The Voice Inside the Fridge:

 

The Voice Inside the Fridge:
                                                        Katelyn and Shawn moved into the rental house on Driftwood Drive right before spring hit. The neighborhood was quiet, mostly retirees and dog walkers, and their new home sat wedged between a bakery and a chiropractor’s office that smelled like peppermint and awkward silences. Everything about the move felt like favor. Open windows. Smooth paperwork. Peace in every decision. The fridge came with the house. Tall. Cream-colored. A little outdated, but spotless. It hummed low, like it was sighing through the years.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           They filled it with joy. Fresh fruit. Leftovers from their wedding dinner. Bottles of juice labeled with sticky notes. It was just a fridge. Until the voice arrived. It started with static. Just a faint buzz, louder than the usual hum. Shawn noticed it first while grabbing water late one night. The sound shifted, sharp then soft, like someone whispering through a pillow. He leaned in, blinked twice, shook his head, then stepped back and laughed to himself. "I need sleep," he said. Then it happened again.                                                                                                                                                                                                  This time, Katelyn heard it. Morning. Bright day. She opened the fridge to reach for eggs and heard her name. Soft. From inside. Not an echo. Not a voice behind her. Direct. Inside the appliance. She stood still. Every part of her wanted to dismiss it. But she couldn’t ignore the fact that the voice knew her name. That night, they prayed. Nothing theatrical. Just covered their kitchen in worship. Psalm ninety-one on repeat. Shawn walked in circles, pouring oil on the corners. Katelyn fasted without announcement.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                The air grew thick but silent. The fridge stayed still. Until the next morning. The juice bottles had moved. Lined up in perfect symmetry like someone had played chess with liquids. The carton of eggs—opened, but untouched. The fridge light flickered. Just once. Shawn laughed nervously. “Maybe the shelves are just sliding weird.” Katelyn didn’t smile. Later that week, she woke to the sound of the fridge door closing. She was alone. Shawn was out for work. She ran into the kitchen, heart pounding. The door was sealed. No air rushing out. Nothing fallen. But the fridge whispered again. This time, it didn’t say her name. It said one word. Hungry. Katelyn stepped back slowly. She grabbed her Bible and sat at the table. No dramatics. Just prayer. By the time Shawn came home, she had taped verses all around the fridge. Scriptures about fire. Scriptures about hunger. Scriptures about broken altars. He didn’t question it. He added one himself. Isaiah fifty-eight. The next day, the temperature changed. The fridge cooled too quickly. Frost crept across the inside like fingers. Meat in the freezer crystallized beyond normal. The butter turned rock hard. And the milk soured instantly, though it had days left on its label. Katelyn said, “Something’s feeding in here.” Shawn nodded. “But not on food.” They unplugged it. Thirty minutes later, the voice returned. No power. No hum. Yet it spoke. In a tone slower. Deeper. It said, “Still hungry.” Katelyn called their pastor. He didn’t hesitate. “It’s not the fridge. It’s what came with it.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    ” That night, they staged a full cleansing. Pastor. Three friends. Six hands lifted in worship. They prayed over the fridge like it was a person. Declared fire over coils and cold. Sang until the hum turned into a groan—and then vanished. The next morning, the fridge worked fine. No voices. No fogging. No rearranged items. But Katelyn still places her Bible on top of it. And Shawn never opens it without declaring, “You’re not welcome.” Because sometimes, even ordinary things hold invitations. And sometimes the enemy walks through doors we think only hold snacks.

The house grew quieter, but the silence felt like something waiting behind it.

It had been a month since the cleansing. Katelyn no longer heard voices in the morning, and Shawn stopped seeing strange fog near the shelves. The fridge kept its low hum, this time ordinary, dull. They opened it cautiously, but each time, they found only food. Cold and still.

The Bible remained on top. Tape crusted along the fridge’s edges where verses had been posted. The kitchen had become a sanctuary, and they kept it so with discipline. Prayer before meals. Worship every Friday evening. Oil across windowsills. Yet still, sometimes, Katelyn would wake in the night and swear she heard breathing—not her own, not Shawn’s—coming from where the fridge stood.

One evening, while putting away groceries, Shawn reached into the back of the freezer and his hand went numb. He recoiled, staring at his fingers, pale and stiff. The meat where he'd reached was warm, as if someone had laid hands on it just before he arrived.

He didn't speak.

Katelyn saw it though—the tremble in his jaw. He’d felt something.

That night, she dreamed again.

The fridge opened by itself in the vision. Inside, there were no shelves. No milk. No ice. Just a staircase spiraling downward, made of metal and dripping with frost. A sound echoed up from it—an ancient chant, guttural and broken.

She stood at the top and saw people far below, screaming without mouths. And something fed between them. Not with teeth. With memory.

She woke gasping.

Shawn had already risen. He was in the kitchen, praying aloud. The fridge light was on, even though the door was closed. Heat radiated from its sides. He wasn’t afraid anymore. He was speaking with authority.

He declared, Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. James chapter four verse seven

Still, the fridge remained hot.

The pastor returned the next day. He brought others. An elder. A prophet. They stood in the kitchen and declared Psalm thirty-four. I sought the Lord, and he heard me, and delivered me from all my fears.

Katelyn knelt beside the sink, weeping.

The prophet touched the top of the fridge and staggered back.

He whispered, It’s deeper now. It’s been feeding on your fear.

They poured oil in the freezer. They placed salt around the floor. Worship rose like incense, and the hum turned to shriek.

This time, the fridge door opened on its own.

Inside was not food.

Inside was a tunnel—spiraling metal, just as Katelyn saw in her dream. But now the staircase was crawling. Thick tar coated the walls and dripped slowly onto the tile. From within came laughter. Not human. Not cruel. Just hollow.

The elder stepped forward and shouted, When the enemy shall come in like a flood, the Spirit of the Lord shall lift up a standard against him. Isaiah chapter fifty-nine verse nineteen

The tar recoiled.

The tunnel hissed.

But something climbed upward.

They saw hands first—then arms, then a body stretched wrong, bones bending backward. It did not have a face. Just grooves where one had once existed. It began to speak, but no mouth moved.

The walls groaned.

The air thickened.

The electricity surged through the outlets.

And the pastor cried out, The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? Psalm twenty-seven verse one

The creature paused. The tunnel flickered. Then it spoke in a voice that sounded like scraping wood.

You sang. You prayed. But you stayed.

Katelyn stepped forward, shaking, voice barely above a whisper.

And what would you have us do?

It responded, Leave the door.

And suddenly, she understood.

It wasn’t just the fridge.

It was the house.

This wasn’t about appliance possession. It wasn’t about twisted compressors or demonic leftovers.

This home had come with history.

Shawn began to search the property records.

The house had been standing for almost seventy years. Multiple families. None for longer than three months.

One woman had disappeared.

One man had been hospitalized for frostbite after sleeping in summer.

Police reports mentioned unexplained heat surges. Power outages. One officer had written a note stating, “The refrigerator wouldn’t stop humming. Even unplugged.”

No one had stayed.

They had lasted thirty-one days.

Katelyn and Shawn stayed nearly forty.

That night, their bed lifted off the floor. Not violently. Just enough to separate them from earth. Their ears rang. Their walls bled condensation. Outside, dogs barked at nothing. Inside, the fridge howled.

They held each other and prayed.

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Psalm chapter twenty-three verse three

Yet the atmosphere did not relent.

The prophet called at midnight.

Get out now.

When ye depart out of that house or city, shake off the dust of your feet. Matthew chapter ten verse fourteen

They didn’t pack.

They didn’t even unplug the fridge.

They fled.

Shoes on, Bible in hand, prayers rising like panic. They didn’t look back. Shawn placed the house key on the porch and whispered, The Lord shall fight for you, and ye shall hold your peace. Exodus chapter fourteen verse fourteen

They drove until dawn.

They left the state.

And when they finally settled, it was in a quiet cottage tucked behind olive groves and flat plains. The fridge was new. They chose it themselves. Stainless steel. Unmarked. Before bringing in groceries, they anointed it, sang worship, placed verses inside.

Katelyn still dreams sometimes.

She sees doorways inside doorways. Hallways inside coils. She wakes sweating and prays instantly. But the cottage remains calm.

The fridge never hums.

Sometimes the food turns quickly.

Sometimes the butter firms too fast.

But then they remember what to do.

They do not confront the machine.

They do not battle every time.

Sometimes they worship.

Sometimes they walk away.

And sometimes they remember the one lesson that saved their lives.

Not every door should be opened.

Not every battle should be fought inside.

And not every house is given.

Some are permitted.

Others are warnings.

Katelyn writes scripture every Friday.

Shawn sings softly every morning.

The Lord bless thee, and keep thee. The Lord make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee. Numbers chapter six verses twenty-four and twenty-five

Because some homes hum with peace.

And some fridges whisper back.