$40.00
** A Night at the O.A.**
The O.A. had a reputation—an abandoned building on the outskirts of town where whispers of its past lingered like the dust motes dancing in the moonlight. Once a hub for underground art and experimental performances, it became a ghost of creativity, mingling with the quiet dread of urban legends. Alex had heard tales of odd happenings there: flickering lights in empty rooms, laughter that seemed to come from nowhere, and an inexplicable pull that drew people in, only to never be seen again.
It was a chilly Friday night when Alex and a group of friends decided to investigate the rumors about the O.A. They brought along a compact cassette recorder—their contraption to capture any strange sounds, vibrations unique to the space that might hint at the building's dark history. The mood was electrifying, mixed with excitement and an undercurrent of fear as they approached the decaying façade.
Once inside, the air felt heavy, charged with latent energy that thrummed through the air like a pulsing heartbeat. Flickering candles cast long shadows across the walls, illuminating the overgrown vines and peeling posters from performances long forgotten. Alex could almost hear the echoes of laughter and applause reverberating from the past, but in this moment, all they felt was the growing sense of isolation.
As they wandered deeper into the bowels of the O.A., they stumbled upon a small performance space equipped with a stage that looked ready for haunting acts of artistry. In one corner, a series of bizarre handmade electronic devices lay scattered—a peculiar mixture of wires and scrap materials, pulsing and blinking erratically, like they were alive and waiting for a command. Curiosity piqued, Alex moved closer, feeling inexplicably drawn to the objects.
Suddenly, the air felt thick, almost viscous, and the room shifted, warping slightly as if the laws of physics themselves were in flux. A feeling of weightlessness surrounded them, yet Alex felt an overwhelming heaviness pressing—like the first stages of ARDS, when the lungs begin to constrict and fluid leaks through the smallest blood vessels.
Just then, flickering—an uneven light pulsing from the center of the strange assemblage of electronics. A deep, resonant hum vibrated the ground beneath them, causing the group's laughter to fade into nervous chuckles. They exchanged glances, sensing an inexplicable force drawing them closer to the heart of the performance space.
Without realizing it, Alex and the group had formed a circle, their feet seemingly glued to the floor beneath an odd pulse. The hum morphed into a rhythm, a slow and deliberate heartbeat echoing louder over time. It swelled and thrummed into their very bones, becoming a melody that ensnared their senses, a controlled course leading them deeper into an altered state.
As they began to sway involuntarily, a voice accompanied the thrum—soft and hypnotic, weaving through the air like the whispers of a siren. “Welcome, dear guests, to the Thrall of Hypno. Here, you are free to explore—”
The words wrapped around their minds like chains, the room spinning as their bodies moved on command. Panic surged within Alex, the fight-or-flight instinct kicking in, but every attempt to break free was thwarted by the tightening grip of what felt like invisible hands—an outside force totally controlling their senses.
And then, the lights flickered, dimming to darkness before bursting back to life. In that fleeting moment of blackness, Alex's mind raced—echoes of half-formed thoughts crashed against the walls of consciousness, memories unraveling, running like shadows in the corners of the room. They now stood alone on the precipice of abandoning all reason, unwittingly stepping into the void.
"Control. Surrender.” The voice echoed, softer now, a caress against their ears. Another pulse beneath their feet. Another allure drawing them closer to the dark inescapable draw of the O.A.
Frantically, Alex grasped the cassette recorder, clutching it like a talisman, and blurted out, “This is all a performance, right? Just art?” The question rang hollow as if it fell into an abyss.
“Art becomes truth here,” the voice replied, an echo of disquieting mirth lacing the words, “And truth can be... uncomfortable.”
Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted, and the lights flickered again, revealing the distorted reflections of their faces—hollow, drained of color, as if the essence of their being was seeping away in tandem with the curious thrall that had them captivated.
In that moment of clarity, understanding washed over Alex: The combination of art and these handmade electronics had fermented into something sinister. The stakes were high—a life was being borrowed, kept alive, or perhaps extinguished. It was a phenomenon that could twist art into a mirror of existence, exposing the fragility of the human spirit—wounded and vulnerable.
With sudden determination, Alex ripped the tape from the cassette recorder and pressed it against the flickering display of the mesmerizing electronics. An eruption of sound filled the air, breaking the trance just long enough for the group to stumble back, gasping for breath as if they had resurfaced from deep underwater, lungs oppressed under the weight of the unseen.
As the hum of the O.A. dissipated and the room remained eerily quiet, they bolted for the exit, ignoring the echoes of laughter and allure that chased them out. The twisting hallways seemed alive with shadowy figures flashing in their peripheral vision, eager to pull them back into the throes of the thrall they’d narrowly escaped.
Once outside, they could breathe freely beneath the cold night sky, gathering their senses among the stillness. The O.A. loomed behind them, an ethereal silhouette swaying in the moonlight, whispering its secrets to the wind.
With conditioned hearts racing, they fled into the night, leaving behind a ghost of creativity, an echo of art transformed into thrall—a night at the O.A. that none would ever forget..."
Completely handmade, numbered edition of 1.