Gront Spoketer - The Bone Pipes of Ashgrave

At midnight the burned-out chapel of Ashgrave plays itself on an organ of bone, drawing the sleeping village toward it. Gront's sound can't touch it, so he has to find the one pipe that won't sing along. Dark Gothic Americana with a roaring cathedral pipe organ, tolling bell and baritone guitar. #GothicAmericana #FolkHorror Genre & Mood: Dark Gothic Americana / Heavy Dark Country, slow-building, ominous, stoic, folk horror Key Instrumentation: Prominent cathedral pipe organ, tolling church bell, baritone acoustic guitar flatpicking, dark cello, deep bowed bass, heavy boot-stomp, low male choir Story Themes: A burned chapel, an organ of bone, sleepwalking villagers, one pipe out of tune, sound that gets swallowed, mercy for the dead, a blade through the bellows #GothicAmericana #DarkCountry #FolkHorror #Gront #TheWarden #PipeOrgan #MonsterHunter Lyrics: Ashgrave burned on a Sunday night, Doors chained shut and the pews packed tight. Forty winters and the weeds grew in, Yet a hymn comes up where the roof caved in. Every midnight, soft and slow, Down the lane the sleepers go, Barefoot farmers in their nightshirts, blind, Walking to a song they can't leave behind. (Choir) Kneel in the ashes! Kneel and be still! (Choir) Room in the pew for the rest of the hill! Gate swung open, the lane gone gray, Forty bare feet, and none turned away. Bone pipes calling, low and sweet, Drawing the village up the street. Every soul that kneels in the soot Gives the hymn another root. (Choir) Kneel and be still! Nobody leaves once the hymn comes through, Ashgrave's calling, and it's calling you. I fell in step with the sleepwalking line, Blue light low on the blackened pine. Climbed the steps through the cinder door, Soot to the ankle on the vestry floor. Struck one chord at the loft up high, The hymn drank it down and left it dry. Then the air bent hard and the rafters let go, Threw me back through the pews below. Blood in my ear and a rib gone wrong, Floor full of cinders, the hymn rolling on. (Choir) Hush now, warden! Hush now and kneel! (Choir) Ease down the hurt, let the quiet heal! Bone pipes calling, low and sweet, Drawing the village up the street. Every soul that kneels in the soot Gives the hymn another root. (Choir) Kneel and be still! Nobody leaves once the hymn comes through, Ashgrave's calling, and it's calling you. Pinned in the char with my hat gone black, Hymn in my teeth and a pull at my back. Thumbed the lantern's shutter wide, Cold blue light on the loft's far side. Twenty-three voices, tuned and true, All but one, a hair askew. One bone trembling, a half-step flat, The one that never learned to kneel like that. Crawled the loft stairs, ribs on fire, Past the black stalls, through the ash and mire. Laid my palm on the shaking bone, Felt a stubborn pulse, a will of its own. Dragged my strings down to match its tone, Low and steady, the wrong note, alone. (Choir) Out of tune! Out of tune! Hymn went sour as a curdled moon. Pipes screamed raw and the beams came down, Soot like snow on the choir loft's crown. Drew my steel for the wheezing skin, Opened the bellows, let the breath run thin. Pew-plank caught me across the brow, Blood in my eye, but I wouldn't bow. Last long cut through the leather seam, And the whole sweet hymn ran dry as a stream. Bone pipes silent, bone pipes still, Sleepers blinking on the hill. Soot on the sill and a hush at the door, The hymn lets go and it's theirs no more. (Choir) Rest now! Rest easy! Go home, go home! Nobody's calling the town to the bone. Farmers woke in the pale gray light, Rubbing their feet, not sure of the night. I set my hand on the bone-white row, Said, "Rest," and let the lantern go low. Cracked rib bound with a strip of coat, Limped out the gate with a rasp in my throat. One flat pipe in the ash lay still, Quiet at last, by its own free will.