The Taos Hum: Heard, Felt, and Still Without a Source

It begins quietly, often at night. A low vibration that settles beneath the silence, steady and unrelenting, like an unseen engine somewhere far away. For those who can sense it, the sound becomes part of the air itself, an invisible pressure that refuses to leave.

The first reports began appearing in the early 1990s. Residents wrote to local papers and state officials describing the same thing, a deep, pulsing hum that couldn’t be traced to any machine or road. Many said it grew worse indoors, particularly after midnight. Some compared it to the sound of an idling diesel engine just over the hill. Others didn’t hear it at all, but felt it, a vibration that ran through the body, leaving them exhausted and on edge.

Among the earliest reports were those of Bob and Catanya Saltzman, a couple who noticed the hum in 1991 and said it soon became almost constant. What began as a faint noise quickly grew into a physical presence that followed them from room to room and even seemed to reappear when they returned from travelling outside Taos. The sleeplessness and headaches that came with it were so severe that they considered leaving town altogether. Their letters to the Taos News encouraged dozens of others to come forward, all describing the same strange, low-frequency sound that seemed to fill the valley.

One long-time resident said she first noticed it late one night while reading. At first, she assumed it was a generator somewhere nearby, but when she switched off every appliance and listened, the vibration remained. A musician who had moved to Taos for its quiet said the nights had grown unbearable, the hum so steady it made concentration impossible. Several people described how driving away from the valley brought instant relief, only for the vibration to return the moment they came home.

In 1993, after months of pressure from residents, a formal investigation was launched. Scientists from Los Alamos and Sandia National Laboratories joined with researchers from the University of New Mexico to monitor the area. They placed low-frequency microphones, vibration sensors, and electromagnetic detectors across the valley and asked volunteers to log when the hum was strongest. Over that week, they recorded no consistent acoustic signal, no seismic vibration, and no pattern that matched the times logged by the hearers. Yet every one of the participants maintained that they had felt it.

Some said it seemed to rise from the ground, others that it pressed down from above. Many felt it strongest after midnight, when the air cooled and the valley was at its quietest. A few reported that it made them physically ill, a deep internal resonance that left them nauseous and anxious. Running a fan, leaving a radio on, or even sleeping outside offered temporary relief, but nothing silenced it completely.

When the study ended, the results were inconclusive. The official report confirmed that roughly two percent of the Taos population claimed to experience the phenomenon, but no measurable source could be found. To the scientists, the case was closed. To the residents still feeling the vibration in their bones, it wasn’t.

Taos isn’t at the only location that has reported this phenomenon. Across the Atlantic, people in Bristol, England, have been hearing a similar low-frequency sound since the 1970s, a deep hum that many describe as more physical than audible. In Largs, Scotland, entire streets once complained of vibrations that kept them awake. In Kokomo, Indiana, a similar mystery was eventually traced to industrial equipment, though even after it was fixed, some said the sound persisted. In Windsor, Ontario, the notorious “Windsor Hum” stopped only when nearby blast furnaces on Zug Island were shut down, proving that sometimes, these vibrations are very real.

But Taos has never had that resolution. The hum still comes and goes, unpredictable and unrecorded. For those who live with it, the sound has become something more than a nuisance. It’s part of the landscape now, a reminder that silence is rarely as empty as it seems.

Over the years, many theories have been put forward, but none have provided a clear answer. Scientists looked first to the obvious, industrial equipment, underground activity, distant traffic, yet shutting off local sources made no difference. Geologists suggested the unique shape of the Taos Valley might amplify natural vibrations, though no consistent pattern was found. Others turned to electromagnetic fields, wondering if the hum was something only certain people’s bodies could register.

Skeptics argued it might be internal, a kind of tinnitus heightened by quiet nights and thin mountain air. But that fails to explain why the sensation stops the moment some residents leave the valley. Every possible answer has been tested, and every test has ended the same way, with no proof, no source, and no sign of a hoax.

The Taos Hum remains one of those rare mysteries that remains unexplained. It isn’t folklore or imagination. It’s something people still feel, something the instruments still can’t find, and something that reminds us how much of the world continues to vibrate just beyond our understanding.