Room 93: The Song

I watched as the lights changed from dim to dark, and with the siren's call echoing. I was mesmerised, eyes transfixed upon the still figure before me. It's cries were like music, and I dared not make a sound for fear of breaking the spell. Yes, it had me caught in a web of my own creation, it's heart-wrenching weeping never fading, but resonating in my heart and mind, binding me, holding me still. I could not tear my eyes from the sight. The music was like the union of the howling of wolves and the aurora, birthed in a winter cave of changing light.

To have such a sound here, within a closet of a room, behind a grungy metal door, was something more enchanting than the most magical of fantasies. The building had been unused for an age, that was for sure. It was certain that I was the first to make a print in it's dust for a long time. I was alone, save for the company of the weeping figure. In my heart I knew that even as it was alone, it had cried this way, it's heartsong forever echoing down empty corridors.

The rich sound did not match the bony frame from which it emanated from. Head in hands and naked, it sat upon an abandoned office chair. And always, always, that mesmerising sound rising from the depths. I dared not enter further than the closet's threshold. I did not want to interrupt. Though at first instinct prompted me to comfort the creature, I knew it was only an effigy. The song battered at my heart, pushing through me in it's sorrowful vibration. I almost wanted to be bound this way, by the siren song. I do not know how long I stood there, watching, listening.

Waiting.

I fancied that the figure with it's long, long legs and tumbleweed hair might turn and look at me. But no, I knew that it would not. Whether it could or not was another question entirely, as I myself was torn between fantasy and reality in this time and place. Logic told me it was not real. But something deep down in my core, the thing we call our Dream, told me that this thing drawn in black and white across a wall had a life, had a soul. And for a moment I believed it.

I forgot the musty smells, the rust, the age, the dirt, the damp. I forgot about the floor beneath my feet. About the walls around me. And the sky above my head. I could only see the ageless figure, head forever in his hands, body firmly fixed to that chair. And always, always, the changing light, and the siren song. Reaching out, I allowed myself to cross the threshold, to touch the figure on the wall. First, only an index finger had crossed that sacred barrier which I had initially refused to cross. But I was drawn to it, this pallid image and it's haunting melody. Then, the rest of my hand, my arm, my shoulder, and finally my entire self had stepped across the threshold, to meet the figure face to face.

My feet trailed a path in the dust, each step causing whirls of dust to rise and fall. Like a petrified man I walked, slowly, slowly. Though the distance between the threshold and the figure was perhaps a metre or less, the few steps I took seemed to be frozen in time. The air grew thick, and I stirred up more dust. The song went on, unwavering and strong. At last I stood before the seated image, and with an outstretched finger touched it on one bony shoulder.

A part of me that was still sentient was surprised to feel nothing but bare wall, plastered over with white paint that had begun to peel and grow black mould. The feeling of surprise jolted the rest of me awake, and the siren call slowly faded into the background. It no longer echoed in me, the spell was broken and I was free. The image was just an image, it could not hold me. I no longer felt any sorrow for this thing, a thing that had no soul but for my fancy.
I tore my eyes away from it, with a tinge of fear that it might try and bind me to it again. I felt no regret shutting the metal door and subjecting it to darkness, no regret turning my back, no regret walking away.

Only the dust listens to it's hollow cries now.

***

The first time this blog has ever featured pictures, this is written in tribute to a particular art called 99rooms which I had accidentally stumbled upon, and immediately fell in love with. Created by the four men you see below (a screen shot from the art itself), it is the fusion of photography, paintings and animation that brings the project to life.

L-R: Richard Schumann (Art Direction), Johannes Bunemann (Sound Design), Kim Koster (The artist), Stephan Schulz (Flash/ programming)

The first image above featuring the skinny man are screenshots from the game, specifically that of Room 93. Each room is special, with something to look at or do, and most of them are interactive that require you, the viewer, to click on something (or some things) in order to progress to the next room. Whether there is something to do or not is indicated by the cursor, if you play it you will know what I mean.

I don't know what this was doing on gamershood.com, but a rating of 3 stars out of a possible 10 repelled me from 'playing' the so-called game. However, prompting from my sister nudged me to discover this, which I really enjoyed (even though it can get a little creepy and morbid).

Here is the link to the flash: http://99rooms.terracontent.de/99rooms/99rooms.html

And this is where you can find more information: http://99rooms.com/info.html

For more works by Johannes Bunemann: http://www.dripdrop.de

In the flash, to view thumbnails so you can go directly to your desired room, just press and hold any key on your keyboard (I find any letter key works just fine) and select a room.

Image source: screenshots from the flash "99rooms" created by Richard Schumann, Johannes Bunemann, Kim Koster and Stephan Schulz.