The Beginning
Selina Voss pressed her small fingers against the cracked vinyl of her mother’s old record player, the needle skipping over a warped groove from too many late-night spins. The voice that crackled out—raw, yearning, always just a half-step from breaking—had once filled smoky clubs in the ’60s and ’70s before the crowds thinned and the bottles multiplied. By the time Selina turned nine, the house smelled only of cigarette ash and silence. She found her mother’s farewell note tucked inside the empty album sleeve.
Her father’s study was a different world: towers of books leaned like ancient obelisks, pages marked with faded ribbon. Victorian mourning jewelry glinted under lamplight—lockets of braided hair, brooches with tiny painted eyes. He’d mutter about Bijapur’s crumbling mosques or the mud of Passchendaele while Selina sat cross-legged among them, tracing illustrations of weeping willows and gaslit streets. When he disappeared into another deadline, her aunt’s curiosity shop swallowed her instead. Dust motes danced in shafts of light over glass-eyed foxes and jet beads that clicked like tiny bones. In one tarnished mirror, Selina’s reflection sometimes lingered a heartbeat too long, smiling when she did not.
At fifteen, standing beside her mother’s grave, Selina sang for the first time. Her voice carried on the wind in a way that felt unnatural — as though the air itself answered her. From that moment she was obsessed with singing. She started with covers of well-known songs but quickly moved on to writing her own.
Her father became ill when Selina was sixteen and died two years later, when she was eighteen. The loss devastated her. A year later, while driving alone and lost in grief, she had a lapse in judgment. Her car veered off a cliff not far from the place where her mother had died. Witnesses saw the crash and pulled her from the wreckage before it was too late.
When awareness returned, there was no hospital, no light. Only cool sand under her feet and a vast, starless sky pressing down like black granite. The air smelled of natron and myrrh, and distant water—sluggish, ominous. Selina looked down. She wore the same clothing from the accident. Her heart hammered. This seems like the Duat... the ancient Egyptian underworld, she thought. She had studied this place off and on.
In the Duat (Selina photoshopped herself in this visualization)
The first gate loomed: massive obsidian slabs carved with writhing serpents. A jackal-headed guardian stepped forward, taller than any man, eyes like burning coals. In life, Selina had recited Spell 144 from the Ancient Egyptian Book of the Dead out of fun and interest. Now the words rose unbidden, ancient Egyptian flowing from her tongue as naturally as English.
“I know you, Devourer of Shadows. Your name is Basti. The bolt is He Who Guards the Balance. Let me pass, for I am pure of voice.”
The guardian’s ears twitched. A long pause. Then the gates groaned open, revealing a narrow path between cavern walls that flickered with illusory flames. Selina exhaled and stepped through.
Hours blurred into what felt like days. She crossed the treacherous river on a reed boat summoned by Spell 99, bargaining with the ferryman by naming his hidden titles. She joined the solar barque for a stretch, standing beside a radiant, falcon-headed Ra as the boat plunged through the underworld’s night. Apep, the chaos serpent, thrashed nearby; Selina added her voice to the gods’ chants, hurling words of order that helped drive it back. The gods regarded her with curious amusement—a living-era soul armed with their own forgotten tongue.
At last, the path opened into the Hall of Two Truths. Torchlight flickered on walls painted with scenes she recognized from papyri. Forty-two assessor gods lined the chamber, their heads those of animals and birds, eyes judging. Osiris sat enthroned at the far end, green-skinned and serene, crook and flail in hand. The jackal-headed Anubis, sleek and black, waited beside the great golden scales.
But that wasn't all. In the corners of the room, among the assessor gods, she thought she had spotted her parents. Yet before she could react, Anubis spoke.
"You have come before your time. Return from where you came."
Selina was clinically dead for three minutes before she was revived on scene and taken to the hospital. When she woke at the hospital, she immediately asked for paper and pencil, where she wrote the song “Three Minutes in the Dark.” After her release from the hospital, she went straight to a bookstore, bought a copy of the Ancient Egyptian Book of the Dead along with several texts on Egyptian history, and began to study them obsessively.
Some parts felt like a review of what she knew before: Beginning with the god Atum, who created Shu and Tefnut, representing air and moisture. Shu and Tefnut produce Geb the earth god and Nut the sky goddess. Geb and Nut give birth to Osiris, Isis, Set and Nephthys.
Osiris ruled Egypt alongside his sister-wife Isis. He was killed and dismembered by his brother, Seth. Isis, reassembled the pieces... possibly through mummification and revived Osiris long enough to conceive their son Horus. Horus and Seth battled, with Horus as the victor, justifying the Pharaoh's rule as the living embodiment of Horus, while Osiris ruled over the Duat.
This time though it seems like other parts were coming together. The book of the dead itself was written as an amalgamation of spells designed to guide the soul through the Duat. Remembering some of those spells helped immensely. Yet had she misremembered a spell or had said it wrong, it could have led to dire consequences. There have been legends in the past of ancient mummies and skeletons who rose from the dead due to a misapplied spell. Not just in Egypt, but in other parts of the world as well.
This meant that it was possible to physically die and explore the Duat, before returning to the life.
Upon realizing this possibility, Selina made it her goal. She had tasted death and now wanted nothing more than to return to it — on her own terms, though.
She would choose the time and date and when the time came, she would not be alone. Over the span of a few months, she assembled a band that would follow her beyond the veil: Dorian “Bone Shredder” Vale on guitar, Silas “Rumble” Rook on bass, and Marcus “Rattle” Reyes on drums. The nicknames came naturally from their instruments — Bone Shredder for the way he shredded guitar like something undead, Rumble for the deep vibration of his bass, and Rattle for the sound of his drums. Together they called themselves The Band of the Dead.
Over the next seven years they became a tight unit. In exchange for teaching her how to be in a band, Selina would teach the band members Egyptian lore and spells from the Book of the Dead. During a teaching session between her and Dorian, Selina asked why he was called "Bone Shredder" and not something like "Axe Murderer", since most people use "axe" as a nickname for their guitar and "bone" for keyboard keys.
"Something in my bones helps me play the way I play," he answered. Selina was a bit confused, "Something in your bones? Like... a feeling?"
"No, the doctor says I was born with an extra radius bone in my arms," he raised his right arm up, "Feel here, just before the elbow."
When she felt his arm, it did indeed feel like there was an extra bone there, "and this helps with... what? Flexibility?"
Dorian chuckled, "You've seen what I can do. It's all thanks to these bones of mine."
Despite her new band, at times Selina would have overwhelming feelings of emptiness. It was in these years after her father’s death that the weight settled hardest on her. Even as she poured herself into music and the strange new obsessions that followed her near-death experience, the grief for her father remained a strong but private ache. Some days it showed in rehearsal: a missed cue, a voice that faltered on a high note, or simply the way she stared at nothing between songs.
Marcus, the drummer noticed.
One gray afternoon after practice, Marcus lingered while the others packed up. Selina sat on an amp, shoulders hunched, staring at the scuffed floorboards as if they might swallow her. A single tear traced the line of her jaw.
“You look like someone carrying the dead around like stones,” he said quietly.
She let it fall. “I miss them. Especially Dad. We were thick as thieves, and now… nothing.”
Marcus listened and thought for a few seconds, “Come with me this weekend. There’s a way my family remembers the dead that doesn’t feel so heavy.”
That weekend, Marcus brought her to his family’s gathering. A type of Spanish altar called an ofrenda filled a corner of the room with color and life: bright marigold flowers in fragrant chains, flickering candles, framed photos of grandparents and uncles smiling out from another world, sugar skull candies with names written in careful icing, plates of tamales and bread called pan de muerto, glasses of water and favorite drinks left out as invitations. Music played softly in the background — not somber dirges, but lively Mexican music that invited the departed to join the party.
Marcus explained it as they stood together in the warm glow. “We don’t just mourn. We celebrate. We set a place for them at the table, tell their jokes again, laugh at the stories that made us roll our eyes when they were alive. The barrier between the living and the dead thins. They’re still with us — just on the other side of the barrier.”
Selina listened, transfixed. The idea that the dead could be honored with joy instead of endless sorrow felt like a revelation. She thought of her father — the historian who had filled her childhood with tales of Victorian mourning customs and distant wars — and wondered what he would make of this vibrant welcome. For the first time in a while, the ache in her chest felt a little less like a burden and more like something she could carry lightly, at least for one night.
She didn’t stop there. The amateur scholar that she was, Selina threw herself into learning everything she could — books, conversations with Marcus’s family, quiet evenings building her own small ofrenda in the corner of her room. She added touches that felt personal: a worn copy of one of her father’s history books, a pressed flower from near her mother’s cliff, small nods to the Egyptian symbols she now carried everywhere. When the next Día de los Muertos came around, she hosted her own modest celebration. The bandmates came. They shared stories, played music, and for a few hours the line between living and remembered blurred in the candlelight. That night, she wrote the song "Dia de los Muertos". The song became their way of saying the same thing out loud on stage: the dead are not gone; they are remembered, celebrated.
The experience stayed with her. It didn’t erase the grief, but reframed it. She was no longer sad for her loss, but grateful for what they gave her — a bridge across the barrier rather than a wall.
Selina takes a selfie
Selina had been reading more than usual — stacks of her father’s old books and her own growing collection on the Victorian era, the World Wars, and especially the classics. The more she read, the more she felt the strange dislocation of time. At barely twenty-five, she sometimes caught herself thinking like someone far older, as though she walked among the figures in those pages not as a student, but as a quiet peer. She would read her dad's journals about the history of Indian cities like Bijapur and feel as though she had actually been transported there. The weight of centuries pressed on her in a way that felt almost companionable. She belonged to that long procession of storytellers and rememberers.
She brought the feeling to rehearsal one night, a restless energy in her step. The band was between sets, instruments resting. “I’ve been living in other eras so long,” she told them, “I have a new song brewing about it in my head.”
Marcus nodded slowly. Silas, ever the one to focus on music, tossed Selina her journal. “Let's get it written down.”
What followed was less a planned writing session and more a conjuring. Selina described the sensation — of standing shoulder-to-shoulder with kings and poets and forgotten soldiers, of carrying the marrow of history in her own bones. The others picked up the thread. Silas laid down a deep, resonant foundation that felt like ancient stone. Marcus gave it a slow, grinding pulse. Dorian began weaving sharp, intricate lines that cut through like flashes of insight across time.
Then Dorian hit the solo.
It started restrained, almost conversational — a dialogue with the past. But it built, layer by layer, into something epic and soaring, as though the guitar itself was reaching across centuries. The rest of the band fell quiet, letting him play. When he finally brought it back down, the warehouse space felt heavier, charged with the same timeless weight Selina had described.
By the end of that long night they had the song. They knew immediately it belonged at the end of the set — the epic closer that left everything hanging in the air. Nothing else felt right after it. “History” wasn’t just a track. It was the moment they stepped fully into the procession Selina had felt so strongly.
Over the next year, they recorded a demo of "Three Minutes in the Dark" on tape, rehearsed new material, including “Día de los Muertos” and “History”, and when they were comfortable enough, played shows. They soon made a pact: if any one of them died, the others would retrieve the body and perform the necessary ceremony so they could cross over together.
On the night of her final performance on Halloween of 1995, Selina told nobody, not even the band. Just before her performance, she purposely ate a piece of cake laced with cyanide. She got on stage and opened with “Three Minutes in the Dark,” followed by “Día de los Muertos,” and closed with “History.” During the final verse of History, she stepped forward, struck her signature pose, held the last note… and her heart stopped. She collapsed still smiling. She was pronounced dead at 11:47 p.m. She was twenty-six years old.
The band cleared the room, took her body — along with her personal possessions, including the journal she always kept with her — to a hidden sanctuary underneath the warehouse they used as band space. After reciting the rites from the Book of the Dead, they ritually ended their own lives so they could follow her.
After Death
Selina moved through the Duat with practiced ease the second time. Spells flowed from her lips like old friends: she named the guardians of each gate, calmed the serpents with the precise words of power, and bargained with the ferryman by revealing his hidden titles. The solar barque welcomed her once more; she stood beside Ra and lent her voice against Apep, driving back the chaos serpent with chants of order. The path felt almost familiar—scholarly precision carrying her far.
At last she reached the Hall of Two Truths. Torchlight danced across the painted walls. The forty-two assessors, along with her parents, watched with unblinking eyes. Osiris sat enthroned in serene green, crook and flail in hand. Anubis, sleek and jackal-headed, stood ready beside the great golden scales.
Anubis placed her heart upon one side. It pulsed with shadow, heavier than it should have been.
Selina began the Negative Confession, voice steady: “I have not lied. I have not stolen. I have not caused others to weep…”
The scale dipped sharply. The feather of Ma’at rose. Murmurs spread among the assessors. Osiris’s face remained calm, but sorrow touched his ancient eyes.
“False of voice,” Thoth intoned, recording the judgment.
Panic flared, as Selina eyed her parents. She then reached for every protective spell she had memorized. “I invoke Spell 30B!” she cried. “O my heart of my mother! Do not stand against me as a witness. Do not create opposition against me before the tribunal…”
Her heart trembled on the scale but did not lighten. The sins were real; words could not erase deeds. Ammit stirred in the shadows, monstrous form shifting—crocodile jaws, lion claws, hippopotamus bulk.
Anubis tilted his head. “The words are known, traveler, but the heart remembers truly.”
Desperation sharpened her mind. She dropped to one knee and addressed Osiris directly. “Great Lord of the West, Resurrected One—I have walked your realm with knowledge. I have aided your barque and studied your ways. If my heart is heavy, grant me the chance to learn true wisdom in the living world rather than immediate consumption. Let me prove growth where it matters most—among the living.”
The hall fell silent. This was irregular, a modern soul invoking nuance in the ancient rite. Yet the gods of Egypt valued Ma’at above rigid ritual. Osiris raised a hand, staying Ammit. After a long, weighing gaze, he nodded.
“You and your kin shall return to the land of the living, but you will not return as you once were,” Osiris declared, his voice like shifting sands. “Learn the weight of your words and deeds. Only then may the scales be weighed anew.”
Selina had a final realization as she asked, "My kin?"
Just then, the bas of Selina and her band were released. A shadowed gate opened, pulling their souls back toward their preserved bodies in the sanctuary below the warehouse. As consciousness faded from the Duat, Selina felt the pull of unfinished life—and the hard lesson that awaited...
Band of the Dead
...In the early months of 2020, they returned slowly, like surfacing from deep water.
The first thing Selina felt was confusion. Not fear — just a heavy, disoriented fog in her mind. She sat up and immediately noticed something was wrong. There was no weight to her limbs. No warmth. When she looked down, she saw only pale bone where her arms and hands should have been. She reached up and felt the smooth, empty curve of her own skull.
She didn’t panic. She simply stared.
Nearby, the others were stirring. Bone Shredder pushed himself up and flexed his skeletal fingers, the extra radius bone in his arms were now in full view. Rumble turned his head slowly, empty eye sockets scanning the room. Rattle sat up and listened to the faint clicking sound his bones made when he moved. None of them spoke right away.
They didn’t know who they were or where they were. The memory spell from the Book of the Dead was flawed. Their minds were mostly blank. But even without memories, something felt familiar and safe about being near each other. Without needing to discuss it, they stayed close as they slowly stood and looked around the dim sanctuary.
The room was old and quiet, filled with dust and strange carvings on the walls. They had clearly been here for a long time. Among their belongings were an old leather-bound journal, some dried herbs, ritual items, and a few personal effects.
Selina felt drawn to the journal. She picked it up and opened it. The very first thing she read was a note written in her own handwriting:
"To myself — if this works and I somehow come back —I’m sorry. I know this is selfish. I tried to keep going, but I couldn’t anymore. If you’re reading this, then maybe I finally got what I wanted. I hope you’re not too angry with me. I hope you understand why I did it."
Selina read the note twice. The words felt heavy and true, even though she had no memory of writing them. She closed the journal for a moment, then opened it again and began reading further. The pages slowly gave them pieces of themselves back.
They found names: Selina Voss, Dorian Vale, Silas Rook, and Marcus Reyes. Later in the journal, the nicknames appeared — Bone Shredder, Rumble, and Rattle. They tried saying the names out loud. Something about them felt right.
They learned that Selina had lost both of her parents when she was young. That she had once sung at her mother’s grave and felt the wind answer her. They found poems she had written as a teenager and lyrics for three songs: “Three Minutes in the Dark,” “Día de los Muertos,” and “History.”
They never regained full memories of their lives. Selina doesn't even remember her time in the Duat, and so doesn't remember that she's supposed to learn a great wisdom. Large parts of who they had been remained lost. But the journal gave them enough to understand the basics — who they were to each other, what they had once done together, and that they had chosen this path as a group.
Among the belongings in the room, they also found an old cassette tape. Written on the label in faded ink were the words Three Minutes in the Dark – Demo. They passed it between them carefully, but none of them had any way to play it. They didn’t even know if the tape would still work after all these years. Still, they kept it with the journal, sensing that it was important.
By the time the sun began to rise outside, they had a fragile but growing sense of who they were. They still felt confused and incomplete, but one thing had become clear: whatever had happened to them, they had done it together.
It was Bone Shredder who finally broke the long silence. His voice came out rough and hollow. “How long were we... dead?”
The question hung in the air. None of them had an answer. They looked at one another, then at the journal and the old belongings around them. For the first time, they began to understand just how much time must have passed — and how much of the world they no longer knew.
They had a lot of catching up to do.
At first they moved carefully. In the summer of 2020 they located an old storage unit on the edge of the city that had been abandoned after a flood years earlier. One night they broke in and took what they could use — a battered black guitar, a bass that only needed new strings, and enough drum hardware for Rattle to piece together a working kit. For clothes and smaller items they made do with whatever dark fabric they could find in the sanctuary and the storage unit.
By the fall of 2020, Selina was growing restless.
They had been awake for several months, but the band had barely left the sanctuary except for quick, careful supply runs at night. She missed being outside. She missed the feeling of moving through the world without constantly worrying about being seen. When Halloween approached, she decided she was going out.
She figured it was the perfect night. Everyone would be in costume. If anyone saw her, they would just assume she had an extremely realistic skeleton getup. She even put effort into her look — a long black velvet shroud, a tightly laced corset over her ribs, and a dramatic black bat-wing hat perched on her skull.
Before she left, she asked the others if they wanted to come.
Bone Shredder just shook his head.
“Too risky.”
Rumble didn’t even look up from tuning his bass.
Rattle simply said, “Have fun,” and went back to adjusting his drum kit.
So Selina went alone.
She didn’t stay in one neighborhood. She walked for blocks between houses, sometimes crossing into completely different areas so no one would notice a pattern. She visited ten houses in total, spread out across the city.
At the first house, a woman opened the door with a big smile that instantly froze when she saw Selina up close. The bowl of candy slipped from her hands and scattered across the porch. She didn’t even pick it up — she just muttered something and shut the door.
At the second house, a man in a vampire cape took one look at her and backed away so fast he tripped over his own cape. A few pieces of candy rolled off the porch as he slammed the door.
By the fourth house, Selina was starting to find it strange. She tilted her head and asked politely, “Trick or treat?” but the teenage girl who answered only stared for a second before dropping the entire bag she was holding and running back inside.
It wasn’t until the sixth house that she started laughing.
A middle-aged couple opened the door together. The woman took one look at Selina’s exposed skull and the way the bat hat sat on her bare bone, let out a short scream, and dropped her candy bowl. The man grabbed his wife and pulled her back inside so quickly he nearly fell over. Selina stood there for a moment, staring at the pile of candy now sitting on their doormat.
She bent down, picked up a few pieces, and kept walking.
By the eighth and ninth houses, she had stopped being confused and was openly amused. She started playing it up a little — giving a slow, graceful curtsy after people dropped their candy and ran. At one house, a father actually yelled “What the hell?!” before yanking his kids inside and locking the door.
By the time she returned to the sanctuary just before dawn, her velvet shroud pockets were stuffed with candy she hadn’t even asked for.
When she walked in, the others were still awake. Bone Shredder looked up from his guitar.
“You actually went?”
Selina nodded and started pulling candy out of her pockets, dropping it onto the old table in the middle of the room. She told them everything — the dropped bowls, the screams, the way people kept running the second they got a good look at her. She described the bat hat, the corset, and how one woman had looked at her like she was the actual devil showing up for candy.
For the first time in months, the four of them laughed together. Really laughed.
Rattle shook his head, still chuckling, “That’s ridiculous. You went out for candy and came back with half the neighborhood’s sugar because they were terrified of your skull-headed-self.”
Bone Shredder smirked... or would have if he had lips, “Sounds like it would make a funny song.”
Selina paused, still holding a piece of chocolate. She looked at the pile of candy on the table, then at her reflection in one of the old cracked mirrors leaning against the wall. Slowly, a smile formed across her skull.
“Yeah,” she said. “It would.”
She sat down that same night and started writing. By morning, she had most of “Mistress of the Midnight Haul” finished.
Now embracing the skeletons that they were, they also decided to rename their band "Skeleton's of Sorcery".
Selfie the band took Halloween 2020.
The First Show
The first time they performed in front of other people happened on Halloween of 2021, in an abandoned warehouse on the far edge of the industrial district.
A few nights earlier, Bone Shredder and Rumble had gone out wearing heavy black trench coats with the collars turned up. They moved quietly through the city after midnight, tacking up small, plain flyers on lampposts and the sides of boarded-up buildings. The flyers were simple and vague:
SHORT ROCK SHOW
Abandoned Warehouse – Old Industrial District
Midnight – Limited Space
Abandoned Warehouse – Old Industrial District
Midnight – Limited Space
No band name. No date beyond “this weekend.” Just enough to intrigue the right kind of people. Fourteen strangers showed up.
They arrived in small groups, murmuring to one another as they stepped through the broken doorway into the vast, dark space. Some carried flashlights. Others had brought their own candles. A low hum of curiosity and mild nervousness filled the air.
“What kind of show is this supposed to be?”
“Probably some local band trying something weird.”
“Hope it’s not performance art.”
“Probably some local band trying something weird.”
“Hope it’s not performance art.”
Then the four figures stepped out of the shadows at the far end of the warehouse.
They moved slowly, deliberately. The sound of bone against bone was faint but unmistakable beneath their dark clothing. Selina, self-conscious of her bald head, wore her long black veil. Bone Shredder’s guitar hung from a strap across his ribs. Rumble's bass looked almost too small for his large skeletal frame. Rattle carried his drumsticks loosely in one hand.
A ripple of uneasy whispers moved through the small crowd.
“Those costumes look really good…”
“Those don’t look like costumes.”
“Are they animatronics?”
“No… those are like... puppets.”
“Those don’t look like costumes.”
“Are they animatronics?”
“No… those are like... puppets.”
No one left.
Selina stepped up to the old microphone. She adjusted it once, then spoke. "Happy Halloween. We're the Skeletons of Sorcery. This song is called Mistress of the Midnight Haul"
They synced up with a "one, two, three, four" before the music began.
As soon as the first verse hit — the part about slipping on a velvet shroud and powdering her cheekbones — a few nervous laughs broke out in the crowd. By the chorus, when she sang about people dropping their candy and running in terror, the laughter grew louder and more comfortable. The song was funny, self-aware, and strangely charming. It let the audience laugh at the absurdity of what they were seeing without forcing them to confront it directly.
When the final line faded — “Trick or treat, my friends, thanks for the sweets / See you next year on these shadowy streets” — the warehouse was filled with light, scattered applause and a few people still chuckling.
Then a young man near the front called out, half-joking but clearly unsettled:
“Hey… are you guys real?”
There was some uncomfortable laughter when the question was asked. Selina tilted her head. The veil shifted.
“So we died in 1995 and woke up like this in 2020,” she said, her voice carrying easily through the space. “And if you don’t believe me...”
She placed the microphone back on its stand and as she removed her veil, stepped toward the man who had spoken, not in a threatening way, but in a revealing way. The small crowd gasped as her bones clicked softly with every step. The closer she got, the more obvious it became that there was no costume, no puppetry, no makeup, no trick of the light. The man’s smile faltered as it became clear that he was being approached by a skeleton. He took one step back, then another, until his back hit a support pillar.
The crowd whispered...
"This is not fake."
"Is this a miracle?"
"How can they talk?"
"Is this a miracle?"
"How can they talk?"
Knowing she had made her point, Selina stopped a few feet away, gave a small, graceful bow of her skull, placed her veil back on and turned to walk back to the microphone. The warehouse had gone completely silent.
She turned to the audience and announced, “This next song is called Three Minutes in the Dark.”
The mood shifted immediately. The laughter from the first song was gone. People stood very still as she sang about the car crash, the three minutes of death, and meeting Anubis. When she reached the line about her mother being somewhere past the weighing room and her father reading scrolls by lantern light, several people in the crowd had tears in their eyes. The song was raw and personal in a way none of them had expected. One person snuck a short video of the performance.
Still from video
They closed with “History.”
It was the heaviest song they had. The slow, grinding riffs and Selina’s haunting vocals filled the warehouse like smoke. By the final chorus, when she sang about dancing alone where the forgotten call and the marrow running cold, the entire room felt heavier. No one moved. When the last note faded, there was a long pause before the applause began — soft at first, then growing as people processed what they had just witnessed.
One man near the front stepped forward and left a folded hundred-dollar bill on an overturned crate before quietly slipping out.
Selina remained at the microphone for a moment. When the applause died down, she spoke again, her voice low and steady.
“We’re asking you to keep this to yourselves for now,” she said. “Please. We don’t know what would happen if more people found out about us, but I've seen Frankenstein and I don't want that for us.”
No one answered out loud.
But in the quiet that followed, something passed between the fourteen people standing in the dark warehouse. A silent understanding. They had seen something impossible, and they had all felt it.
Before anyone left, Rattle brought out a simple clipboard with a sheet of paper and a pen. He passed it around without saying much. One by one, people quietly wrote down their email addresses so they could be contacted about the next show. No one hesitated. It felt less like signing up for a mailing list and more like sealing the unspoken agreement they had just made.
The one person who took video during the show decided they wouldn't post the video online.
No one posted anything.
And every single person who had been there that night came back the next time they were invited.
No one posted anything.
And every single person who had been there that night came back the next time they were invited.
Last night’s show still hung in the air — the faint smell of sweat and stage smoke, a few cables left where they’d been dropped, the low stage still set up like it was waiting for an encore that wouldn’t come until the next time they could risk gathering this many people.
Bone Shredder was half-asleep on the old couch again. Rumble sat on a stool near the drum kit, slowly working through a mug of coffee that had gone cold. Rattle was reading a book on Egyptian history. Selina, now going by "Skullet", had just returned from a quick supply run when she noticed it.
A package sat on the low altar table near the stage. It hadn’t been there when they’d finally crashed a few hours ago. It was wrapped in aged-looking parchment, tied with simple twine, and bore no address, no stamp, no name. Just a small, heavy-looking box.
She stopped in the middle of the room, “…Guys.”
The others looked up. Rattle was the first to stand. “That wasn’t there last night.” Bone Shredder pushed himself upright, squinting. “You sure?”
“I’m sure,” Skullet said quietly.
She approached the table slowly. The parchment crinkled softly when she touched it. There was no sense of danger — no cold spot, no low hum of warning — just… presence. Like something had been placed here deliberately. She untied the twine and unfolded the wrapping.
Inside was a small, ornate wooden box. When she lifted the lid, the hinges gave a soft, well-oiled creak. Resting on dark velvet was a silver locket. It was shaped like a crescent moon cradling a star, simple but beautifully made. The chain was fine but sturdy. A small folded piece of parchment lay beside it.
Skullet picked up the note first. The handwriting was elegant, old-fashioned, and brief:
“For the one who sings the old songs anew. Wear it when the veil thins. The clan remembers its own.”
No signature. No explanation.
She turned the locket over in her fingers. It was heavier than it looked. The metal felt warm against her bones even though it had been sitting in the cool morning air. Bone Shredder leaned over her shoulder blade. “Okay. That’s definitely not normal mail.” Rumble had come closer too. “No return address. No nothing.”
Rattle crossed his arms. “You gonna open it or just stare at it?” Skullet didn’t answer right away. She ran her thumb along the edge of the crescent. Something about it felt… familiar in a way she couldn’t name. Not dangerous. Just right. After a moment, she slipped the chain over her head.
The locket settled against her sternum with a soft, quiet weight. She touched it once, then let her hand fall.
“It’s nice,” she said finally. “I’m keeping it.”
Rumble metaphorically raised an eyebrow. “You’re not even a little weirded out?” Skullet glanced down at the pendant, then back at the three of them.
“Everything about us is weird,” she said with a small shrug. “This one just happens to be pretty.”
She turned and walked toward her desk to start researching more, the silver crescent-and-star resting quietly against her chest like it had always belonged there. None of them noticed the way the metal seemed to catch the morning light a little too warmly.
Not yet.
Not yet.
The Rise
In the weeks after their first show, the band moved carefully. They had tasted what it felt like to play for living people again, and the hunger to do it more often was difficult to ignore. But they were still learning how to exist in this new form. Contacting outsiders felt dangerous.
Selina chose two men from that first small audience to contact for favors. Both had watched the performance with a quiet intensity rather than fear. Alex Macron was the first she reached out to. He worked with old recording equipment and had quietly offered, after the show, to help if they ever needed anything technical. Sam Hale was the second.
The meeting started awkward. Both men were to be at the warehouse where they played their first concert. A trap door opened in front of them and out came one of the skeletons - they guessed Skullet due to her dress. She slowly approached them, "Alex and Sam?"
"Yeah, that's me. I mean... I'm Sam," he offered a handshake, while Alex stared. Skullet took Sam hand, while addressing Alex, "If you have any questions, I'm open to them. I want you guys to feel comfortable here."
With Skullet's permission, Alex finally spoke, "How are you alive?"
"We don't quite know," she admitted.
At first the favors were small. Alex picked up strings and drum heads from a music store that stayed open late. Sam mailed a few carefully worded letters to old contacts Selina still remembered from before. They never asked questions, and the band never offered more than they had to. Trust built slowly, one errand at a time.
One night Alex arrived at the sanctuary with an old portable cassette player and a laptop. “I can get that demo onto something you can actually use,” he said. Selina hesitated, then handed over the battered tape labeled Three Minutes in the Dark – Demo. Alex worked quietly in the corner while the others watched. When he played it back through his laptop speakers, the raw quality filled the room. Selina’s voice sounded younger, thinner, more human. The instruments were imperfect. There was tape hiss and the occasional click of a button being pressed too hard.
Bone Shredder tilted his skull. “It sounds like us. Before.” They decided to keep it exactly as it was. No polished re-recording. The grit belonged on the album.
Word spread in the smallest possible circles. Two women joined the trusted few. Sophia Lang handled quiet outreach through old message boards and zine networks that still existed in the corners of the internet. Harper DePaul helped with the practical side — scouting empty warehouses and making sure no one lingered too long after shows. Both understood the rules without being told: no photos, no names, no explanations. The secrecy was absolute.
They played again. A larger but still private show in an abandoned warehouse on the edge of the industrial district. Then a cemetery at midnight, the band set up between headstones while a handful of invited listeners stood in the dark. One night they performed in the back room of a twenty-four-hour occult bookstore. The owner never asked why four skeletons needed the space. He simply locked the front door and let them play until dawn.
As the shows continued, the band grew restless in the sanctuary that kept them hidden away since 1995. Sam Hale solved that problem. He owned a small house with a garage and offered them the entire bottom floor. It was modest, but it had space. They moved in under cover of night. New clothes arrived — dark fabrics that fit over bone without looking ridiculous. New instruments followed, better than the scavenged ones. They even have a laptop now with full recording and mixing software. For the first time since waking, they had something that felt like a home.
The band rehearsing in their new garage space.
It was in that garage that “Eternal Procession” was written. The song came slowly at first, then all at once one long night. Selina sang the first lines while the others built the rhythm beneath her. It felt like movement. Like a long line of the dead walking forward instead of staying buried.
Months passed in that rhythm. Shows. Rehearsal. Quiet nights in the house. The small circle of fans grew by one or two at a time, always carefully chosen. Sophia and Harper kept the network tight. Alex continued handling anything that needed digitizing or technical work. Sam made sure they had what they needed to keep playing.
A music journalist eventually found a way to reach them. The interview happened over the phone. Selina answered the questions while the others listened in silence. The journalist sounded intrigued and slightly frustrated by how little they were willing to reveal. When the call ended, Bone Shredder said what they were all thinking: “He knows we’re hiding something.”
They let the matter sit. There were still shows to play.
It took Sean Freeman longer than he expected to get through to them. He had attended one of the graveyard performances and recognized what he was seeing. But the band’s small circle of protectors was effective. Messages went unanswered. Offers were politely declined by the fans acting as intermediaries. Freeman was persistent. Eventually, through Alex, a meeting was arranged.
They met in the garage of the house. Sean Freeman was older than they had expected at 43, with sharp eyes and the calm demeanor of someone who had seen stranger things than four skeletons making music. He laid out what he wanted: a proper release. Distribution. A music video. Everybody makes money. Everybody wins. The band listened without interrupting.
When he finished, Selina looked at the others. They had one sticking point though, "If we come out as... supernatural, what would the government or whoever do to us?"
"Nothing if you got the money and fans to fight back against them," Freeman confidently assured them.
With that, Bone Shredder gave a small nod. Rumble and Rattle did the same.
They signed.
Skeletons of Sorcery and their new manager, 2026.
After the papers were put away, Freeman leaned back in his chair. “You need a Halloween anthem for a Halloween album,” he said. “Something that feels like the whole thing at once.”
They wrote “Rise Up” in three nights.
It came out fierce and anthemic, the kind of song that made even the dead want to move. Freeman listened to the finished track once and immediately started making calls. A music video was greenlit before the week was out.
Promotional photo
For the first time since they had woken in the sanctuary, the future felt less like survival and more like something they were building on purpose. The Halloween EP, due out in September 2026.
Skullet has never been happier.
The Lyrics
Album Cover
Lyrics to "Rise Up"
In the crypts where the old gods sleep
I live again on All Hallows' Eve
From the broken sarcophagus of forgotten kings
I pierce the seal with my ancient fangs
Dust of empires coats my velvet cloak
Many centuries in the grave, now I invoke
The moon bleeds red on ruined stone
Whispers of the damned call me home
No more hiding in the modern light
Tonight the veil is torn, I own the night
Feel the hunger, hear the chains unwind
The blood of ages flows through space and time
Old curses wake, the earth begins to crack
Ancient hauntings never coming back
Skeletons of sorcery Rise up from the clay
Monsters of the elder dark, come out and play
Vampires, wolves, and things that crawl
We own this Halloween, we take it all
Dance in the graveyard, scream into the void
The ancient ones are here, your souls are our toys
Thriller in the crypts, no escape, no plea
Join the legion of the dead eternally
I call the pack, werewolves howl under blood moons old
Zombies shamble from barrows lined with fool's gold
Wraiths of witches burned in Salem's flame
Ghosts of pharaohs screaming out my name
Frankensteins bastard child stalks the mist
Banshees wail with lips that time has kissed
Demons crawl from rifts in Babylon's wall
Every nightmare answers when the vampire calls
In the ruins where the Druids carved their runes
Where the Necronomicon sealed it's dooms
I am the prince of shadows, lord of the lost
Feasting on fear at any cost
Skeletons of sorcery Rise up from the clay
Monsters of the elder dark, come out and play
Vampires, wolves, and things that crawl
We own this Halloween, we take it all
Dance in the graveyard, scream into the void
The ancient ones are here, your soul's been voided
Thriller in the crypts, no escape, no plea
Join the legion of the dead eternally
Forever in the ancient night
Skeletons of sorcery
We own the fight
Happy Halloween eternal
I live again on All Hallows' Eve
From the broken sarcophagus of forgotten kings
I pierce the seal with my ancient fangs
Dust of empires coats my velvet cloak
Many centuries in the grave, now I invoke
The moon bleeds red on ruined stone
Whispers of the damned call me home
No more hiding in the modern light
Tonight the veil is torn, I own the night
Feel the hunger, hear the chains unwind
The blood of ages flows through space and time
Old curses wake, the earth begins to crack
Ancient hauntings never coming back
Skeletons of sorcery Rise up from the clay
Monsters of the elder dark, come out and play
Vampires, wolves, and things that crawl
We own this Halloween, we take it all
Dance in the graveyard, scream into the void
The ancient ones are here, your souls are our toys
Thriller in the crypts, no escape, no plea
Join the legion of the dead eternally
I call the pack, werewolves howl under blood moons old
Zombies shamble from barrows lined with fool's gold
Wraiths of witches burned in Salem's flame
Ghosts of pharaohs screaming out my name
Frankensteins bastard child stalks the mist
Banshees wail with lips that time has kissed
Demons crawl from rifts in Babylon's wall
Every nightmare answers when the vampire calls
In the ruins where the Druids carved their runes
Where the Necronomicon sealed it's dooms
I am the prince of shadows, lord of the lost
Feasting on fear at any cost
Skeletons of sorcery Rise up from the clay
Monsters of the elder dark, come out and play
Vampires, wolves, and things that crawl
We own this Halloween, we take it all
Dance in the graveyard, scream into the void
The ancient ones are here, your soul's been voided
Thriller in the crypts, no escape, no plea
Join the legion of the dead eternally
Forever in the ancient night
Skeletons of sorcery
We own the fight
Happy Halloween eternal
Lyrics to "Dia de los Muertos"
I'm the young daughter lighting candles in the night
Building the altar with photos shining bright
Marigold petals guide your spirit through the veil
Pan de muerto, sugar skulls, and copal that never fails
Old and ancient hauntings walk the family road
Generations rising from the grave in colorful code
This is Dia de los Muertos, the day the dead return
We celebrate their lives with fire and song that burns
Feel the joy in the darkness, hear the old souls call
They're not gone forever, they're just beyond the wall
Copal smoke is rising, the ofrenda's dressed in gold
Ancient family hauntings warm against the cold
Dancing skeletons, Calaveras come alive
Father's bones are laughing, we're dancing side by side
Dia de los Muertos, we honor and rejoice
Dead relatives returning, we lift up every voice
Sugar skulls are smiling, marigolds light the way
Ancient hauntings party till the break of day
Reunited in the graveyard, hearts forever tied
Papa, I'm so excited, welcome home tonight
I see your skeleton dancing in the candle flame
Wearing flowers in your bones, calling out my name
Aunties, uncles, abuelos all in festive dress
Skeletons of sorcery turning grief to happiness
We feast and sing the old corridos loud and proud
Paint our faces like calaveras in a joyful crowd
Your spirit rides the breeze across the family shrine
Old hauntings of our bloodline, forever yours and mine
In the land of the remembered, where the ancients play
You're not lost, dear Papa, you never went away
We celebrate the crossing, the love that never dies
Skeletons united under starlit skies
Dancing skeletons, Calaveras come alive
Father's bones are laughing, we're dancing side by side
Dia de los Muertos, we honor and rejoice
Dead relatives returning, we lift up every voice
Sugar skulls are smiling, marigolds light the way
Ancient hauntings party till the break of day
Reunited in the graveyard, hearts forever tied
Papa, I'm so excited, welcome home tonight
Building the altar with photos shining bright
Marigold petals guide your spirit through the veil
Pan de muerto, sugar skulls, and copal that never fails
Old and ancient hauntings walk the family road
Generations rising from the grave in colorful code
This is Dia de los Muertos, the day the dead return
We celebrate their lives with fire and song that burns
Feel the joy in the darkness, hear the old souls call
They're not gone forever, they're just beyond the wall
Copal smoke is rising, the ofrenda's dressed in gold
Ancient family hauntings warm against the cold
Dancing skeletons, Calaveras come alive
Father's bones are laughing, we're dancing side by side
Dia de los Muertos, we honor and rejoice
Dead relatives returning, we lift up every voice
Sugar skulls are smiling, marigolds light the way
Ancient hauntings party till the break of day
Reunited in the graveyard, hearts forever tied
Papa, I'm so excited, welcome home tonight
I see your skeleton dancing in the candle flame
Wearing flowers in your bones, calling out my name
Aunties, uncles, abuelos all in festive dress
Skeletons of sorcery turning grief to happiness
We feast and sing the old corridos loud and proud
Paint our faces like calaveras in a joyful crowd
Your spirit rides the breeze across the family shrine
Old hauntings of our bloodline, forever yours and mine
In the land of the remembered, where the ancients play
You're not lost, dear Papa, you never went away
We celebrate the crossing, the love that never dies
Skeletons united under starlit skies
Dancing skeletons, Calaveras come alive
Father's bones are laughing, we're dancing side by side
Dia de los Muertos, we honor and rejoice
Dead relatives returning, we lift up every voice
Sugar skulls are smiling, marigolds light the way
Ancient hauntings party till the break of day
Reunited in the graveyard, hearts forever tied
Papa, I'm so excited, welcome home tonight
Lyrics to "Mistress of the Midnight Haul"
Under the blood moon glow, I slipped on my velvet shroud
Laced up the corset to my ribs, powdered my cheek bones all around
That big black bat hat perched high, wings spread wide and proud
Time to own this haunted night, strut these empty streets aloud
Door after door creaks open, smiles turn to screams
Bags hit the porch, feet start running like bad dreams
Kids in capes and parents pale, with babies it varies
I wanted some candy, but I guess my dress is scary
They run, they run, dropping sweets in their flight
Chocolates and candy abandoned in the night
I'm the dark mistress, queen of the fright
But the candy's all mine, what a glorious sight
Haha, trick or treat, More like trick and retreat
Left me a mountain of sugar in the street
This outfit's too powerful, cloak swirling like smoke
Maybe the bat hat's the problem, too bold a joke
I lift it off slow, give my skull a little shake
Bow to the crowd with a gracious, bony grace
Now the panic's exploding, eyes wide as dinner plates
Moms scoop up their toddlers, dads dropping their own weight
What the hell did I do, Was it the dress or the pose
I'm just here for the sugar, under these moonlit woes
They run, they run, dropping sweets in their flight
Chocolates and candy abandoned in the night
I'm the dark mistress, queen of the fright
But the candy's all mine, what a glorious sight
Haha, trick or treat, More like trick and retreat
Left me a mountain of sugar in the street
I tilt my head, confused, rattling in the breeze
Why do they flee from my elegant sleeves
No mask, no paint, just me in the dark
Yet the porch lights go black and they vanish like sparks
They ran, they ran, but the haul's overflowing high
Piles of chocolate stretching under the sky
Dark mistress wins again, no need to ask why
Best Halloween ever, I'm floating ten feet high
Trick or treat, my friends, thanks for the sweets
See you next year on these shadowy streets
Laced up the corset to my ribs, powdered my cheek bones all around
That big black bat hat perched high, wings spread wide and proud
Time to own this haunted night, strut these empty streets aloud
Door after door creaks open, smiles turn to screams
Bags hit the porch, feet start running like bad dreams
Kids in capes and parents pale, with babies it varies
I wanted some candy, but I guess my dress is scary
They run, they run, dropping sweets in their flight
Chocolates and candy abandoned in the night
I'm the dark mistress, queen of the fright
But the candy's all mine, what a glorious sight
Haha, trick or treat, More like trick and retreat
Left me a mountain of sugar in the street
This outfit's too powerful, cloak swirling like smoke
Maybe the bat hat's the problem, too bold a joke
I lift it off slow, give my skull a little shake
Bow to the crowd with a gracious, bony grace
Now the panic's exploding, eyes wide as dinner plates
Moms scoop up their toddlers, dads dropping their own weight
What the hell did I do, Was it the dress or the pose
I'm just here for the sugar, under these moonlit woes
They run, they run, dropping sweets in their flight
Chocolates and candy abandoned in the night
I'm the dark mistress, queen of the fright
But the candy's all mine, what a glorious sight
Haha, trick or treat, More like trick and retreat
Left me a mountain of sugar in the street
I tilt my head, confused, rattling in the breeze
Why do they flee from my elegant sleeves
No mask, no paint, just me in the dark
Yet the porch lights go black and they vanish like sparks
They ran, they ran, but the haul's overflowing high
Piles of chocolate stretching under the sky
Dark mistress wins again, no need to ask why
Best Halloween ever, I'm floating ten feet high
Trick or treat, my friends, thanks for the sweets
See you next year on these shadowy streets
Lyrics to "Three Minutes in the Dark"
Car lights spinning on the rain-soaked road
Wheels left the edge, no time to scream
Metal screamed, then everything went cold
Fell into a silence like a dream
Heart stopped beating, clocks forgot to turn
Three minutes flat, but it felt like years
I walked where the living souls don't burn
Chasing voices I haven't heard in years
Three minutes in the dark, I saw the other side
Black water, silent statues, jackal eyes so wide
He looked right through me, said "Not yet, your time"
Three minutes in the dark then they sent me back alive
River ran so slow, no stars above
Great stones watched me like they always knew
Golden scales and feathers made of love
A voice like thunder whispered what was true
Mom was somewhere past the weighing room
Dad was reading scrolls by lantern light
I reached out for them through the gloom
But the jackal shook his head, said "Not tonight"
Three minutes in the dark, I saw the other side
Black water, silent statues, jackal eyes so wide
He looked right through me, said "Not yet, your time"
Three minutes in the dark then they sent me back alive
Woke up coughing on the hospital bed
Sirens fading, lights too sharp and clean
First thing that I did was grab a pen
Scratched these words like I'd never breathed
I know the Duat waits with open arms
I know I'll see them when my time is due
But tonight I'm still alive with bleeding palms
Singing to the dark it sang back too
Three minutes in the dark, I saw the other side
Black water, silent statues, jackal eyes so wide
He looked right through me, said "Not yet, your time"
Three minutes in the dark
I'm still here still singing still alive
Wheels left the edge, no time to scream
Metal screamed, then everything went cold
Fell into a silence like a dream
Heart stopped beating, clocks forgot to turn
Three minutes flat, but it felt like years
I walked where the living souls don't burn
Chasing voices I haven't heard in years
Three minutes in the dark, I saw the other side
Black water, silent statues, jackal eyes so wide
He looked right through me, said "Not yet, your time"
Three minutes in the dark then they sent me back alive
River ran so slow, no stars above
Great stones watched me like they always knew
Golden scales and feathers made of love
A voice like thunder whispered what was true
Mom was somewhere past the weighing room
Dad was reading scrolls by lantern light
I reached out for them through the gloom
But the jackal shook his head, said "Not tonight"
Three minutes in the dark, I saw the other side
Black water, silent statues, jackal eyes so wide
He looked right through me, said "Not yet, your time"
Three minutes in the dark then they sent me back alive
Woke up coughing on the hospital bed
Sirens fading, lights too sharp and clean
First thing that I did was grab a pen
Scratched these words like I'd never breathed
I know the Duat waits with open arms
I know I'll see them when my time is due
But tonight I'm still alive with bleeding palms
Singing to the dark it sang back too
Three minutes in the dark, I saw the other side
Black water, silent statues, jackal eyes so wide
He looked right through me, said "Not yet, your time"
Three minutes in the dark
I'm still here still singing still alive
Lyrics to "Eternal Procession"
Lanterns flicker where the streetlights fail
Pumpkin grins light the winding trail
Costumes peel and the zombies rise
Whispers turn to a thousand sighs
Footsteps echo through the hollow dark
Something ancient calls us to embark
Shadows lengthen, the veil grows thin
The night invites us to begin
We march in the Eternal Procession
Bones and velvet, smoke and flame
All Hallows' never sees the morning
The night remembers every name
Eternal Procession
Hear the music cut the veil
Come and dance where the shadows wail
Candy wrappers turn to autumn leaves
Laughter mixes with the wind that grieves
Masks fall away but the faces stay
The old ones walk beside us on this eve
No dawn to break this endless spell
In the darkness we know so well
We march in the Eternal Procession
Bones and velvet, smoke and flame
All Hallows' never sees the morning
The night remembers every name
Eternal Procession
Hear the music cut the veil
Come and dance where the shadows wail
No end in sight to the candle glow
The hourglass frozen, the embers low
We rattle on through the thinning line
Where every ending tastes like wine
We march in the Eternal Procession
Bones and velvet, smoke and flame
All Hallows' never sees the morning
The night remembers every name
Eternal Procession
Let the music never pale
We are the night we are the tale
Eternal procession
Keep marching
Pumpkin grins light the winding trail
Costumes peel and the zombies rise
Whispers turn to a thousand sighs
Footsteps echo through the hollow dark
Something ancient calls us to embark
Shadows lengthen, the veil grows thin
The night invites us to begin
We march in the Eternal Procession
Bones and velvet, smoke and flame
All Hallows' never sees the morning
The night remembers every name
Eternal Procession
Hear the music cut the veil
Come and dance where the shadows wail
Candy wrappers turn to autumn leaves
Laughter mixes with the wind that grieves
Masks fall away but the faces stay
The old ones walk beside us on this eve
No dawn to break this endless spell
In the darkness we know so well
We march in the Eternal Procession
Bones and velvet, smoke and flame
All Hallows' never sees the morning
The night remembers every name
Eternal Procession
Hear the music cut the veil
Come and dance where the shadows wail
No end in sight to the candle glow
The hourglass frozen, the embers low
We rattle on through the thinning line
Where every ending tastes like wine
We march in the Eternal Procession
Bones and velvet, smoke and flame
All Hallows' never sees the morning
The night remembers every name
Eternal Procession
Let the music never pale
We are the night we are the tale
Eternal procession
Keep marching
Lyrics to "History"
In candlelight, I trace the crumbling stone
A young heart pounding where the elders roamed
The portraits whisper secrets from the wall
Their hollow gazes pull me into thrall
Dust of empires clings like second skin
I peel back layers, let the darkness in
No turning back from what the ages hide
The grinning relics stir where shadows bide
Ribbons of the past unwind so slow
Clattering echoes in the undertow
Oh, history's deep, it bites into my soul
Ancient hauntings claim their bloody toll
I'm learning now, the smoke is clearing anew
Bare-boned truths in the midnight hue
Gothic winds howl through the fractured halls
I dance alone where the forgotten call
Deeper, darker, the marrow runs cold
History's curse in stories retold
Beneath the crypts where Roman legions fell
I hear the legions' final, rattling knell
Medieval towers drip with alchemist's regret
Mummies' curses coil in the sand-worn debt
A lover's pact from plague-ravaged years
Ivory promises drowned in silent tears
The family crest cracks with every breath
Revealing depths that flirt with living death
Threads of time unravel in my veins
Grinning remnants drive me near insane
Oh, history's deep, it bites into my soul
Ancient hauntings claim their bloody toll
I'm learning now, the smoke is clearing anew
Bare-boned truths in the midnight hue
Gothic winds howl through the fractured halls
I dance alone where the forgotten call
Deeper, darker, the marrow runs cold
History's curse in stories retold
What am I, but a vessel for their rage
Young eyes wide in this eternal cage
The ossuary laughs in whispered rhyme
Pulling me under through the sands of time
I won't break! I won't flee the night
These ancient bones ignite my fight
Oh, history's deep, it devours my soul
Ancient hauntings make the broken whole
I've learned too much, the smoke is clearing anew
Bare-boned fury in eternal rust
Gothic storms rage through my trembling frame
I am the echo, I am the flame
Deeper, darker, forever I'll roam
In the marrow of the unknown
A young heart pounding where the elders roamed
The portraits whisper secrets from the wall
Their hollow gazes pull me into thrall
Dust of empires clings like second skin
I peel back layers, let the darkness in
No turning back from what the ages hide
The grinning relics stir where shadows bide
Ribbons of the past unwind so slow
Clattering echoes in the undertow
Oh, history's deep, it bites into my soul
Ancient hauntings claim their bloody toll
I'm learning now, the smoke is clearing anew
Bare-boned truths in the midnight hue
Gothic winds howl through the fractured halls
I dance alone where the forgotten call
Deeper, darker, the marrow runs cold
History's curse in stories retold
Beneath the crypts where Roman legions fell
I hear the legions' final, rattling knell
Medieval towers drip with alchemist's regret
Mummies' curses coil in the sand-worn debt
A lover's pact from plague-ravaged years
Ivory promises drowned in silent tears
The family crest cracks with every breath
Revealing depths that flirt with living death
Threads of time unravel in my veins
Grinning remnants drive me near insane
Oh, history's deep, it bites into my soul
Ancient hauntings claim their bloody toll
I'm learning now, the smoke is clearing anew
Bare-boned truths in the midnight hue
Gothic winds howl through the fractured halls
I dance alone where the forgotten call
Deeper, darker, the marrow runs cold
History's curse in stories retold
What am I, but a vessel for their rage
Young eyes wide in this eternal cage
The ossuary laughs in whispered rhyme
Pulling me under through the sands of time
I won't break! I won't flee the night
These ancient bones ignite my fight
Oh, history's deep, it devours my soul
Ancient hauntings make the broken whole
I've learned too much, the smoke is clearing anew
Bare-boned fury in eternal rust
Gothic storms rage through my trembling frame
I am the echo, I am the flame
Deeper, darker, forever I'll roam
In the marrow of the unknown