The soft laughter of children who lived two hundred years ago.
“Silent Night” slowed down, in the key of A minor. Vocals by Lana del Ray.
The low whistle of wind through barren forests. The rustle of branches. In the distance, the soft static of a fast-moving river. The mournful call of a night owl. A twig snapping close by. A footstep behind you.
Heavy breathing.
The clanking of the chains that Jacob Marley forged in life.
The melancholy lullaby your great grandmother used to sing to you in a language that you never learned. Vocals by your great grandmother. You turn to your companion to comment on the strangeness of this, but he is crying. You’ve never seen him cry before, and he never met your great grandmother. You wonder what he hears, but are too afraid to ask.
A skipping, scratchy recording of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” stuck on the line “You better not cry.”
A silence so deep and lonely you fear you will never escape it.
Gary Jules’ cover of "Mad World,” played live, by him, held against his will.
White House aides nervously asking, “Why is it so cold in here all of the sudden?”
An almost imperceptible scritching noise that, upon further examination, turns out to be thousands of spiders spinning their intricate webs. Their webs spell out RUN AWAY WHILE YOU STILL CAN.
The wailing of the Old Ones as they awaken from their long slumber.
A recording of Samuel Beckett’s death.
The deep and clear ringing of bells. And you do not ask for whom they toll. For they toll for all of us. They toll for thee.