Soft Noise features 6 nightfall nature soundscapes, each recorded from real environments and paired with immersive descriptions. Free to listen.
The door shudders in the dead of night, not from wind but from something insistent pounding on it. A gunstock lands dull thuds against the wood, the rhythm quickening then slowing, as if someone paces outside, hesitates, then draws closer. You cannot tell whether it is the wood splitting or the latch trembling. Each knock lands on your chest; the shadows in the room sway with it, and even breathing feels too loud.
An out-of-tune piano starts playing by itself in an empty room. The keys fall at uneven intervals, as if the player keeps hesitating; a few low notes press down heavily, their tails stretching long and drifting down the hallway. As you listen you begin to wait for the next note, and it always lands the moment you relax.
A bell tolls slowly, thirty beats per minute, each strike spaced wide enough for you to regret having started listening. The metallic ring refuses to fade, as if some ritual were inching forward. Each echo sounds emptier than the last, and by the time you realise how long you have been listening, the bell still has not stopped.
A low chuckle starts in the dark, then sharpens into a shrill laugh, its tail quivering upward, as if someone is drawing nearer, or as if there is no one there at all. The laughter circles your ear again and again; it is over in seconds, yet you dare not turn around for a long while.
A muffled voice drifts up from the dark, low and broken, as if coming from far away and yet right beside your ear. The echo lends it an empty, cavernous feel; you cannot make out the words, only sense something restless lingering in the shadows.
A girls voice drifts through an empty scene, muffled and flickering; you cannot tell whether she is calling or humming. It is like that sound cue in a game you know is coming: it always plays just when you feel safe, stretching a familiar corridor until it turns cold.