04 Feb The Silent Choir

PART I

The trees whispered as the wind cut through them, a low susurration, like voices murmuring in a forgotten language. The hiker paused on the trail, shifting his backpack higher on his shoulders, and turned toward the sound. It had started just moments ago—soft at first, like the rustling of leaves. But there was a melody to it now—something achingly beautiful, rising and falling with an unnatural precision. It was a choir.

He stood frozen, eyes locked on the shadowed path that broke away from the main trail. His GPS had shown nothing out here except trees and empty forest, yet the voices wove together in perfect harmony, wordless but rich with sorrow. Something inside him—something primal—told him to turn back. But another part, the same part that had always chased the unknown, urged him forward.

He adjusted his footing, stepping carefully over the exposed roots. As he moved deeper into the trees, the sound grew louder, reverberating through his ribs. It wasn’t recorded music, not some hidden speaker or lost hiker playing a song on his phone. This was live. This was real.

The trees thinned suddenly, opening into a small clearing. There, nestled between the skeletal branches, was the church.

It stood untouched by time, as though it had been placed here and then forgotten. The wooden walls were a dark, weathered gray, but there were no signs of collapse. The steeple, which should have crumbled long ago, still stood tall, pointing skyward. The windows were unbroken, the stained glass covered in a fine layer of dust, but the shapes depicted in the panes were wrong—abstract, faceless figures with open mouths, frozen mid-song.

The hiker swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

The music was louder now. He stepped closer. The wooden doors loomed before him, slightly ajar. Beyond them, the church was silent. No music. No movement. Just a breath of darkness between the crack in the doors.

The wind shifted, and the choir began again.

His skin prickled. The voices were all around him, but the church remained silent. The sound wasn’t coming from inside—it was coming from the trees.

A pressure built in his ears, like the moment an airplane descends. He turned, glancing back toward the trail. The woods behind him had grown darker, the sky above thick with rolling clouds.

He took another step forward, and the music stopped. Everything stopped.

His ears rang in the sudden silence. His hands trembled as he reached for the church doors. Just a peek, just to see who was inside. Just to know.

The doors creaked as he pushed.

From the darkness beyond, a single face stared back at him, its gaping mouth open wide.

PART II

Jesse Carter had never been good at failure.

His fingers tightened around the steering wheel as he crossed the town limits of Halewick, watching the familiar landscape roll past in the dimming afternoon light. The gas station, the diner with its chipped neon sign, the boarded-up hardware store—nothing had changed. If anything, the town seemed smaller, like it had shrunken in on itself in the years since he’d left.

He’d sworn he’d never come back.

But the city had chewed him up and spit him out, the same as it did to anyone who wasn’t rich or lucky. His band had fallen apart six months ago, after their tour had been canceled and the promise of making it big had crumbled beneath unpaid bills and empty bar gigs. Now, he was back where he started, rolling into the town he’d once called home, with his tail tucked firmly between his legs.

His breath fogged against the windshield as he pulled into the drive of the old cabin on the outskirts of town. The porch sagged slightly, and the roof had a new patch of moss creeping up its edge, but it was still standing.

Frank Donnelly was waiting for him on the steps, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. He was older now, thinner, but still had the same sharp blue eyes Jesse remembered from childhood. Frank had been a friend of Jesse’s father before he passed, and he was the only one in town who hadn’t hesitated when Jesse called.

“Long drive?” Frank asked, pushing himself up with a grunt.

Jesse killed the engine and stepped out. “Yeah. Thanks for letting me stay.”

Frank waved a hand. “Least I could do. Your dad was good to me back in the day. Figured I’d return the favor.” He gave Jesse a once-over. “You look like hell.”

Jesse let out a short laugh. “Feels about right.”

Frank gestured toward the cabin. “It’s not much, but the roof don’t leak, and the stove works. Should be enough to get you on your feet.”

Jesse followed him inside, dropping his duffel bag by the door. The place smelled like old wood and dust, but it was warm. The furniture was sparse—just a couch, a coffee table, and a kitchen with cabinets that probably hadn’t been stocked in years.

Frank leaned against the counter, exhaling a curl of smoke. “So, what’s the plan?”

Jesse shrugged. “Figure I’ll find some work, maybe see if anyone around here still books gigs.”

Frank chuckled. “Halewick ain’t exactly a music town, kid. Best you’ll find is a bar that still has a jukebox.”

Jesse sighed. He already knew that. He just didn’t have a better answer.

Frank pushed away from the counter, tapping his cigarette against an old ashtray. “If you need work, there’s a guy up near the mill looking for help. Pays like crap, but it’ll keep you fed.”

Jesse nodded, making a mental note. He had enough cash to last a few weeks, maybe less if he wanted to keep the heat running.

Outside, the wind shifted, rustling through the trees. It was getting dark.

Jesse ran a hand through his hair. “I’m gonna step out for a bit and get some air.”

Frank arched a brow but didn’t argue. “Suit yourself. Just watch yourself out there. The woods aren’t like they used to be.”

Jesse frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Frank hesitated. Then, with a shake of his head, he exhaled sharply. “Nothing. Just… stay out of the deep woods. People say weird things happen out there.”

Jesse smirked. “Weird like what?”

Frank didn’t return the smile. “Just be careful.”

* * * * * *

The woods were colder than Jesse remembered.

His boots crunched against fallen leaves as he followed an old path that wound behind the cabin, deeper into the trees. The sun had already dipped behind the horizon, leaving only the last streaks of red in the sky.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

Jesse pulled his jacket tighter around him. He hadn’t planned to go far, just enough to clear his head.

Then he heard it. A sound, soft at first. Distant.

Music.

He froze. It was a choir.

The voices rose and fell, weaving together in a melody so perfect it sent a chill down his spine. There were no words, only harmonies that folded into each other, wrapping around him like a slow-moving current.

Jesse turned toward the sound.

There shouldn’t be anything out here, he thought. There were no houses, schools, or churches. Just trees.

And yet, the music continued, growing clearer.

Then he saw it. Through the trees, just beyond the next ridge, a shape loomed in the darkness. A building, tall and still, its steeple barely visible against the night sky.

An old church.

Jesse’s mouth went dry.

Something inside him told him to turn back.

Instead, he took a step closer.

PART III

Jesse stepped forward, his breath clouding in the cold air. The church loomed ahead, barely visible between the trees, its silhouette stark against the deepening night. The music was louder now—unmistakably coming from inside.

The closer he got, the stranger the details became. The building should have been nothing but a ruin, abandoned for years, yet it stood intact. The wood looked aged but not rotten, the stained glass whole, though dulled with time.

His boots scuffed against the dirt as he reached the clearing. The church doors were closed, but the sound poured from within, the melody curling around him like unseen tendrils. He swallowed.

This is insane, he thought. It’s just an empty church. But even as he told himself that, his fingers twitched, itching to push open the doors, to step inside and see.

He approached slowly, boots crunching over fallen leaves. Up close, the windows revealed no holy figures, no biblical depictions—only open mouths, twisted in silent song. A shiver ran down his spine.

Jesse placed a hand on the heavy wooden door, feeling the worn grain beneath his fingertips. He hesitated, listening.

The music stopped.

His ears rang in the absence of sound, his breath unnaturally loud. Then, faintly, he heard something new—the soft creak of shifting wood, as if the floorboards inside were adjusting under someone’s weight.

He wasn’t alone.

Jesse took a step back. Just then, a breeze swept through the clearing, rattling the branches. The sound should have been normal and natural, but it wasn’t. It carried something beneath it, just at the edge of hearing—a whisper.

Jesse turned sharply, scanning the tree line. The forest was empty, and the wind died as quickly as it had come, leaving only stillness. He exhaled slowly, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. His own mind was getting the best of him. But then, just as he stepped away, something moved behind the stained-glass windows.

A figure, bathed in shadow and indistinct against the glass, stood motionless inside the church.

Then the doors creaked—just slightly.

He didn’t wait to see what would happen next. Quickly, Jesse turned and walked away. Not quite running, but not quite calm, either. He forced himself not to look back as he made his way through the trees, retracing his steps toward the cabin.

Only when he reached the porch did he realize something was wrong.

The music was still playing. It was fainter now, and still distant, but it was definitely real—and it wasn’t coming from the church anymore.

It was following him.

PART IV

Jesse woke to silence. Not the kind that came with living alone in a cabin deep in the woods. Not the kind he’d expected.

This was an absence—a void. There were no creaking floorboards or rustling leaves outside the window. No distant hum of insects. Just… nothing.

He swallowed hard, and his throat burned. His lips parted, instinctively forming a word—but no sound came out.

Jesse threw off his blankets and stood, bare feet hitting the cold floor. His mind scrambled for an explanation, but there was none. He tried again, forcing air through his throat, but it was useless. The muscles worked. His tongue moved. But the sound—his ability to speak—was gone.

His hands shook as he stumbled to the bathroom, flicking on the dim overhead light, where he was met with his own pale, wide-eyed reflection.

He opened his mouth and attempted to form words. Nothing worked.

Panic coiled in his gut. His hands shot up to his throat, fingers pressing along the skin, feeling for anything—anything—that might explain what was happening. He could still breathe and cough if he forced it, but no voice came with it.

I must be dreaming, he figured. This has to be a dream.

But it wasn’t.

His voice was gone.

His stomach lurched, and he staggered back into the bedroom, grabbing his phone from the nightstand. He dialed Frank’s number with shaking fingers and pressed the phone to his ear.

One ring. Two. Three.

“Yeah?” a voice came from the other end of the line.

Relief flooded him. Jesse tried to speak, tried to force the words out—but failed.

Frank’s voice came again, now laced with irritation. “Hello? Jesse? Is that you?”

Jesse clenched his jaw. He inhaled sharply through his nose, pressing his free hand to his forehead.

“Jesus, you butt-dial me or somethin’?” A sigh. “Alright, call me back if you need something.”

The line clicked.

Jesse’s hands curled into fists.

This couldn’t be happening.

He turned back toward the bed, pacing the small room in frantic strides. Think. There had to be an explanation. He wasn’t sick—at least, he didn’t feel sick. He hadn’t hit his head, and hadn’t been drinking.

The church.

The thought came unbidden, but the moment it entered his mind, it rooted itself there, deep and unmoving.

He had heard the choir last night and followed the sound. He’d stood outside of it.

But he hadn’t gone in—he hadn’t gone in! So why did it feel like something had gotten inside him?

A sudden knock at the door sent him whirling around.

Three slow raps—steady and measured.

He hesitated.

Another knock.

Jesse crossed the room, hesitating just before he turned the knob. He took a deep breath, and then yanked the door open.

Frank stood on the porch, squinting at him. “You look like hell.”

Jesse exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging. He stepped aside, motioning for Frank to come in. The older man gave him a wary glance as he stepped past, boots thudding against the floor.

“You didn’t answer your damn phone,” Frank said. He paused, frowning. “You alright?”

Jesse hesitated. Then, slowly, he raised his hand and tapped his throat.

Frank’s brows furrowed. “What?”

Jesse swallowed, then spread his hands in a helpless gesture. It took a second before realization dawned.

“…You can’t talk?” Frank asked.

Jesse nodded once, jaw tight.

Frank let out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s, uh—” He shook his head. “That’s not good.”

Jesse grabbed the notepad and pen from the kitchen counter and scrawled out a single word: Doctor?

Frank scratched his jaw. “Yeah, I’ll take you into town. Maybe Foster can figure out what’s wrong.”

Jesse nodded, shoving his feet into his boots.

Frank eyed him warily as they stepped outside. “You sure you didn’t catch something? Flu? Strep? I mean, you look fine, but—”

Jesse shook his head. He lifted the notepad again:

Church.

Frank’s face darkened. “…What about it?”

Jesse hesitated, then underlined the word twice.

Frank didn’t speak for a long moment. Then he exhaled sharply and started toward the truck. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I figured as much.”

* * * * * *

The drive into town was silent.

Frank didn’t press him for answers, and Jesse was grateful. He kept his eyes on the road, but Jesse could feel the tension rolling off him in waves.

The town looked the same as it had yesterday—unchanged and unaware. It made Jesse’s skin crawl.

Frank pulled up outside a squat brick building with a faded sign that read Dr. Elaine Foster, MD. He killed the engine and turned to Jesse.

“You tell her everything. Alright?”

Jesse nodded.

Inside, the waiting room was empty. A middle-aged receptionist looked up as they entered, offering a small smile. “Hey, Frank.” Her gaze flicked to Jesse. “New patient?”

Frank jerked his thumb toward him. “Lost his voice.”

Her smile faltered. “Oh.”

Dr. Elaine Foster was younger than Jesse had expected, maybe mid-forties, with sharp brown eyes and dark curls pulled into a loose ponytail. She gave him a quick once-over before motioning him into the exam room.

“So,” she said, flipping through a notepad. “Frank says you can’t speak.”

Jesse nodded.

“How long?” she asked.

He lifted a single finger.

“One day?”

Jesse nodded again. Foster hummed, setting the clipboard aside. “Any pain?”

He shook his head.

“Alright. Let’s take a look.”

She ran through a series of routine checks—tongue depressor, stethoscope, reflex tests—before stepping back with a small frown.

“Well… medically speaking, there’s nothing wrong with you.” Elaine crossed her arms. “Your throat looks fine. No swelling, no damage. Your vocal cords are intact. There’s no physical reason you shouldn’t be able to speak.”

Jesse’s stomach twisted.

Frank leaned forward. “So what, it’s all in his head?”

Elaine hesitated. “I wouldn’t say that. Selective mutism usually comes with trauma and anxiety—things like that. But this… this is sudden.” She glanced at Jesse. “Have you been under any major stress?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at her.

Elaine exhaled. “Look, if you’re not sick, then I don’t know what else to tell you. It could be neurological, but you’d need a specialist for that.”

Jesse nodded numbly.

Frank ran a hand over his face. “Great.”

Elaine hesitated. “I can give you something. Just a mild sedative to help, if it’s stress-related.”

Jesse shook his head.

She sighed. “Alright. If it doesn’t come back in a few days, let me know and we’ll figure something out.”

Jesse forced a tight smile and slid off the exam table.

As they left, Frank muttered, “Didn’t figure she’d have any answers.”

Jesse scribbled on the notepad: You knew.

Frank didn’t look at him. “I’ll tell you when we get back.”

PART V

Frank didn’t say a word on the drive back. Sitting in the truck cab, Jesse could feel something unspoken pressing between them. He tapped his fingers against his knee, eyes locked on the passing trees.

He needed answers.

When they reached the cabin, Frank pulled up and killed the engine but didn’t move. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel, his lips pressing into a thin line.

Jesse waited.

Finally, Frank sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I figured something like this would happen sooner or later,” he muttered.

Jesse turned toward him sharply, expression demanding an explanation.

Frank hesitated. Then, without another word, he climbed out of the truck.

Jesse followed him inside.

Frank poured himself a drink, took a long sip, and leaned back against the counter. “You remember that old church out in the woods?”

Jesse’s jaw tightened. He grabbed his notepad and scribbled: Yes.

Frank let out a humorless chuckle. “Of course you do.” He sighed, rubbing his temples. “Nobody talks about it much anymore, but back when I was a kid, we all knew to stay the hell away from that place.”

Jesse’s pen scratched across the paper: Why?

Frank exhaled through his nose. “Because people who went out there came back… different.”

Jesse frowned.

Frank swirled the liquid in his glass. “Some just got sick. Fevers, nightmares, weird things they couldn’t explain. But others… well, some of ‘em lost more than that.” He met Jesse’s gaze. “Some lost their voices. Just like you.”

Jesse’s chest tightened.

Frank took another sip of his drink. “There’s stories, you know. Old ones. Folks say that church had a choir—a damn good one, too. People came from miles around just to hear ‘em sing.”

Jesse raised an eyebrow.

Frank smirked. “Yeah. I know. Small-town gossip, right? But here’s the thing—one night, the singing just… stopped. Whole choir, gone. No bodies. No explanation. Just silence.”

Jesse’s hands clenched around the notepad.

“People said they must’ve left, moved on. But not long after, folks started hearing things. Music coming from the woods at night. Choir music. Beautiful, but… wrong. No words. Just voices.”

Jesse swallowed hard.

Frank set his glass down with a clink. “A few poor bastards went looking for it. Same as you.” He gestured toward Jesse’s throat. “And same as you, they didn’t talk much afterward.”

Jesse exhaled sharply through his nose, and then wrote: How do I fix this?

Frank was silent for a long moment.

Then he shook his head. “I don’t know if you can.”

Jesse’s stomach twisted.

Frank sighed. “I do know this, though. They’re looking for something. They don’t just steal voices for no reason.”

Jesse stared at him.

Frank held his gaze. “They want you to sing.”

The words sent a cold shudder through Jesse’s spine.

He grabbed the notepad again, scrawling: Then what happens?

Frank’s lips pressed into a tight line. “That’s the part nobody knows.”

A chill settled deep in Jesse’s bones.

Frank sighed. “Look, I can drive you out of town. Get you as far from here as possible. Maybe it won’t follow you.”

Jesse hesitated.

Then, slowly, he shook his head.

Frank frowned. “Kid—”

Jesse held up a hand, cutting him off. He tapped his pen against the notepad, thinking, then wrote: I have to go back.

Frank stared at him like he’d lost his damn mind. “Jesse—”

Jesse underlined the words and then jabbed the pen against the paper. If I don’t, I’ll never get my voice back.

Frank’s expression darkened. “And what if you don’t come back?”

Jesse hesitated.

Then, with slow certainty, he wrote: Then I’ll know what happened to the others.

Frank cursed under his breath. He ran a hand over his face and exhaled sharply. “Alright. If you’re dead set on this, I’m not letting you go alone.”

Jesse’s brows lifted.

Frank scowled. “Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t get yourself killed.”

A small spark of gratitude flickered in Jesse’s chest, but it was overshadowed by the dread pooling deep in his gut. Because despite everything Frank had told him, despite all the warnings, Jesse knew one thing for certain.

The choir was waiting—and they wouldn’t wait forever.

PART VI

The forest was darker than before.

Jesse wasn’t sure if it was just his imagination or if something had shifted in the woods since last night. Either way, the path felt different. The trees loomed taller, their gnarled branches stretching toward the sky like skeletal fingers. The only sound was the crunch of their boots against the frozen ground.

Frank walked beside him, shotgun slung over one shoulder, a grim set to his jaw. He hadn’t argued about bringing the gun. Maybe he knew it wouldn’t help, but Jesse could tell he felt better holding onto something solid, something real.

Jesse kept his focus ahead. The church was somewhere up ahead, hidden beyond the thick curtain of trees. His throat felt tight. Not from fear—he was past fear now. It was something else.

The silence around them was unnatural. No birds. No wind. Not even the distant hum of insects. Jesse’s stomach twisted.

The choir was waiting.

Frank exhaled sharply. “I don’t like this.”

Jesse didn’t either, but he kept walking. Before long, the trees thinned, and the church came into view.

It looked the same as before—weathered but standing, untouched by time or decay. Its stained-glass windows still depicted the same open-mouthed, faceless figures. The doors were shut, but Jesse knew that wouldn’t last.

The moment they stepped into the clearing, the singing started.

Frank stiffened. Jesse stopped.

The melody rose, drifting through the air like smoke. It curled around them, wrapping tight and pressing into Jesse’s skull. It was beautiful, painfully so, but now that he was closer—now that he was there—he could hear something beneath it. Something hollow and hungry.

Frank cursed under his breath. “Jesus.”

Jesse swallowed hard, and before his nerves could fail him, he stepped forward.

The music swelled.

Frank grabbed his arm. “Jesse—”

Jesse shook him off and kept walking. The closer he got, the heavier the air became. The ground beneath his feet felt unsteady, as if the earth itself was shifting.

The doors creaked—and slowly, painfully so, they swung open.

The church was dark inside. The shadows stretched, swallowing the entrance in thick, endless black. But Jesse could see them.

The choir.

They stood in the pews, still as stone. Their mouths were open, but no sound came out. And yet, the singing filled the air. Jesse’s skin crawled.

The choir director was there, standing at the front. He was taller than the others, his suit still pristine despite the years that should have rotted it away. His mouth gaped wider than humanly possible, his jaw unhinged like a snake’s.

He lifted a hand, beckoning—and Jesse’s legs moved on their own.

He stepped past the threshold.

Frank hissed a curse behind him, but Jesse barely heard it. The music was inside him now, pressing against his ribs, wrapping around his throat.

His voice was there—just out of reach.

He opened his mouth.

The choir waited.

And Jesse sang.

PART VII

Frank had never heard anything like it.

He stood in the open doorway of the old church, shotgun forgotten at his side, as Jesse’s voice soared into the rafters. The sound was crystalline and pure, weaving in and out of the eerie chords of the wordless choir. It was beautiful, but it was not right. Not human.

The choir stood motionless in the pews, and yet the music emanated from them, pulsing through the old wooden walls. Their mouths were open far too wide, jaws slack, eyes unblinking and fixed on Jesse as he sang.

No, Frank thought, not Jesse. Something else. Something that had taken hold of Jesse’s lost voice and twisted it into this unearthly melody.

Frank wanted to call out, to scream for his friend, to force him to stop—but something kept him pinned in place.

At the front, Jesse stood behind the pulpit, head tilted back, eyes closed. He looked both terrified and exultant, as if whatever force moved through him sent both agony and ecstasy coursing through his veins. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his fingers curled around the edge of the pulpit so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

Frank swallowed hard, trying to summon the courage to step forward. He had to do something. This was wrong—this was beyond wrong.

He forced one foot in front of the other. The floorboards groaned. The choir’s music swelled, and a sudden pressure clamped down on Frank’s lungs. He gasped, struggling to inhale. The church seemed to warp around him, the walls bending at unnatural angles. The stained-glass windows flickered with some inner glow, illuminating the grotesque, open-mouthed faces.

Jesse’s eyes snapped open, and for a moment, Frank saw something else looking out from them—something vast and ancient. A presence that seemed to regard Frank with a mixture of curiosity and indifference.

In that same instant, Jesse’s voice broke on a note too high and sharp. The music faltered.

The choir hissed as one, a rasp of air that wasn’t quite a sound. Their mouths hung open, but now Frank could see the blackness in their throats, endless tunnels leading into an abyss beyond comprehension.

Jesse tore his gaze away from Frank, and his voice caught again, straining to reach a note that shouldn’t exist. The music twisted, as though the harmony itself was splintering.

And then, abruptly, it ended.

Silence fell.

The pressure on Frank’s chest vanished, and he stumbled forward, nearly dropping the shotgun in the process. “Jesse!” he croaked, his voice rough.

Jesse stood frozen at the pulpit. His eyes were bloodshot, tears streaking down his cheeks. Slowly, he turned to Frank. Then, in a single, fluid motion, he sank to his knees.

The choir still stood, mouths open, but no song escaped their lips.

Frank set the shotgun aside and rushed to Jesse. He dropped down, grabbing Jesse’s shoulder. “Kid—”

Jesse’s lips parted, but no sound emerged. His voice—his real voice—was still gone. Yet in his eyes, there was a moment of clarity, a flicker of recognition.

Frank dared to hope, just for an instant.

Then, a low vibration rippled through the floorboards. It coursed beneath Frank’s hands, radiating from the center of the church as though something beneath the foundation was awakening.

The choir resumed their silent singing. Their eyes, hollow and unblinking, turned as one to Jesse.

Frank hauled Jesse to his feet. “We’re getting out of here!” he rasped.

Suddenly, the church doors slammed shut on their own.

Frank spun, searching for another exit, but the small windows along the sides were too high and narrow to break through easily. He grit his teeth, half-carrying, half-dragging Jesse toward the doors. With a sharp jolt, he slammed his shoulder into the heavy wood. They didn’t budge. He tried again, harder this time, but still they held firm.

A sound like splitting timber drew his gaze upward. Cracks appeared in the rafters, widening with each passing second. A rancid odor seeped into the air, something like decay and old, stagnant water. The choir director—the gaunt, tall figure that led the silent congregation—lifted a bony hand. His mouth stretched wider, revealing rows of needle-like teeth. No breath, no voice, just a gaping maw that seemed to devour the darkness around it.

Frank felt Jesse stiffen in his arms. A tremor rocked Jesse’s body, and his eyes fluttered shut. A ragged inhalation forced its way through his nostrils, and his lips parted—

He was going to sing again.

“No!” Frank shouted, his voice raw. “Don’t—!”

But it was too late.

A single note tore itself from Jesse’s throat. It was unlike any sound a human voice should produce, an echo of the choir’s eerie chord. The walls vibrated with the effort, and the stained glass exploded inward, showering the pews in shards of colored glass. The rafters groaned.

In that blinding moment, Frank felt the force behind the note—a desperate, furious roar of will. It wasn’t that ancient presence singing. It was Jesse.

The note rose, fierce and defiant, and for a moment, the choir recoiled. The director’s mouth snapped shut. Cracks spread across the walls, splintering the wood.

Frank seized the opportunity. He pushed Jesse ahead, rushing the door a final time—and it flew open.

The rush of cold night air nearly knocked them off their feet. Frank dragged Jesse out of the church and into the clearing. Behind them, the structure shuddered, timbers squealing as the steeple leaned.

The silent choir gathered in the doorway, mouths agape in soundless outrage.

Frank didn’t look back again. He kept his grip firm under Jesse’s arm, half-carrying him into the woods until the chaos behind them faded.

They made it back to the cabin before dawn, stumbling breathlessly onto the porch. Frank eased Jesse onto the old couch inside, flicking on a single lamp.

Jesse sat hunched over, face buried in his hands. After a moment, he slowly lifted his head. His eyes were distant, hollow with shock.

Frank knelt before him, hands on Jesse’s shoulders. “You’re okay,” he rasped, voice trembling with relief. “They didn’t get you.”

Jesse shook his head. His lips moved—but no sound emerged. His voice was still gone.

Frank swallowed hard. A tear slipped down Jesse’s cheek, and the older man gripped his hand. There were no words to speak, not in that moment.

They stayed like that until the sun’s first rays crept over the horizon, painting the walls of the cabin with pale light.

* * * * * *

Days later, a young hiker passing through Halewick paused on a trail deep in the forest. He cocked his head, listening. Was that… singing?

It was faint but beautiful—an a cappella choir weaving intricate harmonies with indiscernible words. The melody tugged at him, beckoning as though it had been composed just for his ears.

He followed the sound through the trees, stepping over roots and brambles until he reached the clearing.

Broken timbers jutted from the ground where the old church had stood. Splintered walls leaned precariously, and colored glass shards glittered in the undergrowth like scattered jewels. Yet the singing continued, soft and persistent, emanating from the skeletal remains of the ruined church.

The hiker lingered at the edge, abruptly overcome with inexplicable longing. Through the collapsed doorway, he glimpsed a congregation of half-shadowed figures. Before them, a single man knelt, with his head bowed and his mouth open in wordless, tortured horror.

The hiker stepped closer.

He thought he saw the man’s eyes flicker up. Saw his dark hair and his haunted expression.

Then the hiker blinked, and the figure was gone.