Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

They gathered when the moon turned to bone.

Not in song or in scream—but in unison, mouths wide, throats open, eyes empty. The Hollow Ones had no flesh, no voices, no true names. They were vessels, sculpted from ash and bone, each marked by the Spiral carved deep into the place where a face should be.

Their Choir rose beneath the ruins of Greybridge Cathedral.

It was never built to praise the divine—it was always a tuning fork for the forgotten. Every brick vibrated with memory, every shattered stained-glass window a shard of reverence warped.

And on that night, the Choir began to hum.

But no sound came.

Still, the city felt it.

Windows cracked. Teeth ached. Blood wept from stone. The silence was no longer peaceful—it was pressurized, heavy, resonant. As if the absence of sound had grown claws.

Eloen Marr returned, drawn by the pull of the Vault. Her voice was still gone, but the spiral on her tongue glowed now—softly, pulsing like a heartbeat.

She was no longer fully herself.

But she remembered enough.

She descended into the broken earth with only a mirror and a lantern of blackened glass. The Choir's call—soundless but constant—grew stronger with each step.

Below, beneath a hundred layers of ancient stone, she found them.

Dozens of figures in perfect stillness. The Hollow Ones. No eyes. No ears. Only mouths, agape, reaching toward a monolith of living bone, its surface carved with sigils that twitched when observed.

This was the Mouth That Waits—a remnant god, banished beneath the world, fed by silence, worshipped through forgotten songs never sung aloud.

The Hollow Ones were its choir.

And they were preparing to sing again.

Eloen placed the mirror at the base of the monolith. The Spiral reflected in it spun slowly, impossibly, against the laws of nature.

A face emerged in the bone.

Not hers.

Not anyone's.

It whispered without lips, and the Choir moved.

Their mouths trembled.

Their bodies rose.

Their song began.

Not a sound passed their lips. But buildings above collapsed. Forests withered. Children in distant villages awoke screaming from dreams they could not describe. The wind died. The oceans stilled.

The world tilted, just slightly, imperceptibly—wrong.

The Spiral had begun to sing back.

Eloen, caught between humanity and the divine absence, did not run. She offered herself—willingly. Her body dissolved into cinders. Her spiral-marked soul joined the Choir, taking the center. The Choirmistress of the Hollow Ones.

And in that moment, the Mouth That Waits smiled—not with joy, but with hunger.

Its Choir sang not to soothe, but to unmake.

If you hear nothing for a moment too long…

If silence stretches unnaturally between breaths…

If mirrors begin to fog without cause…

Then the Choir is near.

And the Spiral has found you.