Carols for the Charred Choir [Wraith]
Down where the stone sweats heat instead of water and stalactites drip molten rust into rivers that never cool,
they’ve draped chains in red-hot loops across the cavern like cheap holiday garland,
hung collars and shackles like ornaments from hooked iron ribs that used to be something’s cage,
and somebody thought it would be funny to stack skulls into a crooked snowmanwith coal-black eye sockets and a grin full of other people’s teeth.
The air tastes like burnt sugar and old incense, like someone’s church caught fire and nobody bothered to put it out,
and over the crackle of pitch and bone you can hear them warming up,
a chorus of throats that forgot how to whisper centuries ago,
tongues forked or forked-up by bad decisions, lungs full of smoke and spiteas they clear them with coughs that sound like brass instruments being murdered slowly.
They call it choir practice with a straight face, which is already a joke,
because there isn’t a straight line anywhere down here—even the shadows bend around barbs,
and the sheet music is tattooed on backs that can’t quite stop shivering.
A lanky demon with horns like cracked candlesticks taps a rusted tuning fork against his own skull,
listens to the vibration echo through the cavern and grins like a bartender who’s about to overserve every sinner in the house.
He snaps his claws, and the band begrudgingly forms:drums stretched with skin that once wrote poetry,
a bass made of spine and wire that hums every time someone regrets a wedding vow,
bells forged from helmets, church bells, doorbells,
anything humans ever used to summon comfort.
“Alright, you miserable choir of regret and half-assed apologies,” he growls,“today’s set list is all about Christmas. Peace on earth. Goodwill to men.
You know, that thing they toast between online tantrums and parking lot fights for the last TV on sale.”
A ripple of laughter slinks through the pits,
low and mean, but not completely joyless—even damnation enjoys a good parody night.
First row of listeners: soldiers who died under flags they never got to question,
second row: CEOs who signed away pension plans with cheerful signatures and a charity gala grin,
back row: the ones who swore they were too broken to love anyone,
then casually ground hearts into pavement out of pure boredom.
Every one of them in chains that rattle politely as they shift,
pretending they’re not looking forward to the show.
The downbeat hits.
And the carol starts, not with gentle sopranos or snow-soft strings,
but with a wall of sound like a cathedral collapsing in perfect rhythm,
a thousand howls tuned just sharp enough to scrape the inside of your skull.
They sing of midnight mass lit by phone screens instead of candles,
of parents who wrap gifts with one hand and doom-scroll disaster with the other,
of tinsel choking the last bit of air out of credit cards rattling at max,
of kids humming cheerful jingles while learning fresh ways to hate themselvesfrom ads that call their bodies “before pictures.”
Their voices are gravel and glass,
each note a shard of memory sharpened on eternity:that time you stepped over a sleeping stranger on a winter sidewalkbecause you were late to something you don’t even remember now,
that time you meant to call back and didn’t,
that time you donated to “the poor” and then spent an hour bragging about it,
adding “lol” like a bandage.
The chorus swells.
Overhead, stalactites ring like the bells of every town square ever,
except these bells toll for the ones who smiled for family photosthen went to bed planning divorces or funerals or both.
The demons lean into the harmonies with real commitment—they may be monsters, but they’re professionals when the curtain goes up.
They belt out verses about charity drives that are really PR campaigns,
about “thoughts and prayers” tossed onto the cemetery like glitter,
about how easy it is to sing “let every heart prepare him room”while refusing to make any in your own front doorfor the neighbor whose car died and whose accent makes you nervous.
Between songs, the lead demon cracks jokes like a lounge comic.“Any first-timers tonight? Raise your chains.
Oh, there you are—fresh arrivals from the suburbs.
You’ll love our remix of ‘Silent Night,’ we left in every fight you tried to keep above a whisper.”
They roar into the next piece,
a sleigh-bell rhythm made from ankle irons and loose teeth,
a melody stolen from human radio and twisted until it limps.
You can hear your own favorite carol in it for half a secondbefore it dives straight into a key change that feels like being pushed off a rooftop.
Down front, a woman who once sang in a church choirclutches her own scorched throat,
mouth forming the old lyrics while the new ones pour over her like acid:peace on earth, starting right after the next war pays out;
joy to the world, as long as it is filtered and well lit;
goodwill to men, assuming they voted like you did.
It would be unbearable if it weren’t so darkly funny.
One demon in the back keeps missing his cuebecause he’s doubled over laughingevery time the chorus hits the line about “naughty or nice”and the ledger above pulses redfrom all the names that live in both columns at once.
They modulate again, higher now,
voices climbing like fire up a Christmas tree soaked in cheap vodka.
The cave light flickers green and red,
not from bulbs but from the reflection of flameson the envy and rage swirling inside every pair of eyes in the audience.
Then comes the quiet part,
where they almost whisper,
almost gentle,
singing about the ones who really did try,
the ones who gave too much and got eaten alive,
the ones who wrapped secondhand toys in brown paperand walked three blocks in the snow because the bus money was for bread,
the ones who stayed sober at parties to drive everyone else home.
For a heartbeat, the carol does something dangerous:it becomes beautiful.
Notes line up in aching chords that taste like the first time you realizedyou could be kind without anyone telling you to.
Even demons close their eyes for that bit,
remembering whatever they were before they fell in love with hurt.
And then—because this is not a happy place—they twist that beauty too,
turn it back on the listeners like a mirror with broken glass edges,
showing every time the world crushed those small good heartsand everyone shrugged and said “that’s life”and turned the channel to something funnier.
The last chorus hits like a hammer:a drinking song for the damned,
a singalong where every lyric is an accusation and a dare.
The cave shakes.
Ash falls like black snow.
Somewhere far above, an actual church choir misses a noteand no one knows why the organ suddenly sounds like it’s coughing.
When it’s over, the silence is thick.
Even the rivers of lava seem to hold their breath.
The lead demon bows, sweat hissing into steam on his brow.“Thank you, you’ve been a lovely crowd of cautionary tales.
We’ll be here all eternity.
Tip your tormentors.
And if you ever wonder what we’re singing on Christmas nightwhile you’re hugging each other under string lights—just listen very closelywhen the fire pops in your pretty little fireplace.
That off-key crackle?That’s us,
dueting with your conscience.”