Carolers Sing of Molly Grim

Chris learns about Christmas spirit, and an unusual carol sung on bitterly cold December nights.

Merry Christmas to those of you reading this the night it came out!

This piece took a bit of doing, and incorporates little cameos from all the other Holiday Haunts. If you haven’t seen the story collection, I encourage you to take a look. Many talented writers worked to make an addition to the collection.

Photo by Zoltan Tasi on Unsplash

The sea shanty appearing in the story is written by

Jon T

!

I am still blown away by what he was able to produce in a very short period of time. I gave him the lore behind the story, and he absolutely took off running with the execution. Be sure to check out his work too.

For the first time in all his years working for Chuck, Chris was sorry to be running late to the Christmas Eve party. It was is own fault, of course; payback for pulling the same scheme each year. The Riley family told their kids Santa would decorate the tree while they were at Church. Chris would tackle the job while they were gone, and have a convenient excuse to miss almost the entire event.

Of course, that was before he knew Chuck was planning an actual party; not just music and cocoa in the warehouse. He pulled the work truck into the empty garage bay at half-past eight. He could unload later—tomorrow even. With any luck, he could still get a few drinks on the company tab.

One task however, could not wait.

He reached into the passenger seat and took out a beautifully-wrapped package with a frilly bow. He set it down on the little coffee bar beside a stack of identical “World’s Best Boss,” mugs. Chris had been anonymously prank-gifting them to Chuck for the better part of two decades, always savoring the beet red look on Penter’s face when he opened it each year.

Chris adjusted the gift tag — written in the most ornate cursive he could manage — and chuckled.

“Merry Christmas, boss man.”

With that, he was out the door, and on his way toward old town. Here, asphalt gave way to ancient cobblestones that the county never found money to pave over. The road hugged the curves of the bay, winding between tiers of precarious hillside houses, and the bulkheads that kept them from sliding into the sea.

He turned northward at the bottom of the little hill where Main met Bayview. Here the sidewalk was slick with frozen mist, and the only sound was the waves lapping against the quay in the dark; not a soul in sight.

The Mermaid Saloon stood amid a line of skinny buildings, leaning on one another like books on a shelf. The weathered white paint peeled in places; not from neglect, but the sustained sea salt assault, blowing in off the bay. Rust likewise ate at the iron fixtures, including the bracket holding the tavern shingle. The oval sign bore the image of a green-scaled tail, breaking the surface of the water.

Chris smiled as he pulled open the oak door, and stepped inside.

---

The tavern felt like the hold of an old ship, all bare timbers and warped wood. Lanterns lined the walls, flickering through smoke-stained glass. Chris spotted his coworkers dotted throughout the place. Marco shared a table with David Campbell and Rob, who’d brought his girlfriend Darcy. She sat on the edge of the conversation sipping ginger ale. They actually seemed to be getting along for once.

Chris slid onto a stool beside Chuck and David Craddock. He waived to the barkeep, a stocky, silver-haired man with a beard to match. The man wore a server’s apron over a cable knit sweater, sleeves pushed up to the elbow.

“Look boys: the ghost of Earnest Hemingway himself is serving us tonight,” Chris quipped. “Your wife buy you that?”

“Chris!” David hissed.

The barkeep cracked a wide smile. “See you brought some friends. Was starting to think you didn’t have any.”

“Good to see you, buddy.” Chris turned to David. “Have you been properly introduced?”

The young man shook his head.

“This is Peter Townsend. Family’s owned the place since, oh, how long?”

“Since Jackson cleared out the traitors, a way back when.” Peter gestured toward an enormous oil painting over the bar, depicting a naval battle. Two men locked blades on the deck of an old brigantine with blood red sails. Chris recognized the shorter man from the back of the 20 dollar bill. He hadn’t a clue who the other was.

“Place used to be something of a loyalist haven. But listen to me ramble.” Peter shook David’s hand. “Good to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

The barkeep looked to Chuck. “Hope this little shithead hasn’t been giving you too much trouble.”

“No more than usual,” Penter said.

All four men laughed.

Chris was about to order, when he heard a familiar voice.

“I’m gone five minutes to stretch my legs, and my seat is gone.”

Seville?

Chris twisted around on his stool. He looked the old man up and down, from his blue-eyed, bespectacled face, to his driftwood cane. “Who let this geezer out of the retirement home?”

“Chris, that’s not cool, you—” David stopped himself mid sentence when Seville started laughing. Chris slid off the stool and embraced the man as an old friend.

“Fancy running into you here.”

“Nothing fancy about it; David invited me.”

“Really?” Chris wondered just what the hell had gotten into the Craddock kid.

“Oh yes. Will you still be coming by for dinner tomorrow, or had you planned on pawning me off on this gentleman again?” Seville placed a hand on David’s shoulder. “You better be careful: I just may have found your replacement.”

Peter cleared his throat. “You gonna order, or take up space?”

Chris slipped his hand into the pocket of his work coat, running his thumb over the wad of tip money he’d collected from the holiday jobs. “How ‘bout a round for my friends, and colleagues? Something special.”

Chuck whistled. “Never thought I’d see the day you volunteer to pick up the tab.”

Peter paid him no mind. “I’ve got just the thing.”

The bell above the door rang as it swung open, letting in a bite of cold air. In stepped Katie, with a holiday bow in her curled blond hair. The woman clearly put some extra time into her makeup. If pressed, Chris would’ve admitted she was downright eye catching, but he knew this display wasn’t for him. She walked straight over to Chuck, and gave him a lingering hug.

“Merry Christmas!” she flashed a bright smile. “All of you, too.”

Chris hoped this would be the night his numb-skulled boss realized Katie was smitten.

Peter broke the moment, leaning across the bar. “Why don’t you find yourselves someplace to sit? I’ll be by in a minute.”

The gang took the large booth by the bay window, sliding into the pew-like seats. Peter pushed over another table for the few who couldn’t fit, before coming back with a tray laden with crystal shot glasses. They each made a hearty clunk as he placed them upon the table.

“What’s this?” David held his glass at eye level, studying the caramel color liquid.

“Townsend reserve, my boy,” Seville said.

“Let’s call it the stock we inherited from the previous owners.” Peter placed a glass before the old man.

Chris leaned in toward David, offering the simplest explanation. “Damn good rum, son.”

When everyone had their drinks, Chuck raised his glass.

“What a busy season. You’ve all risen to the challenge in ways I couldn’t have imagined. Did me real proud. You’re the best a boss could ask for. Here’s to a wonderful year ahead.”

“Cheers!” The group answered in unison, and clinked glasses. From there, it was off to the races. The layer of office party awkwardness evaporated as the rum flowed. Marco lightened up for the first time since getting back from the colonel’s house, Ronnie chatted amicably with the other David, and Chris even found Rob’s antics to be more tolerable—entertaining, even.

As the hour grew later, more guests crowded in. Chris spotted more than a few captains from the wharf up the bay, shaking the seawater from their coats. By nine, the place was packed elbow-to-elbow. The Penter group ceded some of its chairs to the newcomers, and Chuck and Katie cozied up in the booth.

Each stranger’s arrival seemed to be an excuse for the next tired straggler to leave. First it was Marco, muttering something about being up early for Church. David Campbell offered an explanation about an opening shift at Aspen Paint. The crowd dwindled rapidly into a little group of five, sitting amid stacks of glassware Peter hadn’t gotten around to clearing.

After exchanging a look with Katie, Chuck too stood. “This was fun. Really fun. But we should be going. Boss can’t be the last to leave.” He dug out his wallet, but Chris waived him off.

“I’ll take care of it. You pay me well enough.”

“Thank you, Chris. Really.” He looked around the group. “Merry Christmas, all of you.”

“Good night!” Katie waived.

As the pair squeezed through the fray, a flickering of candlelight caught Chris’s eye. Through the frosted-over windowpanes, he could just make out the shimmering shape of a large crowd, singing an unfamiliar sound as they passed the storefront.

“Are those carolers?” David asked.

“No,” Seville answered quickly. “Look, boys, I think it may be almost time we turn in, eh?”

“Already?” Chris asked. “It’s not even ten o’clock.”

“With age comes wisdom. That includes knowing when it’s time to call it a night.”

David shook his head.

“Look, if you can’t hang—” Chris stopped mid sentence when he saw Seville was deadly serious. The man furrowed his brow, and shook his head ever so slightly.

Another rush of cold air reached them, carrying in the crowd from the street. The group seemed to be in high spirits, laughing as they stumbled in. They appeared to be in uniform, all wearing tall black boots and long crimson coats. The group was made mostly of men, though he spotted a handful of women as well.

He watched one one of the men exchange words with Peter before jingling a large coin purse. Peter nodded, and began lining up large stein glasses, which he filled from a cask behind the bar. As they took their drinks, the redcoats dispersed throughout the establishment. Seville cast a wary glance between the newcomers, and the oil painting. Finally, he turned back to Chris and David.

“Listen to me, both of you: stay if you must. Follow them if you dare. But drink nothing they offer you.”

Chris was caught off guard. But before he could ask for an elaboration, a stranger had appeared beside their booth. His clothes were too tight, as if he’d taken them from a man two sizes smaller. He had a round, friendly sort of face that put Chris at ease.

“Would you mind terribly if I joined you?”

“Certainly not; I was just leaving.” Seville slid out of the booth, clutching his cane. “Not too late, you two.” Chris had never seen the old man move so fast.

“Goodnight,” David said.

“Pity. Seemed like a nice fellow.” Fred looked after him, almost longingly. He turned back, smiled, and sat down in the space Mr. Seville left behind. “I’m Frederick.”

“Pleasure.” Chris reached across the table to shake his hand.

“We heard you singing,” David said. “I’ve never been Caroling.”

“Oh, it’s a lark. You should come. Both of you.”

“Sure!”

Chris hesitated. David clearly thought Seville was jesting, but the warning still stuck in his head like a splinter. He felt a sudden responsibility for David; letting him go with these people unaccompanied was out of the question. But more than that, there was a certain morbid curiosity behind it all.

“Yeah. Let’s do it.”

---

The strangers left after just one drink, before cinching their scarves, tugging on gloves, and filing out into the street. Chris and David were the only ones not dressed in red. Perhaps this was some kind of costumed pub crawl?

The group was warm and merry, if not a little rowdy as they sang their way up the winding street. For a first song, they chose “Tidings of Comfort and Joy.” Chris hummed along at first, but found his concerns melting away beneath the glow of the old colored lights, draped on the eaves of each building they passed. Through the fog, he could make out a few twinkling sailboats moored in the harbor, icicle lights draped along their gunwales.

“What shall we sing next?” Fredrick asked the group at large.

“How about Silent night?” David suggested. This drew looks of confusion and murmurs from the others.

“Silent night? I’m afraid I’ve never head of that one.”

Chris blinked. “Really? You serious?”

“Afraid so. What about a ballad for Molly Grim?”

The rest of the group gave enthusiastic cheers, and words of agreement. Chris was unfamiliar.

“You’ll have to teach me.”

“Of course, you’ll pick it up quick.” He took a deep breath, and began the booming chorus:

All call ye lads and gentlemen
This ship comes sailing in
Come brother to the board
Our girl the Molly Grim

Adventure bound, no steps near ground
We’ll sail into the dawn
And fight the titan swell
We sing to bring this song

It took Chris a minute to recognize the melody: the group had been singing the same tune when they arrived at the Mermaid Saloon. On they went, continuing up the street toward the docks.

Wed to water
Shackles droppin’ to the ocean floor
Found and caught her
Now we’re callin’ on the seven shores

Come ride the roil, and taste the spoil
This ship is rockin’ in
Be sure, be rich, be bold
Our freedom Molly Grim

A fitting prize for Calan’s Bride
On Christmas Day rolls in
To take adrift, a wedding gift,
For our girl Molly Grim

Jolly Roger
Calan’s sneakin’ through a foggy bay
Band of robbers
Better not cross em, there’s a price to pay

Chris spotted a shape shimmering in the fog. It was the outline of a ship—no, more like an outline or a constellation, sketched out in silvery blue starlight.

Before he could get a better look, the shape disappeared behind one of the bluffs in the winding road. When they came around the point, the image was lost to the fog.

All call ye lads and gentlemen
This ship comes sailing in
Come brother all aboard
Our girl the Molly Grim

Adventure bound, no steps near ground
We’ll sail into the dawn
And fight the Titan’s swell
We drink and sing this song

Hey oh Hey oh
Ah ah ah Ah
Hey oh Hey oh
Ah ah ah Ah

The song ended as they arrived at the wharf, docks reaching like skeletal fingers out into the bay. The fog cleared, and Chris gasped. Tied along the pilings was the largest ship he’d ever seen in person. This was no modern freighter, but a brigantine with a charred black hull and furled red sails.

“Come aboard lads, there’s much to be done!” Frederick waved his arm, shepherding the others up the wooden gangway.

Chris’s heart pounded against his chest. What on Earth had they fallen into? Why hadn’t he insisted on taking Seville’s advice? Still—better late than never. He grabbed David by the arm. “We need to leave, now.”

“I know.”

“Leave?” Fred asked in a voice thick with mock sadness. “Come now; come aboard and stay for a drink.” It was not a request. Someone pushed him toward the plank, laughing.

The redcoats marched Chris and David across the deck and down a small set of stairs beneath the helm.

“Watch your head,” Frederick barked. Gone was any sense of cheer from his voice.

The room beyond was the Captain’s suite, cluttered with charts, trinkets, and lumpy half-spent candles. Behind a plain wooden desk sat a familiar looking man. His face looked positively mischievous in the shadow of his tricorn hat.

“I take it these two gentlemen were all you could muster from the Landing?” He spoke with a thick English accent, in a voice that seemed to command attention.

“Aye, Captain,” Frederick said. “Tis a cold night. Few were out; fewer able.”

The captain grimaced, clearly displeased. That expression…

“I know you from the painting, down at the Mermaid Saloon. The fight, with Andrew Jackson!” Chris exclaimed.

“Huh?” David didn’t understand. But the Captain clearly did.

“I do not know this painting you speak of. But I know the Saloon. Jackson crossed me not long ago.” A sword swung from his waist scabbard as he swaggered around the table. “My name is Calan Carl. And you’re aboard my sweet Molly Grim. Finest ship to grace Arnold’s landing.”

A powerful scent clung to Calan, like spring rain trying to wash away a putrid rot.

“G-good to meet you.” Calan fought the urge to gag.

“Have my men told you what we’re after?”

“No, sir.”

Calan made a dramatic turn, looking out through the slanted windows at the back of the cabin. Through the ice-encrusted glass, the sea, and the flickering lamp of Arnold’s light were barely visible in the distance.

He sung quietly to himself: “A fitting prize for Calan’s Bride, on Christmas Day rolls in. To take adrift, a wedding gift, for our girl Molly Grim.” He plucked an ornate amber bottle from the shelf beside the window, along with three dusty tankards. He set the vessels down upon a yellowed map, speaking as he poured.

“There is a Galleon due in Boston tomorrow morning. I intend to ensure it never arrives. For that purpose, I have need of a few extra hired hands.”

Calan gestured to the tankards. “Drink. Let us discuss the plan of action.”

David looked to Chris, scared into silence.

Chris stared at the murky liquid, and thought back to Seville’s warning. He must’ve taken too long for the Calan’s liking, because the next thing he heard was the cocking of a flintlock pistol behind his head.

Of all the close calls in Arnold’s landing, pirates would be the one to do him in.

Bloody pirates.

“Would be a shame for you to refuse. See, I can hardly have you running ashore. A fast horse, and you could be in Boston with more than enough time to raise a warning.”

“Oh, we’re not going anywhere,” Chris said. “My friend and I, we’re just not very thirsty.”

Calan scowled again. “You insult my hospitality. Drink.”

With shaking hands, Chris raised the tankard to his lips. The black liquid smelled like brine, and seemed to have the consistency of molasses.

Before he could take a sip, the bell from the old hilltop church tolled twelve. Christmas morning was here.

With the stroke of midnight, Calan and his men fell away like mist from a breaking wave. The ship around them likewise vanished, leaving Chris and David hanging in the air above the inky bay. Gravity caught up to them, dragging them down in a torrent of saltwater. The pair screamed as they plummeted into the frigid sea.

---

Chris and David spent Christmas day together, recovering from their bout with hypothermia in a hospital ward. There would be no lasting physical damage, thanks to the fast action of a good Samaritan. The same couldn’t be said for their reputations, however.

Word quickly spread around town — and by extension, Penter Painter’s — of the two drunk idiots who stumbled off the pier, early Christmas morning. The only one who believed their story of the vanishing ship seemed to be Mister Seville, who dropped by for Christmas dinner, and an I-told-you-so.

“As I expected. They were of the sea.”

---

Merry Christmas!

---

Thank You for Reading!

This story is part of a collaborative holiday project I’m tackling with other writers. If you’d like to read more stories from the world of Arnold’s Landing, check out the full collection:

If you don’t have the money for a paid subscription, telling a friend about me is pretty cool too. Getting your words in front of eyeballs is honestly harder than doing the actual writing and editing…