I heard it first in the attic. A song, soft and sweet, like children singing. But there were no children in our house. No one else heard it—not my parents, not my sister. Just me. Every night, it grew louder, closer, slipping through the walls. Last night, I followed it. The stairs groaned under my feet, and the air turned cold, like stepping into a grave. At the top, the attic door was open, just a crack. The singing stopped… and something whispered my name.
“Evelyn…”
I’m not alone up there. And whatever’s singing… it wants me to join.
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Welcome, brave souls, to Eerie Tales with Cosette, where the shadows hum forgotten tunes and the night hides secrets that beg to be heard. Light a candle, lock your doors, and join me for a tale that will chill your soul. Tonight, we step into the darkness of… The Hollow Choir.
In the autumn of 1987, thirteen-year-old Evelyn Marsh moved with her family to a decaying Victorian house on the edge of Blackthorn Village. The house was a steal, bought at auction after sitting empty for decades. The villagers whispered about it, calling it "cursed", but Evelyn’s parents, strapped for cash after a bad business deal, brushed it off as superstition. Evelyn wasn’t so sure. The house felt wrong—too quiet, too cold, with shadows that seemed to shift when no one was looking.
The first night, Evelyn lay awake in her room, the air thick with the smell of old wood and dust. That’s when she heard it: a soft, lilting melody, like a lullaby sung by children. It came from above, from the attic. She sat up, heart racing. Her sister, Lily, slept soundly across the room. Evelyn crept to the door, listening. The singing was faint but clear, a chorus of young voices weaving a tune she didn’t recognise.
She told her parents the next morning, but they heard nothing. “Old houses make noises,” her father said, sipping his coffee. “Pipes, wind, your imagination.” But Evelyn knew it wasn’t pipes. The singing came again the next night, louder and clearer, and now it carried words she couldn’t quite make out. It wasn’t English—it sounded older, like a language half-forgotten.
By the third night, curiosity overpowered her fear. She tiptoed up the narrow attic stairs, her flashlight beam trembling. The door at the top was heavy oak, carved with strange, swirling patterns that made her dizzy to look at. It was locked, but the singing seeped through, pulling her closer.
“Evelyn…” a voice whispered, clear as a bell, from the other side. She froze, her breath catching. The voice wasn’t human—it was too perfect, too hollow, like wind through a bone flute. She ran back to her room, heart pounding, and didn’t sleep.
The next day, Evelyn went to the village library, a cramped building stuffed with yellowed books. She found a local history book, its pages brittle. In 1912, the house had been an orphanage run by a woman named Sister Agnes. The children there were said to sing beautifully, their voices drawing crowds to Sunday services. But one winter, the orphanage burnt. Most of the children escaped, but seven didn’t. Their bodies were never found, and Sister Agnes disappeared. The villagers believed the house was haunted by the lost children, their songs echoing through the years.
Evelyn’s stomach churned. She hadn’t imagined the singing—it was them. That night, she stayed in her room, but the voices found her. They weren’t in the attic anymore; they were in the walls, under the floor, in the air. “Evelyn… sing with us…” they whispered, their voices weaving into a melody that made her head ache. She clapped her hands over her ears, but the sound was inside her, burrowing into her thoughts.
She tried to tell Lily, but her sister laughed it off. “You’re just freaking yourself out,” Lily said, rolling her eyes. But Evelyn noticed something: Lily hummed a tune under her breath, the same eerie melody from the attic. When Evelyn asked about it, Lily frowned, confused. “I’m not humming anything.”
Desperate, Evelyn broke into the attic the next night, using a hairpin to pick the lock. The air inside was freezing, the floor covered in ash that hadn’t been cleaned in decades. In the centre stood a cracked mirror, its frame carved with the same swirling patterns as the door. The singing was deafening now, coming from everywhere and nowhere.
Evelyn approached the mirror, her reflection distorted, her face pale and warped. But behind her reflection, she saw them—seven children, their faces grey, their eyes black hollows. They wore tattered orphanage uniforms, their mouths moving in perfect sync with the song. One stepped forward, a girl with long, matted hair. “Sing with us,” she whispered, her voice echoing in Evelyn’s skull. “You belong here.”
Evelyn screamed, stumbling back. The mirror cracked, and the singing stopped. She ran downstairs, waking her parents, begging them to leave the house. They didn’t believe her, but they boarded up the attic door, promising to call a priest in the morning.
That night, the house was silent. Evelyn thought it was over.
Evelyn woke to find her bedroom door open. Lily was gone. The humming was back, louder than ever, coming from downstairs. She followed it, her bare feet cold on the floorboards. In the living room, she found Lily standing in front of the fireplace, humming the children’s song. Her eyes were blank, her mouth moving mechanically.
“Lily, stop!” Evelyn shouted, grabbing her sister’s arm. But Lily’s skin was ice-cold, and her head turned slowly, unnaturally. Her eyes were black, like the children’s in the mirror. “They’re not gone,” Lily said, her voice layered with others, not her own. “They’re us.”
Evelyn backed away, her heart pounding. The humming filled the house now, shaking the walls. She ran to her parents’ room, but it was empty, their bed untouched. Downstairs, the front door was open, and the humming led outside.
In the yard, under a moonless sky, Evelyn saw them: her parents, Lily, and the seven children from the mirror, standing in a circle, singing. Their eyes were black, their faces wrong, like masks slipping off. But the worst part wasn’t their faces—it was hers. In the centre of the circle, Evelyn saw herself, humming with them, her own eyes black, her own mouth twisted into a hollow smile.
Evelyn tried to run, but her legs wouldn’t move. She looked down and saw ash on her hands, her clothes tattered like the children’s. The realisation hit her: she wasn’t watching the circle—she was in it. She’d been in the house before, long ago, in 1912. She wasn’t Evelyn Marsh, the new girl. She was one of the seven, trapped in the fire, bound to the house, luring others to join the choir.
The next morning, the house was silent. The Marsh family was gone, their car still in the driveway. The villagers never spoke of it, but they avoided the house. And at night, if you stood outside, you could hear it: a soft, childlike song, calling for someone new to sing along.
And so, dear listeners, beware the songs that call in the night. Some melodies are traps, and some voices never truly fade. Thank you for joining me on Eerie Tales with Cosette. Until next time… listen carefully, and keep the shadows at bay.
