Carols of the Damned

The Saint Cecilia Choir had seen better days. Once the pride of the town, their performances now drew only a handful of listeners. The director, Margaret Hensley, a once-renowned soprano, refused to let the choir fade into obscurity. “We just need something special,” she insisted. “Something that will remind people why they loved us.”

That "something special" arrived in the form of an old leather-bound hymnbook, discovered by the newest member, Liam, in the dusty archives of the church basement. The book’s cover was cracked, its pages yellowed, and its title, Cantus Maledictus, was embossed in faded gold. Inside were hymns unlike anything Margaret had ever seen—hauntingly beautiful, with melodies that seemed to echo long after the notes were sung.

One hymn, titled "Gloria Tenebris", stood out. Its lyrics were written in an archaic Latin, the notes so intricate they seemed alive on the page. Margaret couldn’t resist. “This is it,” she said, her eyes gleaming. “This hymn will bring us back.”

The choir’s first rehearsal of Gloria Tenebris was electric. The melody resonated in the church’s vaulted ceilings, filling the space with an almost otherworldly harmony. The singers felt an unexplainable energy coursing through them as they sang, as if the music itself was alive.

But as the final note faded, Liam collapsed, gasping for breath. His nose bled profusely, and his eyes were wide with terror. “I—I saw something,” he stammered. “While we were singing. Shadows. Faces.”

The choir dismissed it as exhaustion. Margaret, however, noticed a faint crack in one of the church’s stained-glass windows that hadn’t been there before.

Their first public performance of Gloria Tenebris was a triumph. The audience sat spellbound, tears streaming down their faces as the choir sang. The applause was thunderous, and for the first time in years, the Saint Cecilia Choir was the talk of the town.

But the triumph came at a cost. That night, Emily, one of the sopranos, was found dead in her apartment. Her body was contorted, her face frozen in a scream. The police ruled it a heart attack, but the choir knew better.

Liam tried to quit the choir the next day. “That hymn... it’s cursed,” he said, his voice shaking. But when he packed his things to leave town, his car refused to start, his phone wouldn’t turn on, and every road out of town seemed blocked by sudden accidents or closures.

“I don’t think we’re allowed to quit,” whispered Clara, the alto who found the hymn’s lyrics still scrawled across her bathroom mirror, though she hadn’t written them.

Despite their fear, the choir couldn’t stop singing Gloria Tenebris. Margaret insisted that the hymn was their salvation, that the deaths and strange occurrences were mere coincidences. “We owe it to Emily to keep going,” she said, her voice desperate. “This is our chance to be remembered.”

The next performance drew an even larger crowd. The audience wept, their faces rapt with emotion, but the air in the church grew colder with every verse. Shadows flickered in the corners, moving independently of the light. One man in the front row began screaming, clawing at his eyes. When the song ended, the church’s ancient chandelier crashed to the floor, killing three people instantly.

The choir members begged Margaret to stop. “We’re cursed!” Clara cried. “This hymn is evil!”

Margaret’s obsession had consumed her. “We’re closer than ever to greatness,” she snapped. “Don’t you feel it? The power? The glory? We can’t stop now.”

The final performance was meant to be their masterpiece. The church was packed to capacity, a sea of expectant faces waiting to hear the hymn that had become a legend. Margaret had rewritten the program to include only Gloria Tenebris, instructing the choir to repeat it three times for maximum impact.

As they sang, the church groaned as if under immense pressure. The shadows deepened, pooling at the edges of the pews and creeping toward the altar. The audience’s expressions twisted from awe to horror, their mouths moving silently as if trying to scream but finding no voice.

By the second repetition, cracks spiderwebbed across the church’s walls and windows. The choir could see them now—the figures in the shadows. Twisted, eyeless forms, their mouths stretched impossibly wide, mouthing the hymn’s lyrics in grotesque mimicry.

When the final note was sung, the church erupted in chaos. The walls split open, revealing a void of endless darkness. The audience was pulled into it, their screams swallowed by the hymn’s lingering echo. One by one, the choir members were dragged into the abyss, their voices continuing to sing even as they disappeared.

Margaret stood alone at the altar, her face illuminated by the unholy glow of the hymnbook, now floating before her. She reached for it, her trembling fingers brushing the pages, as a voice whispered in her mind:

"Cantus Maledictus... your fame is eternal."

The church collapsed into silence, leaving only the ruins and a faint, haunting melody that echoed through the empty town.

Years later, hikers passing through the area claim to hear singing on cold December nights—a choir’s voices rising and falling in perfect harmony. But those who follow the sound are never seen again.

And deep in the forest, beneath the snow, the hymnbook waits for its next choir.