The Silent Choir

اللينك في الاسفل

In the quiet town of Ravenscroft, nestled deep within a forest of ancient oaks, there was a church—St. Mary’s Abbey. It had stood for centuries, its towering spire piercing the sky, casting long shadows over the cobblestone streets. The townsfolk, devout and superstitious, rarely spoke of the church after dark. Whispers of a forgotten legend clung to the air like the mist that rolled in from the forest each evening.

Father Jonathan, a man of unwavering faith, had been assigned to St. Mary’s after the sudden disappearance of the previous priest. Determined to dispel the town’s fears, he made it his mission to uncover the truth behind the rumors. He was told that at night, if one stood outside the church, they could hear the faint strains of a choir singing. But no choir had sung there for over a hundred years, not since the tragic fire that had claimed the lives of twenty choirboys and their choirmaster, Father Benedict.

Undeterred by the stories, Father Jonathan decided to hold a midnight service on All Hallows' Eve, inviting the townsfolk to attend and face their fears. He believed that faith and light could banish the darkness that had gripped Ravenscroft for so long.

As the night of the service approached, an uneasy silence fell over the town. The townspeople refused to speak of the event, and many quietly planned to leave town for the night. But Father Jonathan remained resolute. On the evening of October 31st, he stood in the church, dressed in his robes, waiting for the congregation that never came.

The church was empty, save for the flickering candles that lined the aisle. The air was heavy, thick with an oppressive stillness. Undaunted, Father Jonathan began the service alone. His voice echoed through the cavernous space, a solitary beacon of faith amidst the dark.

But as he spoke, he began to hear something. It was faint at first—a distant, melodious hum, as if carried on the wind. He paused, straining to listen. The sound grew louder, more distinct. It was a choir, their voices pure and haunting, singing a hymn that he did not recognize.

Curiosity mingled with a growing sense of unease as Father Jonathan followed the sound. It seemed to come from the old, sealed-off wing of the church, where the fire had raged all those years ago. The doors to the wing had been boarded up, the walls blackened with soot. But tonight, the doors were ajar, as if inviting him in.

With a prayer on his lips, Father Jonathan pushed the doors open. The air was cold, and the smell of charred wood and something older, something rotten, assaulted his senses. The singing grew louder, more intense, filling the space with an overwhelming presence.

At the far end of the room, where the altar had once stood, he saw them. Twenty shadowy figures, cloaked in darkness, their faces obscured. They were the choirboys, their eyes hollow, their mouths moving in unison as they sang their mournful hymn. At their center stood Father Benedict, his once kindly face twisted in a rictus of pain and fury.

Father Jonathan’s heart pounded in his chest as he realized the truth. The choir had never left. They had been trapped in the church, bound to it by the fire, by the betrayal of the townsfolk who had locked the doors and left them to die.

The singing grew louder, deafening, as the shadows began to move toward him. Father Jonathan backed away, but the doors behind him slammed shut, sealing him inside. The shadows closed in, their voices rising to a fever pitch.

As the first cold hand touched his shoulder, Father Jonathan understood. The choir did not want peace. They did not seek redemption. They wanted revenge—for their lives, their innocence, their souls. And they would not rest until they had claimed him as one of their own.

The next morning, the townsfolk returned to find the church empty. The candles had burned out, leaving only pools of wax on the floor. The doors to the old wing were shut, and Father Jonathan was gone. But if you stand outside St. Mary’s Abbey at night, you can still hear the choir singing—a hymn of sorrow, a warning to those who dare to listen.

And if you listen closely, you might just hear a new voice among them.

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