Good Neighbours

The carollers come at midnight on June 25. Like every year, the whole town had gone silent, waiting for the familiar thud of heavy boots on pavement. They appeared where they always did, on the Fern Street hill. They marched through town in their signature formation: three rows of three, all clad in black cloaks and heavy hoods. 

Each carried a single, unlit candle; black wax melted in heavy threads down the sides. 

Everyone had locked their doors and drawn their curtains, but faces peeked through the windows anyway; the children always let curiosity win. 

Anna Merrit didn’t look outside. The carollers had stopped outside her best friend’s house five years ago; they didn’t deserve her attention or her fear. 

And yet, she couldn’t stop the ice that sprinted through her veins when the procession of footsteps stopped at the end of her driveway. She shot up from the couch when the singing began, closer than she’d ever heard before. A high-pitched, haunting melody that should have been beautiful. 

Her hands flew to her ears. “No! It can’t be me! Why? It’s not fair!” 

She grabbed the shotgun from her console table. Fingers numb and tingling from adrenaline overload, she turned the doorknob and threw open the door. She raised the gun and fired until it was empty. Light peeked out of more windows as her neighbours investigated the commotion.

The carollers didn’t budge. Anna screamed, reached for a new box, reloaded, and fired again. Their heavy black boots remained rooted in place. Enticing voices erupted from the black voids, harmonizing in a strange language. 

Anna had gone through her entire stock of ammunition by the time they reached the end of the foreign song. They turned slowly and began their trek back up the hill, a more familiar tune accompanying their departure: 

Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel 

The last syllables stretched longer than any normal person could be expected to hold a note. 

Anna slammed her door and sank to the floor. She catapulted the gun across the hall and flinched when it ricocheted off the kitchen doorframe. 

Her face fell into her palms as she tried desperately to slow her breathing. 

Finally able to stand, she locked the door again, determined to pretend that her neighbours weren’t waiting outside to shower her in the sympathy they used to disguise their relief. 

She lay in bed that night, having aimlessly gone through the motions of her evening routine. By the time the sun rose, she’d been staring at the ceiling for several hours. She silenced her alarm without taking her eyes off the particular pattern of old water damage she’d studied all night.

Blinking, she shook her head and wrenched herself into a sitting position. She yawned. Stretched. Swung her legs over, hoping that each familiar movement would make what happened last night not real. 

She looked over at the calendar on the wall and squinted. She got up and flipped to December, pausing for a moment to admire that month’s picture: three horses standing side by side in a yellow sunrise, manes gently adrift on an invisible breeze. 

She plucked the cap off her marker and circled December 25 three times. Inside, she wrote: Last day alive. 

Then, she slid open the desk drawer and pulled out a dusty notebook. When the carollers had come to Caroline’s house, they’d spent the entire six months doing everything they could to stop it. They’d failed. On Christmas Day, at precisely 1:25pm, Caroline had dropped dead. 

For the first time since Caroline’s death, Anna opened the book and flipped it to the last page they had filled out. She picked up the laminated newspaper clipping she’d stolen from the library archives.

Local Woman Claims to Have Survived June Carollers in Her Youth

Neil Cabacon, October 13, 1954

A local woman who identified herself as Jackie Clarence got drunk and told the local bartender that the carollers had chosen her decades prior, but they never came for her. The bartender, whose name has been redacted for privacy, was not inclined to believe her. However, he told police, “Just in case she’s legitimate, I want to track her down. If she has information that could save this town, we need to try.” 

Police went to her home later that day to find it abandoned. If anyone knows the whereabouts of Ms. Jackie Clarence, please call the hotline below. 

They’d tried reaching out to the journalist named on the piece, but he’d been deceased for many years. 

Damn you for dying, Neil Cabacon, Anna thought as her grip on the notebook tightened. She threw it across the room with a scream. 

She went downstairs but couldn’t even bring herself to make coffee; the walls of her kitchen felt so suffocating. 

She grabbed her phone from her back pocket and dialed her manager’s personal line. 

“Good morning, Jess,” she said when they picked up. “I have to quit, effective immediately, because the carollers came to my house last night and stopping them is now my full-time job.” 

Jess gasped, but Anna didn’t wait for a response before she hung up. 

Anna reached for her keys in the front hall, but decided at the last minute that she’d walk. Maybe some fresh air will help. Probably not, though. 

She grew restless waiting in line at the coffee shop; the young girl in front of her had no sense of urgency. Anna crossed her arms and tapped her heel.

“And did you want to sign up for our points card today?” The barista asked.

"Yeah, sure!” 

Anna closed her eyes and bit back a groan. 

By the last question, Anna was ready to punch the back of the girl’s head.  

“Great, and can I just get your full name?” 

“Beverly Cabacon.” 

Anna’s whole body stiffened as her phone slipped from her fingers, hitting the ground with a clack. She gasped. 

The young girl turned and bent down to grab the phone. 

Anna took it, unable to stop her eyes from widening. “Did you say your last name is Cabacon?” 

Beverly furrowed her brow, but nodded. 

“I need to talk to you.” 

The girl took a step backward. 

Anna relaxed her shoulders. “Sorry, I just have a question. Do you mind?” 

“Okay, I guess,” she said, grabbing her coffee without taking her eyes off Anna. 

Once seated, Anna took a deep breath as her heart thundered.

“Are you related to Neil Cabacon?”

Beverly’s shoulders relaxed. “Yes, he was my grandfather. Did you know him?” 

“Not… exactly.” Anna started. “I haven’t seen you before. Did you grow up here?” 

Beverly took a sip of her drink. “No, I live in Toronto. Grandpa left me his house when he died. My parents wanted nothing to do with it, but now that I’m 18 they couldn’t stop me from coming and claiming it.” 

Anna breathed out. “Do you know about the carollers?” 

Beverly almost choked. She closed her eyes for a moment. “Yeah, I do. That's why my parents never let me come here.” 

Anna nodded. “They sang at my house last night. I live alone.” 

Beverly’s eyes widened.

Anna continued. “They came for my best friend, Caroline, five years ago. When they did, we dove into this investigation, determined to stop them. But we couldn’t. The last thing we found was a brief article your grandfather wrote about them. When we tried to talk to him, he had already passed away. Caroline died on Christmas Day.”

Beverly shook her head. “I’m so sorry, but how can I help?” 

“I’m not sure. But the article spoke of a witness whose name he omitted. If he still has that name somewhere, and I can find that person, I might be able to finish what we started." 

“Well, my mom said no one’s touched the house. You’re welcome to come look around.”

Anna’s face flushed as the knot in her chest released. “Thank you.”

They’d been rifling through Neil Cabacon’s abandoned house for almost two hours when Beverly shouted. 

“Anna! I think I found something!”

Anna ran to find Beverly holding a large file box with RESEARCH scrawled across the front in sloppy handwriting. She ripped the lid off to reveal a haphazard stack of notes, journals, and a few rogue pens. She pulled everything out and scanned each page until she found the entry she needed. 

Bar witness in the Jackie Clarence case: Lance Bernham 306-555-9856

“This is it!” Anna shouted. She took a breath. “Can I take this page?” 

Beverly nodded, eyes wide. 

Anna wasted no time, looking Lance Bernham up that same afternoon. She sighed when she found an announcement from his daughter on social media. He still lived in town, but talking to him might not be so easy. A quick search got her the number she needed, and she dialed it.

“Elmstead Residence.” 

“Hello, uh, I’d like to visit Lance Bernham. Your website says visitors need to book an appointment?” 

The line was silent. 

“Hello?” Anna flipped her phone down to check she hadn’t accidentally hung up. 

“Uh, yes, sorry. Lance hasn’t had a visitor in a… long time. Are you family?” 

“Not… exactly. I’m a friend. Though he may not know me.” 

The voice softened, “I understand. It’s a common occurrence around here. I will tell you up front that staff monitor any visits that aren’t immediate family.” 

“Oh, okay, that’s fine. Can I come tomorrow afternoon?”

|“Yes. I’ll see you then.” 

Anna stopped outside the Elmstead Residence gates and glanced over her shoulder. She’d walked past this place for years, but had never considered crossing the threshold. Not when everyone talked the way they did about the people who lived here. 

She straightened her shoulders and pushed open the heavy iron gate. A warm breeze followed her in as her senses were met with a combination of fresh flowers and cigarette smoke. 

Inside, Anna felt the energy shift. The off-white walls held little decoration, and the beige, carpeted floors felt rough even beneath her shoes. The receptionist didn’t look up when she approached the desk. 

Anna cleared her throat. The middle-aged woman, whose nametag read “Blake,” finally peeled her gaze away from the computer. “I’m here for Mr. Bernham.” 

“Ah, yes. Anna, was it? Follow me.” 

After a long stint in the elevator, Blake led her down a hallway flushed with orange light to a plain white door. 

“Here he is. We told him someone was coming, but he didn’t seem to grasp what was going on.” 

Anna nodded and stepped inside. An older man in a wheelchair sat in front of an old tube TV, the game show host's voice much louder than necessary. 

"Lance, your friend is here. Can we turn the TV down?” Blake spoke, a kindness in her voice that she didn’t offer Anna. 

The man grunted as Blake spun his chair around. 

"Who are you?” he asked, voice cracking. 

“Hi, Mr. Bernham. You don’t really know me, but I was hoping you could tell me about Jackie Clarence.” 

Lance’s eyes widened, and he sat up straighter. “How did you find me?” 

Anna hesitated. “I… asked around. I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you. But I really need to find out about Jackie Clarence.” 

Lance glared at the floor. “I told that damn reporter to keep his mouth shut, that he'd better not print my name.” 

“He didn’t! I found it another way. Please, Mr. Bernham, I need to know about Jackie.” 

He glared at Anna, now, eyes narrowed. “Why do you need to know so badly?” 

Anna sighed. “They sang outside my house this year. Five years ago, it was my best friend Caroline. We couldn’t stop them then, and if I don’t now, I’ll join her.” 

Lance locked eyes with Anna and held her gaze for a long time. 

“I thought she was crazy. Then they stopped outside my house. Still had my whole family living here. Didn’t know who they’d take. I found her, begged her to tell me more. She was sober then, barely remembering what she had said to me. But she finally gave me a book. Didn’t say anything else.” 

"What was the book about?” 

Lance spun his chair around, saying nothing. He wheeled over to a shelf and pulled out a plain black hardcover book. He placed it in his lap, wiped off a layer of dust, and stared at it for a few moments before turning back around. 

“How old was your friend?” he asked Anna without looking up. 

“Twenty-five.” 

He sighed. “Here. Take it. I’d rather not have it looming over me anymore, anyway. You can decide for yourself.” 

Anna took the book and held it to her chest. “Thank you.” 

Lance grunted. “You may not thank me once you read it.” He didn’t wait for a response before turning around and cranking the TV back up. 

“That means it’s time to go,” Blake said from the corner. 

Anna jumped at her voice. “Right. Okay.” 

“Do you…” Anna spoke once they were in the elevator. She cleared her throat as Blake looked at her. “Do you know who they took? From his house that year?” 

Blake looked straight ahead again. “His wife.” 

Back home, Anna sat in the middle of her bedroom floor, a photo of her and Caroline in front of her, along with their notes and research. 

She took a deep breath and pulled out the book: Rites & Rituals. 

She found “Chapter Seven” written in thick, black ink on the title page. 

Her hands shook as she flipped to chapter seven, titled “The Nine Choristers.” Her breath caught as sweat broke out on her forehead. 

If your town has been cursed with the nine choristers, expect them to appear on the night of June 25 every year. If they have not been given a target, they will choose a house at random. 

Anna stopped. “Given a target?” 

Heart slamming into her ears, she continued: 

The Choristers do not require an invitation. They will arrive each year without fail. However, should one wish to assign a target, the following target ritual must be performed within their city limits before midnight on June 1 of that year. If multiple people perform the ritual, they will follow the direction of the person who did it first. 

Anna closed the book and shook her head. Where did Jackie even get this? Does anyone else know about this? Did Lance ever choose someone?

Many questions swirled in her head, but none as loudly as the most important one: How do you escape it?

She opened the book again and scanned the next few pages, talking about the history of the Choristers, reports of cursed cities around the world, and speculation on whether they once lived or if they are inhuman entities. 

Finally, she found it: 

If the Choristers have arrived at your house on the night of June 25, you can redirect the curse, but only if you were chosen as the result of a target ritual. If the Choristers chose you at random, you cannot choose a replacement. 

The book went on to describe the replacement ritual, which was almost identical to the target ritual, with one key difference: you must retrieve something from your target’s property and burn it. 

Anna laid the book down. She picked the photo up and studied it. Caroline’s arm slung so casually over Anna’s shoulder, her wide, toothy smile, her signature hot pink scrunchie holding her straight hair in a loose ponytail. 

The image blurred as Anna’s eyes filled with hot tears. “I promised you I’d figure this out. I won’t let everything we did, all your efforts to stop it, go to waste.” 

She put the photo down and closed the book. She stood and went to her wall calendar, scratching an “X” over today’s date. I don’t have to choose right now.

Anna lay in bed that night, but she didn’t sleep.

Who around here lives alone? I can’t leave this up to chance with a full house. That bitch Stacy who made fun of me for years just got an apartment. But we were just kids when she did all that. I hear she has a young niece now. Dr. Herman down the street has got to be almost 100. He’s had a good run, right? He has, like, seventeen grandchildren, though. 

After tossing and turning relentlessly for hours, Anna finally fell into a distressed, fitful sleep. She awoke the next morning to the sun peeking through her curtains. 

She got up and flung the curtains open, smiling as sunshine spilled into the room. Downstairs, she brewed some coffee, went for a walk, and grabbed brunch at a local cafe. She browsed the bookstores downtown, breathing in the smell of fresh ink and paper. 

She kept a close eye on the time and went back home as the sun went down. Slinging an empty bag over her shoulder, she stepped out into the moonlight. She threw her hood over her head, pulling it down to cover her eyes. 

Her chosen house was dark, save for a small porch light. She cringed as the wrought-iron gate creaked. She ducked behind the car in the driveway and waited. After several silent seconds confirmed no one heard her, she ran up to the porch, grabbed a throw pillow off the chair, and darted back to the street. 

At home, she put the pillow with everything else she needed for the replacement ritual. After double-checking the instructions, she scribbled one more “X” on her calendar and flipped forward to December. Still almost six months to go. 

She sighed as she glanced at the photo of her and Caroline again. “This didn’t take as long as I thought. Maybe I shouldn’t have quit my job.”