Story 1121: Black Hymns at Dawn

The bells of Dunswich rang at dawn—though they hadn’t rung in decades.

No one lived in Dunswich anymore. Not truly.

The town had rotted from the inside, hollowed by something older than stone and hungrier than time. The windows of the chapel, once vibrant with saints and salvation, now bore only soot-stained panes. And beneath the chapel’s floorboards, the cult gathered—those who sang the black hymns.

They didn’t need instruments. They didn’t need light.

Only breath, and blood.

Only dawn.

Madame Grin arrived before sunrise. She wore black, but not for mourning. She came for answers—and a reckoning.

The tavern keeper had always known things she shouldn’t. She remembered faces from lifetimes past, heard whispers through her walls, and poured drinks for ghosts. But Dunswich? Dunswich had taken her sister.

At the chapel steps, she paused. The stone wept dew that tasted like iron.

She descended.