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I will never forget the ethereal sound that led me to the forgotten hamlet of Brookford, played though it was upon one of the rude musical instruments of the region. Lost in the throes of a battering storm it led me to what I took to be safety. Little did I realise however, that I was as a sailor in stories of antiquity, being led to my doom. A great sense of uneasiness assailed me as I entered that place – as if the inner fibre of my very being were reacting against it. Would to God Almighty that I had hearkened…

Upon my approach to what I took to be the centre I espied a young lady sitting under a makeshift lean-to crying into her hands. Although she was in possession of certain physical characteristics common to this region, there was something undeniably comely about her physiognomy and thus I attempted to comfort her. Full of rural superstitions she implored me to leave and never to return, despite my protestations that I was carrying out important folkloric research regarding the customs of forgotten places. I know not what happened next, suffice to say that my universe went as black as the starless night sky which looked mockingly down upon me.

The tinny sound of an antique gramophone player awoke me from a restless and haunted slumber and my eyes gradually focussed on the figures of several elderly men and women, naked save for the wickerwork masks upon their faces. They cavorted and danced before me in an utterly revolting manner and it was almost a relief when I was led by more masked figures through the stinking fog to a stagnant lake where I could but cry in utter shock. Not at the mewling babe offered up by the priestly figure at the shore, but at the incomprehensible horror that accepted it; amorphous, slithering and mewling itself as if in hideous reply. There amidst a rising cacophony of many monotonous whining flutes I must have lost consciousness once more, for my next memory is that of being held aloft above a joyous procession, seemingly oblivious to the harrowing scene that had just occurred.

Unable to countenance my own part in the proceedings I took my penknife to my wrists, in the hopes of absolving myself of any complicity. Regarding my mortal remains still borne aloft by the baying throng I took to the air where I have been since – riding with the damned upon the eddies and currents of furious night-winds, crying my warning to any who would hear. Woe unto him who enters the hamlet of Brookford, where antediluvian horrors still whimper and crawl…

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from HDK 103 † HDK Dungeon​​​​​-​​​​​synth magazine # 4, released October 31, 2021

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Heimat Der Katastrophe Milan, Italy

DIY label focused on ambient punk, minimal-synth, dungeon-drone, wartime music and post-nuclear wave. Managed by a creative punx collective from Milano city.

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