HoZ A Christmas Story

The Devil's Carol

The snow fell thick that Christmas Eve as Margaret Thornby hurried past the church. She was late—the carol service had already begun. But it wasn't the familiar hymn that made her pause.

From the old graveyard came another voice. A woman's voice, singing alone—beautiful but wrong, with words that weren't quite words at all.

A black cat darted across her path, its yellow eyes gleaming. It stopped at the graveyard's edge, staring with unnatural intelligence, then padded into the darkness.

Margaret followed.

Between ancient tombs stood a woman in a pale dress, head thrown back as she sang to the falling snow. Her dark hair hung loose, and she wore no coat despite the bitter cold. The black cat sat at her feet, motionless.

"Hello?" Margaret called.

The singing stopped. The woman turned—young, beautiful, but wrong somehow. Like poisoned fruit.

"She cannot go inside," said a new voice—smooth, cultured, amused.

A tall man stood behind Margaret, impeccably dressed in black, his face handsome but ageless. When he smiled, his teeth were too sharp.

"Who are you?" Margaret demanded, though she already knew.

"I have many names," he said. "Eleanor and I have an arrangement."

The woman—Eleanor—lowered her eyes. The black cat wound around her legs.

"She wanted desperately to sing her carol that Christmas Eve," the devil said. "Wanted it more than heaven itself. So I offered a bargain: I would ensure she lived long enough to sing. And in return, she would give me her soul the moment the final note left her lips."

"But the fever took me that morning," Eleanor whispered. "I died before I could sing."

"A technicality," the devil sighed. "She cannot move on until she completes her part. And I remain without my prize. One hundred and seventy-eight years now."

"Every Christmas Eve, I return," Eleanor said. "But I cannot enter the church. The sacred ground rejects me. So I sing here, in the graveyard. But it doesn't count."

From inside the church came the organ—the opening bars of "The Angel Gabriel."

Eleanor's face twisted with longing and rage. The temperature plummeted. Frost crept across the gravestones.

"Let me finish this," Eleanor whispered.

Inside, young Sophie Bennett began the solo—the same age Eleanor had been.

"What happens if she does sing?" Margaret asked.

The devil smiled. "Then our bargain is fulfilled, and I collect what's owed. Her soul comes with me for eternity."

Eleanor's eyes fixed on the church with terrible hunger.

"There must be another way," Margaret said.

"Do enlighten me," the devil drawled.

Margaret's mind raced. She thought of her grandmother, who had said that pride was the devil's favourite sin, because it was the one we chose ourselves.

"The bargain was made because Eleanor wanted to sing more than anything," Margaret said slowly. "More than heaven. That was pride—wanting glory, wanting to be heard."

The devil's smile didn't waver, but something flickered in his eyes.

"What if you sang not for glory, but in service?" Margaret turned to Eleanor. "Sing here where no one can hear you but God and the dead. Sing not to fulfil your bargain with him, but to let go of the pride that made you bargain at all. Sing because the song itself matters, not because anyone will praise you for it."

The devil's face darkened. "That wouldn't fulfil the contract."

"Wouldn't it?" Margaret challenged. "The contract said she would sing her carol. Nothing about being heard by the living. Nothing about glory."

"But I would get nothing!" the devil snarled, his face twisting into something terrible.

"Exactly what you deserve," Margaret said. "Nothing."

Eleanor began to smile—a real smile, sad but genuine.

"I did want the glory more than anything," she said softly. "That's why I made the bargain. That's why I've been trapped." She looked at Margaret. "But you're right. The song itself is enough. It always was."

"Don't you dare—" the devil began.

But Eleanor had already started to sing.

Her voice rose in harmony with Sophie's, weaving around the melody. But this time, she sang with humility, with gratitude, with the simple joy of making something beautiful that would vanish the moment it was made.

The black cat yowled and vanished in sulphurous smoke. The devil flickered and wavered, becoming less real.

"This isn't over," he hissed, but his voice was already fading.

When the final note faded, Eleanor looked peaceful.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I thought the only way out was through him."

She began to fade, dissolving into the falling snow. "Tell them the carol was finished after all. Just not the way anyone expected."

And then she was gone.

Margaret walked towards the church. She pulled open the door and stepped into the warmth and light, where the congregation was beginning "Silent Night."

And in the graveyard, a black cat sat alone on an ancient gravestone, licking its paw—waiting for the next fool proud enough to bargain with the dark.

After all, the devil is patient.

And Christmas Eve comes every year.