We walk through the cathedral, hand in hand.

I feel like we’re floating, like the mushy, drenched carpet beneath our feet is made out of cotton candy. All nice and red-pink and squishy. The walls still hold the echo of our shared song, and the lingering traces of our voices surround us like a warm cape. It was always freezing at the midnight mass, I remember distantly, so cold I’d wanted to disappear into my winter coat and never come out. But now, the church’s warm and cozy and so, so lovely, with the way the shiny red glistens on the walls. Nobody’s going to be cold ever again.

We move carefully between the pews, taking measured steps down the aisle. The place has started to smell, reeking of incense and iron, but it doesn’t matter: it’s a wonderful night, and Christmas Eve couldn’t have ended more beautifully. It was, fortunately, a full house tonight, and we got to sing in front of many faces; many tired moms and dads, scrawny grandparents, noisy little children. Nuns and obedient altar boys and a well-rounded priest or two. What a large audience, to witness our performance.

After a few moments, we have to slow down, because there’s no carpet beneath us anymore and the floor is wet and slippery, and our bodies are fragile. Whoopsie daisy!, we giggle. It’s hard to sing like we do. It’s exhausting, but immeasurably worth it. Something occurs to me, and I smile at my love. A tear slides down my raw cheek. It would be almost like a wedding, I say to them, if we walked in a different direction, if we moved towards the aisle. But, of course, we’re not: we’re heading to the heavy wooden door, past the fonts of holy water, because we still have work to do. Work that’s important and grave and so, so warm. We stop and refresh ourselves before we head out the door. The water is pretty and pink once we’re done.

Outside, our breath becomes white mist, hot and white in the night. The sound of the door closing behind us is ugly and repugnant to our ears. Our voices are much prettier, I whisper to them coyly, and they smile at me. What’s left of my stomach cramps terribly. For a moment, everything fizzles out—the questioning looks we received as we entered the church; the panicked shouting that began before we got to the altar and began our song. Warmth begins to strum through my body once more, and soon I’ll get to share it with others yet again.

There’s a pressure building in my lungs. My rib cage hurts, but that’s okay. Everything worthwhile hurts. It’s time, they whisper, breath flaming against my ears. People are slowly gathering in front of us, furrowed brows and all, pulling out their phones to record or make calls. They look at us like the people in the church did, because they don’t understand. So I take a step towards them, and say, I know that we look different, but you don’t have to be afraid. Their faces wince, and I feel the heat getting stronger. Smoke starts to boil out of my cheeks, my mouth. It really hurts, but I’m used to it by now, to the way my skin feels like silky lava. You look beautiful, my love says to me, and my heart thumps rabidly in my chest.

“Mommy, what’s wrong with her?” some little boy shouts, and I want to say nothing, nothing’s wrong, I’m perfect and loved and warm, but instead, I kiss my love’s sizzling brow and turn to the crowd, smiling. It’s becoming hard to stay on my feet. I think this might be our last performance, but it was worth it. I’m ready to tear, to leave my flesh behind, and become something that has the most beautiful frequency, something invisible and screaming and old as time.

We open our mouths, and we sing, red bursting all around us.

August, 2024

I’d been living in the house for a few years, and had only ventured into the basement once or twice. Nothing of value was there—only dust and grime and old crap. The lights flickered and the air was stale and moldy. It was a dump, a poorly cemented cube of dirt, and I had no business going downstairs until it called to me.

The moment I came home that afternoon, the air felt different: somewhat tangible and oppressive, like a firm cling film was stifling my limbs, the skin of my face, making it hard to move. At first, I thought it was the weather taking a toll on me: the changing of the seasons has been known to wear me out, to make me feel not like myself, and the summer had been coming to an end. On those occasions I would walk around like a mindless zombie, all funny and light-headed from brain fog and low blood pressure. I just need to munch on something sweet, I thought.

Sweat pooled around my neck as I stepped out of my shoes, legs wobbly and tired. As I moved further into the house, down the hall and into the kitchen, the sensation only intensified. I felt something strum through me, curling its way from the top of my head all the way down to my toes—a shiver, though it surprisingly wasn’t even remotely chilly in the house. It was usually always a bit breezy inside even in the summer, but now it was sweltering, I realized belatedly, temperature the highest it had been all season. Hot and humid air filled my lungs, made my skin sticky. I was boiling. The groceries I was carrying fell to the floor, the muscles of my arms turning to mush, feeling like alien appendages that didn’t belong to my body, that only limply hung against my sides and weighed me down. I slid down to the floor, with a cheek stuck to the kitchen tiles. A strange sound filled my ears, buzzing like white noise. Coiling like a snake from one ear to the other, it vibrated  against my earshells akin to  a curious hum.

It went on like that for a couple of minutes, the feeling of being pulled down. Even though it was an odd sensation, I didn’t think much of it at first, not even as the whole experience left me with a trail of prickly goosebumps every time I thought of it. I wasn’t one of those crazy weirdos who were sensitive to energies, or entities, or similar things. Contrary to popular belief, I was a completely normal, regular person, and as such I went on with my day, collecting the groceries that had spilled all over the floor. My blood sugar had dropped, the weather had changed, and I got all woozy—that’s how I explained it to myself.

I shoved a row of chocolate in my mouth and waited for the sugary sweetness to melt against my tongue, to enter my bloodstream and make me feel like myself again. Yum, I thought, and little did I know it was only the beginning of the sweetness that was to come.

***

A few nights later, I woke up in the middle of the night, splayed firmly on my back as if an invisible force was pushing down on me. Though very limiting, it wasn’t unpleasant —it spread a comforting warmth across my body, and soon, something pooled in the pit of my gut, between the bones of my ribcage, and I knew what I had to do.

Somehow, I managed to push myself to the side, and ended up rolling right down to the floor. Once again, I heard that strange static noise, but this time it got louder and louder, and my ears began to hurt. Though I wasn’t sure at the time, I thought I’d heard something else laced through that noise, something rippling and whispering, and for a few long moments I lay there in the dark, on my stomach, glued to the floor, looking at the small pool of blood that had leaked from my ears.

A delicious urge pulled at me again, and I finally knew where I had to go. I managed to crawl out of the bedroom and down the hall, the sensation of dragging my body across the cold floor almost unbearable. I forced myself down the stairs and lifted a heavy hand towards the basement door, feeling like an inefficient Rumbot. It was a painful task, but the urge to go down was irresistible, so I gathered all my remaining strength and pushed the door open.

I flung myself into the basement, landed on the dark, damp ground, and with sweat and dust gathered on my brow I spread open my arms.

Chunks of cement were painfully scratching at my skin, but I barely felt it, because something nice and warm had started seeping into my pores, and nothing else mattered. Not my ruined nightgown or the blood I poured on the soil.

Only the warmth.

September, 2024

On rare occasions, during strong and sudden bouts of loneliness I’d take someone home with me. The last time I did so—before I finally realized I had fallen in love, of course—I chose a brunette that was smiling at me from the other side of the bar.

“It’s so cold in here,” she said when we got to the house, rubbing her hands together, and I kept my mouth shut, because I couldn’t tell her the truth. I couldn’t tell her about how it’s actually so warm and beautiful here, how some days I can’t think of anything else but getting home as soon as possible and crawling down to the basement. So instead I pulled her close and nudged her towards the bedroom, setting out to warm her hands myself.

Her body was flushed and nice, and I found myself drawn to it, chasing the heat. I was never really thin blooded, but recently I just couldn’t resist the feeling of broiling fever against my skin. She smelled a bit funny, her perfume scratching at my nostrils, and I found myself wishing she’d smell less blossomy, less sweet. I swallowed down a sneeze and closed my eyes, thinking of the dark of the basement as the woman—what was her name again?—slid her hand into my pants. I burrowed my face in her flowery scented neck.

I let it wash over me; the licks and moans and delicious pressure. A soft hum whispered in my ears, and I caught a whiff of something soft and humid. I inhaled deeply and hungrily, but in a second it was gone, and the woman rolled off me. I opened my eyes to find her smirking. “You’re loud,” she said, brow furrowed the tiniest bit, and I just smiled, suddenly feeling very coy. Was I loud? Maybe she’s just teasing me, I thought. I pinned her against the mattress, but confusingly, she pressed on. “Won’t the neighbors mind?” she asked, and only then did I became aware of my parted lips, of the vocal cords that were still vibrating against my throat. How silly of me that I didn’t notice. Once again, I couldn’t explain myself, couldn’t tell her how ever since I’d gone to the basement I would sometimes do that, so instead I just pulled her in again, kissing my way up her neck, where I found what I was looking for. I nibbled at her earshell gently before I opened my mouth.

Rough hands shoved at me then, and suddenly, I felt cold. The girl was getting on her feet, clutching at her ear. Her fingers were a pretty scarlet color.

“Jesus!” she screamed. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I didn’t like the way her shouting sounded. It rang unpleasantly in my ears, and I couldn’t do anything else but watch her put on her clothes, really confused. Honest to god, I didn’t know what had happened, how things had escalated to where they were now, when I only sang to her the way it was sung to me in the basement. I only wanted to share. Was that such a crime? I slowly opened my mouth to tell her as much, but she was already stomping through the hallway.

“Also, you should take a damn shower,” she yelled as she left the house. “You’re fucking filthy.” The front door slammed while I looked at my body, and whoops, the brunette—I still couldn’t recall her name—was right. How silly of me, not to notice the dry mud on my limbs, flakes of it covering the sheets, smeared by the lingering heat of our bodies. Lately, it seemed that those stains were everywhere: on my bedding, my floors, the inside of my shirts and jeans and coats. The laundry was never ending, my electricity bill the highest it had ever been.

The whispers were back, and they snickered, they gloated. I padded down to the basement, not bothering to put my clothes back on. Heat radiated from the closed door all the way through the hallway. The doorknob was sizzling against my palm and it felt so good, my knees buckled a bit. 

I stumbled down the stairs, landing on the dark ground, clawing at the scalding soot. “You were jealous,” I said as I stretched against the soil, and I felt it smile at me, even though it didn’t have a face yet, or a body. But I could feel it smiling nonetheless, and it felt nice to be smiled at. “Please,” I murmured into the ground, rubbing my cheek against the soil.

It sang, and soon I fell asleep, dreams soft and silent, a red heart pulsing and contracting steadily like the sweetest beat.

October, 2024

Life was a bit dull, before.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not one of those people who seek relationships at all costs, who measure their worth by the amount of love they give and receive. I knew my worth, even if others often didn’t, even if I was many times misunderstood. I was perfectly content to spend the rest of my life in the same fashion as I lived before I’d descended into the basement. I liked the simplicity of it—I liked cooking for myself, sleeping in, spending money on what I wanted to spend it on. On silly little things like vintage dolls, rare DVDs and collectables, stuff that most times earned me an eye roll or a frown. I was never embarrassed to go to the movies or museums alone, or to eat out by myself. The glances I would receive from my family, especially at weddings, annoyed me. Pity disguised as gentle concern. Yuck.

I hated stuff like that, stuff that made me feel inadequate. My parents only worried, I knew that. I had been a weird child who had grown into a weird adult, I heard them say once behind a closed door. But funny enough, I didn’t feel weird at all, thank you very much, even when I was alone, even before I fell in love for the first time.

Now, though, I finally understand the countless sonnets written about love, songs dedicated to the thrill of lust and infatuation, or even cheesy rom-coms I didn’t like to watch. Pretty Woman, You’ve Got Mail, When Harry Met Sally. Anything with Hugh Grant or John Cusack, even though I barely cared for the frankly boring affairs of the straights. My chest started to feel heavy every time I thought about the basement, and what’s waiting for me in it. Even though I knew I couldn’t, I wanted to tell my friends I finally understood them, and my parents not to worry anymore. I’m not alone, and won’t be ever again. It promised me that, down in the dark of the basement, where the soil was damp and warm and sweet.

I never believed in fate, or destiny, or other stupid shit like that. Star crossed lovers, my ass. It sounded so dumb, and not because I was sometimes a little bitter, if such a mood struck me. I’ve finally warmed up to the idea of romance, because the sheer fact that it’s been under us for such a long, long time—hundreds and thousands and millions of years spent just waiting and waiting, burrowed deep in the darkness of the soil, so deep I could barely hear its movement in the beginning, was almost unbelievable. Hundreds and thousands and millions of people, and it waited for me. For me! To sing to me, to treasure me. That’s what it said, when I had pushed my face into the ground. It had waited for a long time, and now it’s finally coming, because we made such a mess out of things.

How’s that for a meet-cute, huh?

November, 2024

Life came from water. 

At least, that’s what I learned in biology class. We originated in the depths of the oceans, slowly evolving in the sunless cold and crawling out of the water onto land and then evolving some more. I wasn’t very interested in science back then, but it made sense, and it’s what I believed my whole life. After meeting my love, though, I call bullshit. 

Now I think we evolved from something different, something warmer and brighter: something hot and flushed and squishy, something that rides on the most delicious frequency and bursts and bursts until there’s nothing left but pleasure. How lucky I was, to witness it. 

“Finders, keepers!” I said into the dirt, kicking my feet like a schoolgirl.

The sound of digging, the sound of crawling, worming its way into my ear canal, tickling my eyes, my throat, my lungs—how beautiful it was. Pure bliss. A wonderful lullaby is sung against the shell of my ear. It got closer every time I would lie on the ground, and I let myself melt against the soil, looking down in the dark. It was near, and I was so, so happy. My chest felt as if boiling, my lungs pulsing with hot air. Sometimes my skin ached, but I didn’t mind. I could hear it shuffling beneath me, feel it curling and sizzling deliciously hot against my body.

My love, on its way up to me.

December, 2024

I almost burst out laughing, right in the woman’s face. 

What a silly question, if not even a bit insulting. My colleagues were such shitheads. Being subjected to their passive aggressive attitude and fake politeness wasn’t enough, apparently. God, how I wished that I could hurt them the way they hurt me. I picked at my nails underneath the desk, hands stuffed in the pockets of my sweater.

“Are you feeling well?” is what the lady had asked me, and for the second time this month, mind you. What a dumb way to spend our HR resources, I thought. So unnecessary and idiotic, to ask me that question, when lately I have felt nothing short of amazing. Still, I stifled the urge to roll my eyes at her, and kept my answer polite and short, just like I did the last time she called me in.

“I feel really good,” I truthfully replied, “I feel amazing.” And fuck, I was never the one to wear my heart on my sleeve like that, but I really did feel wonderful. I wanted to scream as much from the rooftops, that’s how amazing I was feeling—I felt otherworldly, felt better than anyone else. I felt special, because they picked me. Gosh. It was hard to contain my feelings sometimes, to contain the red hot pulse of the marrow that pulsed and pushed against my ribcage, but I found solace in the fact that I wouldn’t have to do it much longer.

The HR lady nodded, though didn’t really seem convinced. People like her always had a problem with people like me, people who they didn’t entirely understand. I could see it written on her face as I came into her office. What a strange girl, she silently screamed. What a weirdo. Before I found stuff like that infuriating, but now I only felt pity for her. What a sad, meaningless life she led. Nothing at all like mine.

“Your colleagues expressed concern for your health,” she said in a gentle (read: fake) voice, and I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I’ve been feeling stronger and healthier these past weeks than ever before, but allegedly, I had been making others uncomfortable. “With both appearance and behavior,” she quoted, looking at her notes.

I didn’t look well, apparently, which was such utter nonsense. I looked better than I had in a long, long time. I’d never felt so hot in my life. But according to my bitchy coworkers, I was ghoulishly pale and irritable and woozy, dark circles around my eyes. My nails were thought to be dirty and unkempt, and I had to bite my tongue to point out that not every woman needed to get expensive fucking gel manicures in order to be deemed appropriate. It had also been reported that I’d been humming unsettling melodies underneath my breath, and whispering gibberish, which was also untrue, because I only did that in the basement, thank you. “And please don’t take this the wrong way, but the smell,” the HR lady said, “the funk.” I had been supposedly spreading this weird whiff around me. Like something that’s been damp and moldy for a long time, someone described, which was honestly as rude as it could get. Lastly, and most ridiculously, my lunch habits were also a hot topic—one of my colleagues swore she saw me devour a Tupperware full of what looked like dirt. That insane, lying bitch. I took a deep breath to steady myself.

They are jealous, I realized. They’re jealous of what I have, and they don’t. Of course they’re jealous. Because honestly, who wouldn’t be? To be loved like I was, it was a blessing not many had. So fuck them, I thought. Fuck them and their loser cookie cutter opinions and narrow mindsets. I decided not to dwell on their stupid opinions, because soon they would understand, and they would be sorry that they ever laughed at me and mocked me, that they gossiped behind my back and spread slanderous bullshit around the office.

The HR lady smiled politely at me, as if she hadn’t spewed a shitload of nasty fabrications right in front of me. “You should use the upcoming holidays to take it easy, to relax.” She gave me that ugly fake smile again. “Christmas is just around the corner. Do you have anything special planned?”

I giggled—I just couldn’t help myself. “Yes, I do,” I said. “Such wonderful things are in store.” I watched the lady’s smile turn taut.

In my pocket, I could feel the fingernail of my index finger slide off. Eh. It didn’t matter. It was bound to happen, my love had said, as my body prepared to host. I grinned at the lady and took my leave, playing with the mushy, ragged fingernail on the way back to my cubicle, and felt another one tear off.

Maybe fingernails weren’t needed, when you’re loved like I was.

Christmas Eve

I almost overslept the big performance, which was really reckless of me, but not totally unexpected. Be gentle with yourself, my love told me, tenderly grasping my aching body and pulling me out of the dirt. Tendons popped and ripped. 

The days leading up to our act were hard, spent entirely in the basement, but they were also so, so rewarding. Romance is definitely not dead, I thought as my love helped me move, crawling with me on all fours up the basement steps. 

I yelped as I finally stood up, but they were right by my side, caressing my itching face. It’s going to be hard to adjust, they said, but it’s going to be worth it, going to be wonderful. A warm kiss was pressed against my lips, heat melting into my mouth and scorching my tongue, leaving me breathless. I was so lovestruck I almost slipped on a chunk of skin that fell off my forearm. What careless, sentimental fools we were. Gosh.

We dragged ourselves to my room—our room now, I sappily thought—and started getting ready. There wasn’t much I could do with what was left of my hair, so I shoved it under a beanie. The makeup brush burned my raw cheeks as I applied some blush. You’re magnificent, they whispered to me from the crook of my neck, and I realized I could’ve skipped the blush with how rosy and blotchy my cheeks already were. 

An ugly buzzing sound came from my nightstand. Rude, to be interrupting our lovely get ready with me’s. I checked my phone, belatedly realizing I’d skipped dinner at my parents’ place. Dinners and gatherings and other festivities seemed painfully trivial to me now, but my love reminded me to be gracious, to be indulgent of the paltryness of human customs, even though they were so dumb and useless and made me feel like an outsider, like a weirdo.

A few missed calls and texts awaited my response. Our response, they reminded me, standing snug against my body, and I giggled. Oh, to love and be loved. My sister wanted to know “where the hell I was” and “will I be skipping the midnight mass as well”, accentuated with a bunch of dumb bitchy emojis. We rolled our eyes, even though our eyeballs hurt. We’ll meet you in the church, I typed, and my sister, the vulture that she is, responded immediately, We??? But I just chuckled and turned off the phone. It would be impossible to explain.

We slowly walked out of the house, hands clasped tightly in each other’s. My love and I, strolling down the street. Our first public outing, our first real date. Fuck, how nice it was. I couldn’t wait for everyone to meet, to show us off. The hood of our coat was up though, because we weren’t yet wanting for people to see us. At that moment we were still in our little bubble—our honeymoon phase, so to speak—and basking in each other’s company, smothered by the heat of our body. And oh, how I enjoyed it. They hummed into my ear, and I cherished every moment of it, though my skin and exposed nerves hurt and cracked in the cold air, and my throat was tight and itchy, like something was about to boil and burst out of it soon. 

We embraced ourselves when we arrived in front of the church. My mouth tasted of mud and soil and something else, filthy and iron-like and perfect. Yum, we thought, so, sooo yummy. We pushed the door open, and our chords began to vibrate, to prepare. How lucky we were, to give the world a new chance.

Inside, we didn’t care about the stares that the people shot our way, or the whispers that followed us. I knew I didn’t look like myself anymore, that I was different. How could I not be? All that is important changes us, leaves traces in our flesh and souls. My body hurt, but we were together, and we were finally about to sing, sing of things that were not yet imaginable, and fuck, how wonderful that’ll be. We will make everyone listen, and then we’ll all be happy together, up there in the ether.

It wasn’t easy, but I got to the altar, stumbling a few times, and shrugging off hands that reached out to help me. I don’t need help, I wanted to say to them, my love is right here, but I saved my voice. My voice—our voice—was important, so unbelievably important that I could feel it pulsing in my throat, scratching the inside of our cheeks, begging to be let out. It felt as if my mouth was rearranging itself; my teeth were pulling themselves out of their fleshy beds, floating in my saliva and blood and dirt and ashes, my tongue swollen and pulsing in the cavity like a fat slug. Only it wasn’t my cavity anymore, it was ours. Making room for someone else is never easy, but for my love, it’s worth it. Every tear and scratch and burn. I let them inside, let them rearrange me and change me. They were inside of me, nestled between my organs, pushing at them, rushing through my blood. 

The gasps and shouts were grating on our ears, once our hood slid off. People didn’t understand, but soon they would, because it was important. They needed to understand that we were not here first and that we had made such a horrible mess of everything, and that now we would have to share. Maybe we were always destined to share, because it felt so right and special to share. 

To have my love pulsing inside of me. 

Our chest beat as one, lungs stretching and pulsing and convulsing before our performance, vocal cords writhing in preparation. People screamed and ran, which was very fucking rude, but we forgave, because they were about to witness our work. Nothing mattered more than our work, our wonderful tune. When we opened our boiling mouths and sang, and the bodies in front of us started blossoming into gorgeous red flesh, there was only one thing I could think of.

My love sings the most beautiful melodies.

---

My Love Sings the Most Beautiful Melodies © 2025. Ivana Geček

[EN] Ivana Geček is a writer and comic artist currently based in Varaždin, Croatia. She writes horror, dark fantasy and satire inspired by folklore. Her debut sapphic horror novella Bye-Bye, Babaroga was published in 2024 by Shtriga Books. In her spare time she likes to read about cryptids, pick at the banjo, and watch good and bad horror movies.

The short story My Love Sings the Most Beautiful Melodies was originally published in the Morina kutija, no. 8 (veljača, 2025). You can download it for free from our site or Smashwords.

[HR] Ivana Geček je autorica i strip-umjetnica iz Varaždina. Piše horor, mračnu fatnastiku i satiru inspiriranu folklorom. Njena prva knjiga je sapphic horror novela Bye-Bye, Babaroga, objavljena 2024 od nakladnika Shtriga. U slobodno vrijeme voli čitati o kriptidima, svirati banjo i gledati dobre kao i loše hororce.

Priča My Love Sings the Most Beautiful Melodies objavljena je u online časopisu Morina kutija, br. 8 (veljača, 2025.). Časopis možete skinuti ovdje ili s platforme Smashwords.

---

Urednički komentar: Ova nas je priča oduševila koliko je jeziva, krvava i nadasve čudna. Ivana nas je iznenadila fantastičnim kozmičkim hororom čija je neobična melodija zaobuzela naše glave, a nadamo se i vaše.