Hey everyone! I'm an art student in France and I'm looking for testimonies for my master's thesis. If this resonates with you or if you know someone who might be interested in sharing their experience, feel free to reach out! Thanks in advance to anyone willing to help :)
I'm sharing the call for testimonies here

Google Form link : CONNECTED DREAMS ⊹ ࣪ ˖

A man, his face cast in shadow stands in a field illuminated by a lunar glow. Piercing yellow eyes protrude through the shadowy veil. He opens his mouth and thick black clouds with silvery splinters take shape in the night air. Ebony, metallic gray, and bone-white plumage sprouts from his ashen hair. He wears a dark suit that blends into the night, phasing in and out of the cloudy mirage. In his hand, a cane adorned with a crescent moon that gleams with a nocturnal radiance.

His silvery tongue speaks with the undercurrent of death; of lunacy. Each syllable crashes like a tide upon the ears of any who listen,permeating into the mind, flowing between the cracks and craters of the
mind. With each pass upon the shore, substance dissolves as the craters become permanent depressions upon the surface.

The man empties his endless smoke filled lungs into the atmosphere with a groaning laughter. As the lunar glow wanes into the backdrop of shadow, the illusory light reflected from the moon disappears, giving way to an abyssal black.

It will promise you everything and leave you with nothing; beware the illusory light.

https://distressedboudoir.bandcamp.com/album/the-public-measure-ep

I released my first album last month and it essentially serves as themes and soundtracks to movies or shows set in a 1980s that didnt exist or games set in that same parallel timeline we didnt experience. Hope you guys like it

https://rfsignalchaser.bandcamp.com/album/low-tech-highs

The essence of the human soul lives within waves. Like an obsidian tide crashing on the shores of the mind in the galactic black shroud of dusk; these waves permeate ashen sands. They dance between ever-changing frequencies, flowing in and around us like a stream of life. Ever-free, the soul breathes around the body, free from its confines, capable of vanishing like a ship in the night under cover of the crashing waves to once again join in the endless sea.

The body dissolves and the soul becomes as music; becoming part of the life stream itself. Boundary-free, the soul travels where it detects the waters of life; a voice, vibrations, the very breath issuing the final dirge to send the body off forever. The soul persists, ethereal nomad, becoming life itself and no longer the catalytic instrument that once expressed it.

More Silent Hill inspired music with accompanying cosmic horror short stories can be found on my Tree of Alchemical Notability Youtube Page.

Thank you for listening/reading!

The dark warmth envelops your body like the fleeting hug of an uncaring mother. Nerve endings begin to catch fire again after a long night of spitting out nothing but exhaust. A bed drenched in salty dampness from a now-faded passion is all that remains of a night draining that left behind no memory.

The sun rises, casting a shadow over the remnants of the night prior. The day knocks on the door of your mind and demands you let it in. You firmly shut the door without moving a muscle.

The danger is here.

The shadows dancing in the corner of the room darken to their malignant original forms and threaten to consume you. But you have no more energy left to hold them at bay. While you struggle to force electricity into your muscles, the shadows coil around your body and sink you deeper into the black water as awareness fades.

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More Silent Hill inspired music with accompanying cosmic horror short stories can be found on my Tree of Alchemical Notability Youtube Page.

Thank you for listening/reading!

Sono giorni che il nastro di Selected Ambient Works Volume II mi gira in testa e non riesco a togliermelo. È un disco che non ha titoli, non ha storia ufficiale e forse, a guardarlo bene, non è nemmeno fatto per essere ascoltato 'normalmente'.

È più un luogo in cui perdersi. Un archivio di nebbia, di frequenze aliene e di un isolamento radicale, registrato nel 1994 e lasciato lì, a fluttuare nel buio.

Ho provato a entrare in quella stanza, a decifrare quella mappa cifrata e a raccontare cosa si prova a lasciarsi inghiottire da questo suono. Non aspettatevi recensioni tecniche: questo è un viaggio nel vuoto.

Se avete voglia di spegnere la luce e perdervi con me, trovate il video qui sotto. Sono curioso di sapere se anche per voi questo disco è un rifugio o una prigione.

https://youtu.be/ACd5rC7dldY?is=lQW8zYS5LmQ7OoI5

Both of the original music pieces were from two (pretty popular) video games I’m interested in. Hope you enjoy!

Audiomack: https://audiomack.com/ssk815/song/farewell?share-user-id=174970217 || https://audiomack.com/ssk815/song/welcome?share-user-id=174970217

Bandcamp: https://saahibkhanguramusic.bandcamp.com/track/farewell || https://saahibkhanguramusic.bandcamp.com/track/welcome

YouTube (skip to the 00:32:41 and 01:25:03 marks): https://youtu.be/jA8uXX0Qxxs?is=FrO2YB-_h4IX9b0f

Inside of the house is noisy. The sound compresses to a harsh static as a large gathering of people congregate into clusters between the amber-colored living room and the grayscale kitchen. Pleasant, rehearsed scripts fill the room, accompanied by laughter and sharp spikes of verbal energy. When something threatens to break through the surface conversation, the communication ceases, giving way to blank faces and even blanker stares. Faces are unfocused and lack detail. The words, mere echoes that had long lost their original shape and begun to morph into something else entirely, signal to noise.

This home is not familiar and hasn’t been for a long time.

A half-light shines from the outside, peaking through the window curtains with a warm welcoming glow that seems to contour right at the boundary of the windowsill.

The man follows the warm light outside of the house.

The porch is surrounded by starving darkness, held at bay by the source of the warm light, a single flickering streetlight hangs above the concrete slab walkway. Here, even more people congregate into smaller groups. These figures wear increasingly eccentric garb. The conversations slide through the cigarette smoke-filled air in forbidden tongue, touching on topics unfamiliar and strange. Their words carry feelings, with an almost magick-like quality. With each pass into the man's ear, he feels himself change,his internal sensations becoming lighter, wider, and yet, darker. He feels the weight of their words gently pushing him down into the concrete,like some sort of linguistic gravity.

At the precipice, the man decides that there is nowhere left for him to go but further out into the pregnant emptiness.

Fringe philosophy threatens the stability of the man's world as the darkness surrounding the porch illuminates in gray and the air thickens with mist. He feels the concrete beginning to bow beneath him, looking around to see the people sinking deeper into ground. Some to their ankles, some to their mouths, filling their oratory void. Still dark, his view gives way to empty fields, hills, and roads that sprawl out like each is being created by an outside force. Reality maintains just as far as he can perceive and no further.

He turns to find the once comfortable house, but it disappears into the parallel rows of endless concrete slab porches.

At the precipice, the man decides that there is nowhere left for him to go but further out into the pregnant emptiness.

He walks long into the field. To the left are a distant group of figures wearing gas masks with long, proboscis mouthpieces. The eyes are a mass of conjoined optic bulbs, gazing across the field. Next to them, a car; its driver and passenger sit, heads seizing as if moving back and forth at impossible speeds simultaneously with their mouths unhinged in eternal screams.

Further ahead is a white wall that stretches as far as the eye can see; the final boundary.

Before he can contemplate it, the figures all at once charge at the man with inhuman speed. In pure panic, he sprints. The air enters his lungs like liquid metal, scorching him from within. A scream hangs in the air and a ringing in the ears deafens. Before he can think, he enters into a solitary door along the white wall.

The door slams shut behind him and disappears as he turns to look for the handle.

He shifts his gaze further into the outer limit.

A corpse, clothed in white, hangs suspended in the air. Mangled beyond repair, the man can only make out a few defining features that remind him vaguely of his own body. As he looks into the eyes of the corpse, they look back, and the scream hanging in the air becomes eternal.

Thank you for reading. More short stories with accompanying music on my Youtube

“Just shut up and do the job I’m paying you to do. I do not care about you. I do not care about your life; do not even look at me. I am only here to ensure you do not steal my belongings from me, and loathe as I am to admit it, I cannot trust that my own help would not help you get away with it in my absence.”

They move through the world in their person suits, shaking hands and maneuvering through crowds, armed with enticing laced bags in one hand and an emerald crested dagger in the other. Problem solvers; to be used alongside well-rehearsed expressions.

The masquerade is wholly consuming and ages like a Leroy Musigny Grand Cru, getting both more costly and out of reach with time.

The house, not a home, but a display case giving the illusion of meaning; of appreciation; of life. No eyes have glanced beyond the book covers; no mind has contemplated the paintings; no ears have truly heard the signed vinyl records tucked away in their frames and put up for display; and no mouth has tastes the nectar within the dusty bottles. The environment; a stage prop for the scene about to begin.

The moment surface tension breaks through to the abyss below, is the moment it reveals itself. A vacant expression and lifeless eyes, a silence so deafening you can almost hear the machinery grinding underneath the skin. The well-funded cover up gives way to the hollowness, like looking into a void that reflects no humanity back at you; not even comforting scripts masquerading as a shared humanity come forth from this man-shaped creature.

This soulless husk hates you. It hates that you have perceived it and it wants nothing more than for your inconvenient existence to cease. Its eyes do not see you. Its mind does not contemplate you and its ears do not hear you.

It would kill you, if only it didn’t take so much effort to pay someone else to dispose of your body.

I know lots of people are copying early Ghost Box (not very well), BoC (quite well; they’re even copying themselves quite well), The Caretaker, Burial etc but, in the UK at least, the endless sampling of scary Public Info. films or Threads or Sapphire and Steel or Rabies warnings etc etc seems to be missing the point a little. And is getting really boring. There’s plenty of accidentally eerie stuff in 70s / 80s TV… maybe we could lend the new generation of hauntologists a hand at suggesting some new avenues…

A flicker of legs scurry into the warmth of the shadow. A solitary figure stands amidst speckled shards of light penetrating from the abscesses above. His features come through fractured; an impression.

A gift from the world above.

A curse from the world below.

The smell of dank sitting water and arid air clash in the cockpit of the senses. The solitary figure twitches his ear toward the sound of echoed whispers; guttural sounds and cries twist through the winding caves as bat-like creatures hunt down their sources.

The light from above engages the pupillary light reflex causing the iris to coil around the retina like a serpent. Hulking; the solitary figure stumbles away from the light.

The serpent concedes.

Globules of air effervesce from the depths of a porous creature’s belly a few feet away. Once sleeping, now the creature begins the task of getting it’s need met. An aural devouring absorbs all the sound in the room providing a void. The solitary creature acts on instinct, trailing the porous one deep into the tunnel.

They stumble slow, absent time and sound. Each step collects cold blood off the ground, caking around their bloated ankles and decaying tendrils. The porous creature paces ahead of the hulking figure; eager to devour the escalated cries produced from the bat-like creatures.

The tunnels give way to a massive cavern. Eroded away from the inside. Chains descend from the ceiling restraining bodies with humanoid features. Men, women, and children decorate the walls in varying states of decay while creatures stare with focused eyes and bated breath. Symbols painted in blood loom overhead the piles of bodies, standing 10 feet or more above.

A lanky creature produces a brush made up of patched fur, ripped off the backs of other creatures. It gestures it’s hand across the wall in ritualistic motion. It’s many mouths open and close in patterns. Any potential sound is immediately devoured by the armies of porous creatures that stand beside their hulking counterparts.

A loud clash of metal can be heard high above, disappearing as it makes it’s way downward. The porous creatures collectively extend tendrils to their hulking companions. The companions each open wide the maws affixed to their chest and lean down to begin feasting on the corpses. Faint traces of light escape upwards from the bodies, before being intercepted by splintering shadows. They race across the caverns, in-and-out of flesh-lined burrows carved into the upper walls.

Once done, each pair retreats back into its respective tunnels. With biology satiated and metabolism engaged, they commence their dreams of decomposition. Any trace of awareness descends out of sight, like a chain dropped into a deep dark cavern.

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Hear and read the other seven stories released so far over on YouTube and please feel free to share any theories about the greater mystery!

soon on https://mr-g.bandcamp.com/

Hi.