The Loom That Listens

The opening really sells sound as setting — the tram yard, the little city noises, the red light on the recorder — but that strength only highlights what the story fails to do next. The hum itself is evocative at first (I could practically feel that coppery taste in Nika’s mouth), yet it becomes a single repeated effect rather than a mystery that develops. The narrative ticks off familiar horror beats: vanished friend, derelict mill, lone protagonist with a quirky gadget. None of those elements are given enough specificity to feel earned. Pacing is the biggest issue. The excerpt lingers deliciously on atmosphere, then rushes through the stakes. We get a tuning fork and a homemade oscillator dropped into the scene as if they automatically grant agency or meaning, but we never learn how they actually interact with the hum or why Nika thinks they’ll help. The “city that remembers voices” is a neat hook, but it’s stated as mythology rather than explored — who remembers? How did this memory work in the past? Without rules, the supernatural feels like convenience. Concrete fix ideas: tighten the middle so the friend’s disappearance has a flash or memory that matters emotionally, and give the oscillator/tuning fork a clear, surprising function instead of leaving them as props. The piece is full of mood, but right now it reads more like a stylish trailer than a finished, credible horror short.

Beautifully written in places but ultimately unsatisfying. The prose is sharp when it focuses on sensory detail — I could taste the penny-metal description and see the mill’s missing-tooth windows — yet the narrative momentum drifts. The disappearance of the friend serves as the hook, but we get little emotional payoff; I never felt the relationship’s weight or why Nika would risk everything beyond curiosity. The ending (her needing to refuse her own voice) is intriguing but feels underexplored. A stronger hook into the characters’ bonds or a clearer explanation of the supernatural would have elevated this from a mood piece to something more memorable.

I wanted to like this more than I did. The set pieces — tram yard, river approach, derelict flax mill — are well described, but the plot felt a bit familiar: friend vanishes, lone investigator walks into a haunted factory with a quirky gadget. Tuning fork and homemade oscillator read as slightly gimmicky rather than organically terrifying. The constant emphasis on the hum is atmospheric at first but becomes repetitive; after a while I was waiting for a real payoff that never really arrived. Also, the ‘‘city that remembers voices’’ is a cool idea, but the story skimps on what that actually means. If you want mood over resolution, go for it; if you want answers, you’ll be frustrated.

There’s a delicacy here that surprised me in a horror story: the author writes as if assembling a fragile field recording, layering small, exact sounds until the whole image trembles. The opening paragraphs are exemplary — a symphony of municipal micro-noises, then the alien low tone that intrudes like radiation into melody. I loved the juxtaposition of professional detail (gain checks, cable swaps) with mythic suggestion (a mill that remembers voices). The flax mill itself reads like a palimpsest of the city’s losses, windows ‘‘punched out like missing teeth,’’ and the skeletal conveyor that becomes an instrument of erasure. Thematically, the injunction that Nika must refuse her own voice to survive is rich: it’s about identity, listening versus being heard, and the costs of attunement. A few narrative threads (the missing friend, the oscillator’s ultimate function) could have been developed more fully, but perhaps the unresolved edges are intentional: the hum persists. Gorgeous mood work that rewarded careful reading.

A compact, atmospheric piece that gets its horror from sound rather than gore. The red indicator on the recorder, the tram driver’s casual shout, the copper taste — small details add up to a convincing mood. Nika is sympathetic and competent, and her tuning fork and oscillator are believable props. The mill is an excellent setting: ominous without being over-explained. Left me thinking about how cities hold memory and noise.

This story gave me chills 😬. Nika’s obsession with sound is so well-drawn — the small clinks, the slosh of a puddle, and then that impossible low note that tastes like a penny. The flax mill images stayed with me: punched-out windows, the skeletal conveyor, the gaping metal mouth. The scene of her pressing the headphones and feeling the pressure return made me tense up every time I re-read it. I loved how the city itself feels alive and dangerous, remembering voices. The ending (her having to refuse her own voice) was bittersweet and terrifying. Very atmospheric, very smart horror.

Style-wise this is a slow-burning, sensory piece that knows exactly when to hush and when to make the walls hum. The ragged tram yard opening — gulls over the river, the recorder’s red light — sets up an almost forensic attention to sound. The scene where Nika walks by the river and the flax mill becomes silhouette is one of my favorites: the taste of copper intensifies, the hum nesting deeper, and you can almost feel the rails shiver underfoot. I also admired the story’s restraint; it doesn’t explain everything. The tuning fork/homemade oscillator moment functions as both tool and symbol — an attempt to tune herself to the world rather than to dominate it. If I have a quibble it’s that the friend’s disappearance could use one stronger flashback to raise the stakes emotionally. But this is hair-raising in the nicest sense.

Quiet, uncanny, and elegantly written. The opening with Nika on the tram tracks hooked me immediately — those little city sounds and then the copper taste in her mouth were enough to make my skin prickle. The flax mill is wonderfully described: a hulking silhouette with a gaping metal mouth. The invention of the city that remembers voices is a lovely concept, and Nika’s practical approach (tuning fork, oscillator) adds emotional realism. I only wanted a touch more on the friend who vanished, but overall this is haunting in a way that lingers.

As someone fascinated by sound, this story felt like a minor masterpiece. The author stages noise as a character: the conductor’s whistle, the private throat of a pigeon, the tram rails hissing — and then that invasive low tone that sits under everything. I appreciated the technical touches (checking gain, changing the cable) which make Nika credibly a field recordist, not a trope. Specific beats stand out: the tram driver’s joke that contrasts the narrator’s seriousness, the river-side approach to the derelict mill, and the first time Nika presses the ear cup and the pressure returns. Structurally it’s tight; atmospherically it thrives on precise sensory detail rather than cheap jump scares. The supernatural element — a humming building that steals voices — is handled with restraint, leaving enough mystery to be unnerving without being vague. Highly recommended for horror fans who like texture.

I loved this. The Loom That Listens feels like a short hymn to listening — and to the terror of hearing too much. Nika is so vividly drawn: the scene by the tram yard, headphones pressed to one ear, the red dot of the recorder blinking, and that awful penny taste in her mouth made me physically flinch. The flax mill sequence (windows like missing teeth, the skeletal conveyor) was cinematic; I could see the silhouette of the building and feel the ground hum under my sneakers. The tuning fork and homemade oscillator are smart, tactile details that root the supernatural in a craftsperson’s logic. The idea of a city that remembers voices is haunting and original. By the end, the dread of refusing your own voice to survive stayed with me—beautifully unsettling.