'Louis XVI' in the Dark Alley: A Midnight Opera Horror Distorted by a Broken Speaker

I had always thought that Western classical music was a symbol of elegance and civilization. Until that dark, windy, moonless late night, when my understanding was completely overturned by an old, broken bicycle.

The Follower in the Desolate Dark Alley

At the time, I was walking down a quiet, deserted, desolate dark alley, so silent that all I could hear were my own footsteps. Suddenly, a slow, leisurely sound of tires rubbing approached from behind. I turned to look—an old bicycle, so worn it looked ready to fall apart at any moment, was slowly tailing me.

The rusty loudspeaker on its handlebars was hoarsely blasting a shrill soprano opera.

From Ethereal to Shrill

In that desolate atmosphere, the originally ethereal, high-pitched voice, severely distorted by the broken speaker, instantly turned into a spine-chilling wail. That fear was extremely vivid—as if I weren’t walking on a modern Taiwanese street, but had personally arrived at the scene of the 1793 French Revolution—

The wronged soul of Louis XVI, just sent to the guillotine, was dragging heavy footsteps, wandering together with me through the endless corridors of his own ancient castle.

So it turns out that the distance spanning civilization and terror sometimes requires only a late night, and a broken speaker. This is probably the strangest musical feast “Mizuc” has ever harvested at night.