilled me to the very marrow of my bones. The normally smooth features of his cherubic face were contorted into an impish, demonic visage. Rage flashed in his eye, which focused on the screen with such singular intensity, he did not notice the mark of death which I branded on his forehead from across the small room.

You ask me to plead insanity, but I ask you which one of us was mad? Who was the more rational creature? Who was ruled by his base, animalistic emotions in that fateful, final moment?

For though my blood boiled in my veins, and though the bile rose in my throat, I remained true to my resolution, true to the task I set before myself. I scarcely breathed as I held the beam motionless, fixing the light like a Zen archer finding his target.

Now, there came to my ear that sound I despised. With each reply to that which my friend typed, that jarring vibration of the phone, that siren’s song which calls you down, away from the real world into a virtual abyss of manufactured terror. I knew that sound too well. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet, I refrained and stood still. I held the beam motionless. I tried to see how steadily I could fix that tattoo on my friend’s transfigured forehead. In the meantime, the hellish vibrations of his phone increased. They grew quicker and quicker, louder and louder, every second. I say quicker and louder every moment. Do you mark me well? And now at that dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of the pre-war apartment building, so vile a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror.

Yet for some moments longer, I refrained and stood still. But the vibrations grew louder, louder! I thought the phone might burst. And now a new anxiety seized me. The sound would be heard by a neighbor, for the walls in these old buildings are thin.

And now, my roommate’s hour had come! With a loud yell, I tuned my hand and lowered the beam, raking his eyes with my sword of light, blinding him and severing his connection with his virtual world. I leapt at him in his confusion. He shrieked only once. In an instant, I threw him on the floor and dragged the heavy bed on top of him. I smiled. The deed, at last, was done. But for many minutes, the notifications came, and the phone continued to buzz. The sound, however, was muffled by the scattered bedclothes. This did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. The notifications, no longer fueled by my roommate’s constant replies slowed and eventually ceased. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead and would trouble me no more.

It may not be in my best interests if I want to file that insanity plea to describe the precautions I took to conceal the body. I worked diligently, through the night, hastily, and in silence. First, I dismembered the corpse: I cut off the head and the legs.

I took up three floorboards and deposited all between the scantlings, and then replaced them so cleverly no one would be able to tell. All those hours watching videos on YouTube and practicing on the boards in my own room had paid off. I did not attend any seminars at the hardware store. I was too wary for that. There was nothing to clean up, no blood—a bucket had caught it all, ha, ha!

Still, it took some time. By the time I was done, it was 4AM, but still as dark as midnight. I heard a buzz from the intercom. I went to answer it with a light heart, for what had I now to fear? I buzzed up two men who identified themselves as police. A neighbor had heard a scream through the thin walls, and suspicion of foul play was aroused. Someone called the cops, and they showed up to check it out.

I smiled and bade them welcome as they reached the door. I invited them in an offered them coffee. I apologized that they had to come out at this time of night. The scream, I said, was my own. I had a nightmare. I wasn’t able to go back to sleep, which accounted for both my being awake at that time, and for the freshly brewed coffee. My roommate? He was out of state, visiting with family. I showed the officers around the apartment. I encouraged them to search well.

Eventually, I led them to his room. All of his stuff was there, and there were no signs of a struggle. I brought chairs into the room and offered them a seat and more coffee, while I, myself, with the perfect audacity of complete confidence in my triumph, sat opposite them on the very spot below which the remains of my roommate lay.

The officers were satisfied. There was nothing in my bearing or in the apartment to indicate my guilt. I was singularly at ease. Their radios were silent, and we sat having a pleasant conversation over our coffee. But before long, I grew pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a buzzing in my ears, like a tiny mosquito on a hot summer’s night. The cops stayed and chatted. It must have been a slow night for them. They sat and talked, and while they talked, the buzzing became more distinct. I tried to talk over it, to suppress it with the sound of my own voice, until, at length I realized it was not in my own head.

I continued to talk, louder and more vociferously. And yet the sound increased. The officers, apparently, did not hear it. They got up to leave, and I rose too, to help them toward the door. I nearly fell. The sound continued, more loudly now, so that its vibrations rumbled through the walls and through the floor. I staggered forward, steadying myself on an officer’s shoulder. He, apparently, did not hear the noise, did not feel the vibrations. I tried to walk, but I could not. I flailed around. I stumbled haphazardly, violently gesticulating, but still the noise, still the vibration. The officers watched, incredulously. Surely, they suspected, surely they knew.

Oh, God! What could I do? I foamed. I swore. The buzzing grew louder, louder, LOUDER! The officers just stood there in mockery of my horror. This I thought. This I still think. I swung the chair on which I had been sitting. I raked the floorboards and fell to my knees. Anything was better than this agony! I could bear the mocking of the buzzing no longer. I felt I should have to scream or die. And now again, louder, louder, louder; buzz, Buzz, BUZZZ!

“Villains!” I shrieked. “I admit the deed. Tear up the floorboards! Here, here it is, still vibrating, still buzzing with each notification. It is the buzzing of his hideous cell phone!”

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Host Commentary

PseudoPod, Episode 968

March 28th, 2025

The Vibrations, Louder by A. A. Rubin

Narrated by Tol; hosted by Ian Gordon of HorrorBabble; audio by Chelsea Davis

 

Hello, everyone—I hope you’re doing well. This is Ian Gordon, the murky figure behind the UK horror outfit, HorrorBabble. This week, I have the pleasure of being your host here at PseudoPod. Today, we bring you a chilling tale of obsession and madness—a PseudoPod Original with an intriguing title: The Vibrations, Louder by A. A. Rubin.

 

Cast out of the universe like cosmic Cain, A. A. Rubin roams the planes of reality, jumping through the variegated permutations of the multiverse across the dimensions of space and time. A member of SFWA and the HWA, his work has appeared recently in Love Letter to Poe, The Best Climate Change Stories (Secant), and Ahoy! Comics. Doomed to travel and record, but never find a home, he chronicles his adventures across social media as @TheSurrealAri, and can be reached–in most realities–through his website, www.aarubin.com.

 

And our narrator this week: Tol.

Tol has had a varied career, including as a hostage negotiator, car repairer and professional artist. He’s currently a lawyer (mostly in the video gaming, AI and social media fields). Technically, he’s been trained by ninjas and the SAS. In his own time he’s re-learning French and the piano, and taking up cage fighting. He summers on the Côte d’Azur and winters in London, England (and wonders if those are the right way round).

 

And now to the story… a troubling tale… a true tale…

 

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Congratulations, you’ve made it through another story… What did you think of The Vibrations, Louder by A. A. Rubin? If you’re a Patreon subscriber, we’d love to hear your thoughts—join the discussion on our Discord channel.

 

It may not surprise you to learn that The Vibrations, Louder is a modern take on Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart. Both stories follow a narrator spiralling into madness—an obsession that leads to murder, guilt that festers, and paranoia that ultimately consumes them. It’s executed very well, closely mirroring Poe’s winning formula, with that raw tension we’ve come to expect from modern horror stories. A. A. Rubin’s use of a cell phone as a plot device is especially effective—and all too relatable. After all, who among us is immune to the relentless buzzing of a phone? Quote: “Now, there came to my ear that sound I despised. With each reply to that which my friend typed, that jarring vibration of the phone, that siren’s song which calls you down, away from the real world into a virtual abyss of manufactured terror.” Some fabulous imagery there. It’s a reminder that, despite the centuries between us and Poe, we’re just as easily unnerved, in spite of our technological advances. Rubin skilfully proves that obsession, madness, and guilt are timeless horrors. The question is: will we ever change? I doubt it.

 

Look up A. A. Rubin online—a quick Google search will reveal his many haunts.

 

Likewise, if you’d like to hear more from me, be sure to seek out HorrorBabble—one word. We specialize in Weird Fiction, covering everything cosmic, from Lovecraft and Smith to Howard and Bloch, along with original tales, audio dramas, and dramatic readings. We’ve even got our own occult detective. But now I want to have another crack at THE TELL-TALE HEART…

 

PseudoPod is listener-funded and non-profit. Subscriptions keep us going—just $5 monthly on Patreon provides stability and ensures we return every week.

 

To support us, visit pseudopod.org and click ‘Feed the Pod.’ One-time donations are also welcome, and if you have questions, email donations@escapeartists.net.

 

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PseudoPod is part of the Escape Artists Foundation, a 501(c)(3) non-profit, and this episode is distributed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International license. Download and listen to the episode on any device you like, but don’t change it or sell it. Theme music is by permission of Anders Manga.

And until next time… may your dreams be dark, and your nightmares darker.