Chapter 1135: Story 1135: Children of the Chant
No one rembered when the children began to sing.
It started in Wither’s Hollow, a hamlet carved into the roots of blackened pines. The villagers woke one morning to the sound of a lody carried on the wind—a haunting, wordless chant that seed to drift from nowhere and everywhere.
It was soft, like the humming of lullabies rembered from the cradle. Beautiful, even. But it stirred sothing ancient in the marrow of those who heard it.
Then the children vanished.
The first was Tilda Gray, just seven, taken from her bed in the night. No signs of struggle. No footprints. No door left open.
Just a faint trail of moss growing along her floorboards, fresh and wet despite the dry season.
By the next night, five more were gone.
And by the third night, the chanting had grown louder.
Desperate, the village elders sought the aid of Father Brannick, a traveling exorcist who had once banished an entire coven into salt.
He ca with bells, prayer scrolls, and a blade soaked in saint’s blood.
“Demons,” he said. “Or fae. Either way, they sing to steal the soul.”
He made his camp in the old chapel at the edge of the woods. That night, he tied himself to the altar and waited.
At the stroke of three, the chant began again—soft as breath.
And from the shadows of the forest, they ca.
The missing children… or what remained of them.
Their eyes glowed pale green, like swampfire. Their skin had gone gray, barklike. Moss blood along their limbs. And they were singing—mouths open in perfect unity, with voices layered beyond human pitch.
Father Brannick rang his holy bell.
The children stopped.
Then, in one perfect motion, they smiled.
The chapel windows shattered. The bells twisted in his hands. His blade bent like wax. And as the song poured from their mouths, the vines rose from the chapel floor and dragged him under.
By morning, only the chapel’s fra remained—overgrown with ivy that wept sap like tears.
Now, each dusk, the children of Wither’s Hollow erge from the forest in silent procession.
They do not speak.
They hum.
Villagers board their hos, mark doors with salt, and hide beneath beds, praying the song does not seep through the cracks.
But those who hear it too long… eventually hum back.
It’s said the song isn’t ant to harm.
It’s a call.
A liturgy for sothing older than gods or ghosts. A being that dreams in the roots of the Hollow Woods, and longs for a choir of perfect voices to wake it.
The children chant for its return.
And soon, they will not be children anymore.
If you hear the chant on the wind, do not listen.
Plug your ears.
Bite your tongue.
For once the lody enters your heart…
you will never be alone again.
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