The following episode contains descriptions of violence and body horror. We advise extreme caution for children under 13. The following is from Gustavo Adolfo Beka's the misery ray. The notes are bones covered with flesh, light, inextinguishable, the heavens and their harmony, force, force and sweetness. Do you know what this is? I asked of the old Freyr who accompanied me after I had half translated these lines, which seemed like phrases scribbled by a lunatic. My age at guide then told me the legend, which I now pass on to you.

Hi, everyone, I'm Alastair Murden, and this is Haunted Places, Ghost Stories, a Spotify original from past. Ghost stories have arisen from every century and every corner of the world, from the streets of Victorian Whitechapel to the swamps of Bangladesh, whether seated around a campfire or curled up with a pair of headphones. We return to them time and again to feel our skin crawl and our hearts race.

Each week, Ghost Stories reimagines chilling paranormal tales from history's most sinister storytellers told like you've never heard them before. You can find episodes of Ghost Stories and all other Spotify originals from podcast for free on Spotify or wherever you listen to podcasts. Today's story, The Misere is an 1862 tale from Spanish romantic author Gustavo Adolpho. Becca Becca has been called one of the most widely read Spanish writers. Aside from Miguel de 70s, he was a 19th century short story author and poet.

Our version of the story comes from a 1939 English translation by Cornelia Francis Bates and Katharine Lee Bates.

The Missouri race title refers to a Catholic prayer often set to sacred music in which the 51 first some have mercy upon me O God is sung by a choir. The most iconic version of the Miserere comes from 17th century composer Gregorio Allegri. His work was considered so beautiful, so unearthly, that the first pope who heard it ordered that it never be transcribed in full or sung outside of the Sistine Chapel.

I will be telling the story from the perspective of a composer named Peter in search of inspiration for his own Miserere, a song so powerful that he hopes it will wash his sins from the Earth.

But his transgressions are great, and the source of his creativity has less to do with the light of God than with the dark reaches of the night. That inky blackness in which graves open wide and corpses rise up. And these corpses don't just stagger, they sing.

Coming up, we'll meet a murderous musician. 7TH of October, 1881, I found this journal in a small shop in a town whose name I do not know. I hope to use it to document my journey as I endeavor to take on one of the greatest tasks any composer has ever known to turn music into absolution. I am no longer a proud man. The siren song of choirs and instruments held me in rapture for the majority of my life and moved my soul in a way that I still struggle to explain.

Suffice to say I follow the music wherever it led.

Music led me to fame and fortune, to opulence and royalty.

People fawned over my majestic work, cheered and cried at its majesty. Every party was an exercise in praise. It was intoxicating, playing people like instruments. But as with all such substances, soon the usual amount was not enough.

I grew bored of the fawning and decided to experiment instead of filling my audience with joy. I played the music of fear. It started with simple manipulations, a dissonant chord, a rest that lingers far too long. As I composed, I could feel the balance of the world shift. And as my pieces were performed, the audience's breath came out in a staccato rhythm. Soon I grew addicted to that sweet sound, their anxiety drove my work to new heights, but there came a day when the steady beat of heaving breaths was no longer enough for me.

On a cold September night, I let my passions carry me away.

During the performance of my greatest concerto to date, I caught a glimmer of a golden pocketwatch in one of the front rows. It was a little thing, but a mark of something more, the owner's boredom and his privilege. I memorized the face of the man who dared to check the time in my holy palace of song. Later, while my musicians were packing their belongings, I followed him through the narrow streets of Vienna. I decided I would take the watch as tribute, since he would not give me the attention and adulation I had earned on a dark street corner.

I walked up behind him and grabbed his shoulder. He tried to fight me, but I could not be swayed. His breaths came in sharp pants like a Vivaldi masterpiece.

I needed more of it, so I pulled a small knife from my pocket and held it up to his throat. The timbre of his protests was brilliant, his screams were more blissfully shrill than any piccolo flute I'd ever heard as he begged for his safety, his noises grew more desperate. And when I cut across his face, his voice rose to a glorious crescendo.

That's when I realized sonic perfection was only a cut away.

He screamed and pleaded as I slashed into him. When his face was in tatters. I started on his neck wanting to know if my knife could cause a distortion of the vocal chords. Who knows what strange new sounds I would uncover.

But I was too ambitious, blood sprayed across my face, straight nose dropped from the man's mouth, and then for a measure all to his breath, faded to nothing in an exquisite Mirando.

Later that night, after I returned home and washed off the blood, I remembered the golden pocket watch. I had not even taken it.

Suddenly, I was consumed with regret. I dreamt of that man for weeks after and turned to my faith to soothe me, but no amount of prayer could fix what I had done. My soul was damned, and there was but one hope left.

I had to turn the source of my temptation into salvation. I would show my penitence in song and be purified.

Therefore, I have decided to create my own variation of the Miserere after all the plea of the fifty first Sam is quite accurate to my situation.

Have mercy on me. Oh, God. It says cleanse me from my sin.

I am certain that if I purrfect my peace one day I will see it performed at the Sistine Chapel and it will save my soul.

But first, I am in dire need of inspiration, so I will travel across Europe looking for some kind of muse. 11TH of October 18, No. One, I have spent several days searching for safety without a dry place to rest my head. The nights have taken a toll on me as the Spanish rain pounds against my chest. Each morning I wake covered in water and I wonder if God is trying to flood my lungs.

As he once flooded the world 15th of October 18, no one half sick and sliding against the wet cobblestone streets of Stero, I found shelter in a humble abbey.

The monks were kind enough to take me in. I would have slept on the floor, but one of the brothers volunteered his cot. A chill has lingered in my bones for days. Even as I creep toward the hearth, I cannot feel its warmth.

The notion that I am cursed has crossed my mind, but I am not ready to give in to that. I pray that after several days of rest, I will be better.

19TH of October, 1881, I write this in haste as I have finally found my inspiration. I heard the most fantastical story that I feel is tied to my salvation and I must chase it tonight.

Alberto, the monk who so graciously gave me his bed, attempted to lift my spirits with a tale I had just told him of my plans to compose a Miserere that would finally capture true penance. I had expected him to dissuade me to say that art could not do what only the savior had achieved. Perhaps this was his intent, but the story he told me, provided the first bit of hope I have experienced in ages.

Centuries ago, they lived a sect of monks clustered in a monastery in the mountains, their version of the Missouri River moved the most stone hearted audience to tears. And through their music, they captured the hearts of a nearby nobleman. The old man was so affected by their song and so hateful towards his own sinful son that he killed his estate to the monks. The priests were happy to use the money to repair their beloved monastery, but fate had other plans.

The old man's son was furious at having his fortunes stolen by the church, he thirsted for vengeance and recruited bandits to come with him to the monastery as dusk fell. The monks took to the center of the chapel to begin their misery. The world seemed to stop as they sang their otherworldly hymn of suffering and penance. Then the bandits stormed the abbey, they bashed in the doors and smashed the windows, they set fire to the pews and altar, but the monks kept singing.

They did not flee. They did not fight. They were slaughtered as they sang and their last notes floated up to the heavens.

While the bandits were successful in destroying the church and the monks inside of it, they could not stop God's will. Once a year during Holy Week, a light shines in the monasteries, ruins the wind, carries the voices of a company of monks singing their misery. It echoes across the mountains and to the river below, calling to all fallen travellers. As Alberto ended the tale, I sat still frozen in awe.

It was exactly the sort of performance that could inspire me to make my own misery divine. I asked the young monk when the anniversary of the slaughter was and was stunned to learn that it was that very night.

I had only hours to make it there. Alberto cautioned me against attending. He said the song belonged to everyone, but the site of the supernatural event was only for the most holy.

I know I am not holy, but I have spent weeks seeing the cold, dead eyes of the man I killed.

And I will do anything to find salvation, even if I risk God's wrath in the process.

Up next, the composer witnesses a ghostly choir, podcasters, if you're fascinated by the mysterious and manipulative side of true crime, you'll love the stories told in the Spotify original from podcast Cults every Tuesday step inside the minds of those who led and followed the most controversial, radical and sometimes deadly organizations in history.

Go beyond the headlines and discover the foundation behind notorious cults like Jim Jones and People's Temple, the Rajneesh Movement, Nexium and more. Each episode of cults is full of illuminating details of their improbable origins and sinister intentions. Doomsday predictions, religious beliefs, extraterrestrial orders. Find out what really happens inside a cult. Follow the podcast series Cults Free on Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts. New episodes Air Weekly every Tuesday.

Hey, Podcasters, Alistair here, if you haven't had a chance to check out the entertaining new podcast, Blind Dating, now's the time to binge what you've missed before, catching all new episodes every Wednesday in this Spotify original from podcast, we're expanding the places you can meet your match with a twist you'll never see coming. Join host Terror Michelle as she introduces one hopeful single to two strangers in a voice only call. Through a series of illuminating games and questions, the trio will get to know one another without the distraction of appearances.

But once the cameras are turned on, is personality still enough for these strangers to fall for each other? Or will they say farewell? Connect with new episodes of blind dating every Wednesday you can find and follow blind dating, free on Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts. Now back to the story. Twenty third of October, 18 01, I thought the young monks tail had prepared me, but I can scarcely believe what I witnessed. Alberto had told me a story of spirits who performed the misery to seek their salvation.

Just as I hope to seek mine. They were a choir of long dead monks singing to escape purgatory. And as I knew their torment would be most educational, I had to see and hear them for myself. The journey up the mountain was perilous, the jagged rocks cut my hands and rain poured down across my face. Still, I felt God was leading me to my destiny. Redemption was within reach and it were to wash my bloody hands clean.

The rain cleared as I climbed higher, revealing the remains of a medieval structure. High stone walls extended into the mist, large spires jutted to the sky, colorful shards of glass littered the ground. Time may have claims the charred pews, but evidence of the violence unleashed here remain.

As the water crashed against the steep cliffs, I found a small perch for myself and waited. All right, sir. As soon I heard a deep, clear voice begin to sing.

I looked around to find the sound, but it seemed muffled, even though there was nothing there to muffle it. Then I saw a dark hooded figure emerge from the air and make its way to where the center of the church once stood when moonlight illuminated his face. My heart trembled. The figure was a skeleton. And it's sang. His voice was impossibly beautiful. I stood in wonderment at the sight and sound. The spirit was quickly followed by almost 20 more, all of them cloaked in robes and all of them singing, they formed two rows inside the ruins of the monastery.

Their voices echoing off the glittering cliffs. Then they began their Miserere in earnest. I thought I already understood the some I had studied its words every sleepless night for what felt like a century. But watching a skeleton chorus sing them among great ruins finally illuminated their deeper meaning each day. And in any concept, as soon as impact implicates, concept may matter. Mayor. For behold, I was conceived in iniquities and in sins, did my mother conceive me, I had sinned greatly, yes, but these holy men were stained when they entered this world, too.

But their holy entreaties were defiled by their unexpected deaths.

Now they could only escape the darkness through penance, eternally singing their heavenly misery. Despite their devout lives as monks, the men were still trapped in purgatory. They had been there for decades, centuries, waiting for God to release them. So they sang, hoping that if they truly perfected their song, God would have mercy and allow them into heaven. I now struggle to convey in ink the beauty that I witnessed in those ruins. I wanted to linger in this song for the rest of my existence.

I felt, in fact, that when this perfect polyphony ended, my life would end to.

I watched as the stones around them slowly lifted from the ground, swirling like the clouds overhead, they thundered as they dropped into place, rebuilding the church, a new.

Pieces of shattered glass hummed and rose off the ground, drawing closer together until they coalesced into the shapes of large windows. Over and over, the monks sang the misery with reverence and fear. Their voices grew thicker, bolder, more alive. And so did they. Their bones ran red with fresh blood. Purple organs clung to pink sinew, which was soon covered by pale skin. Eyes formed where black voids had been. Tongues found their place and empty mouths.

They momentarily brought themselves back to life, hoping to be worthy of heaven. This time around.

This song shook the mountains, I felt it rattling through my spine, my teeth began to chatter in my jaws, then I felt something wet dripping down my neck. I brought my finger to my ears and felt the thick texture of blood. It occurred to me that I should be scared, but all I felt was all. D2C Mayeux Dabis, Gaudium athleticism, x Soutar, Boondocks, humiliator to my hearing, thou shalt give joy and gladness and the bones that have been humble shall rejoice.

A light grew within the church, searing and white, the monks removed their hoods one by one, their harmonies circling like birds on heavenly wings. And as the last monk dropped his covering, I gasped. He had my face.

It was a vision, perhaps even a promise, a promise that I would achieve my goal, but only if my dedication, my striving for perfection, surpassed that of even these monks filled with new purpose. I stood up, but suddenly the world shook and I felt the agony and ecstasy of God. The next thing I knew, I had woken up trapped in the rubble. Blood was caked from my ears to my chest. The church had fallen to ruins again.

There was no sign of the PENITENTE corpses. I was alone, but the sound of the Miserere continued to fill my ears, faint and distorted. Even now, days later, I can hear those two verses as though I was still trapped in the wind. I, too, felt I had been remade in God's image, and now my great work could begin. The 25th of October 1881, I have returned to the Abbey and have been composing with my every waking breath.

My energy has yet to be fully restored, so I must work in bursts. I have written and rewritten the first two verses, adding musical flourishes to evoke those crumbling rocks of the monastery ruin. I feel alive with inspiration again and will stay in isolation until the piece is done. I am sure that the monks are beginning to grow tired of me, but I am grateful for the space and silence. Sixty fourth of October, 18 01, the days of all swam out before me, I feel like my mind is a child's game.

The pieces have been tossed on the floor and I must find a clever way to collect them each time I put my pen to paper. I struggle to bring the world to life. Nothing is as damning as that dark sky and the skeletons emerging from the mist. Nothing sings as well as moonlight through newly formed stained glass. I am tortured by these images in my head that I cannot transcribe. But what is worse is when I am frustrated. I hear that horrible concerto that raised my ire at the rich man with a pocket watch.

The melody chases me just as I chase the misery ray.

First of October 13, 41, I am determined to finish, I depleted the paper and are now forced to write over my old scores. It is exquisite torture to have the sound so close I need it. I hear it all around me, but it refuses to stay on the page.

Three hundred and thirty first of April 380 last night, I ran out of ink, so I took the fire poker and pierced my skin to replenish my stores. My words are so scrawled together now that I can scarcely read what I have written in my blood. Two verses are done. The end is within my grasp. This has been the most harrowing journey of my life, and I am grateful that it will be ending soon. And perhaps a bit sad to.

I do not know the date or time of anything anymore. The months no longer speak to me. I have ordered them to deprive me of my food until I am finished. I fear it is the only way the song will come.

My Bloodborne Inc has lost its thickness, even as I scratched these words out, I can barely read them. Oh, that I had some fresh ink with which to paint my song. But now I have lost the notes. In my mind, my brain is empty. The sounds have left me. I yearn for their return, but I cannot wait an entire year to climb the rocks and listen to the monks again, I have prayed, but God has not answered me.

The monks have taken stolen everything from me. They do not understand I was not trying to hurt myself. I only meant to use the knife to clear my ears, which have grown so silent that I can barely hear a thing. I was just carving out a passage through which more music could travel. I'm running out of space, out of blood, out of time. Everything is slipping away from me. I have not slept since the 21st of October and I'm not sure I ever will again.

Every time I try to close my eyes, I hear the faintest note in the back of my head.

It shouldn't be possible. One of my ears is gone now, but I still hear the melody plain as broken glass in moonlight. Judgment day, I am trying. God save me, I am still trying, I have broken my mind open to do this work. I cannot stop, I must not end times.

I can barely lift my stub of a thumb to the page to smear my truth across it. I have persuaded the sound through the cathedral of my mind a million times, and still it evades me hiding in the darkness between the pews, I must crack open the ceiling itself to expose it to God's light. To do so, I have taken the axe from the yard and brought it to my chambers. It will be a simple, swift motion and all will be well.

My perfect song is only a cut away. November 18th, 1881, testimony from brother Alberto Cabral Bejarano of the Abia Futuro.

It is with great sadness that we mourn the life of the troubled Pater Rearden, we have elected to keep these journal entries in full, as we do believe he witnessed a miracle. Only the strongest souls can endure a glimpse of the Almighty's power, though the Lord illuminates the truth to us all in his own way. We bear witness to Peter's end and to the extreme actions he took in an attempt to see the majesty of the Lord, our savior. May his words show you the power of God.

Gustavo, Adolpho beka's the Miserere is lyrical and evocative, a distinctly Catholic ghost story in which the monks are tragic figures. Even these holy men are not spared from the lesson of the 51 Psalm.

In this tale, BECC points out that the very act of conception and birth involves sin. We are stained when we are born and must therefore perform constant penance. But regardless of a person's level of service to God, cleansing oneself of sin is not easily done. And even the monks who dedicated their lives to faith ultimately condemned to purgatory, they were slain before they could prepare for death.

Becker's story of the misery stands in dialogue with a real Miserere Gregorio Allegories famed choral piece from the mid-Atlantic, hundreds pope and the eighth guarded allegories Miserere so fiercely that he wouldn't let anyone transcribe the work in full. But Legend has it that in 1770, long after Pope Urban the Eighth and Gregorio Allegri had died, and almost a century before BECC published his story, 14 year old Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart attended services at the Sistine Chapel during Holy Week.

Like many, he was moved by the piece. But unlike anyone else, the young Mozart proceeded to transcribe it from memory. Pope Clement, the 14th was more charitable than his predecessor and knighted the boy for his efforts, and the sheet music was published in London the next year. But this transcription and others lacked the strange majesty of Allegri Miserere when it was first sung at the Vatican late Renaissance era vocal ornamentations remained a true church secret, guarded alongside other holy relics.

The original Miserere remains difficult to replicate even today.

But much like the ghostly song in Beka's story, perhaps it was only meant to be heard by those long dead. Thanks again for tuning in to haunted places, ghost stories, we will be back on Thursday with a new episode. You can find more episodes of Ghost Stories and all of the Spotify originals from podcast for free on Spotify.

See you on the other side. Haunted Places Ghost Stories as a Spotify original from podcast.

It is executive produced by Max Cuddler Sound Design by Brian Golub with production assistance by Ron Shapiro, Carly Madden and Isabel Away. This episode of Haunted Places Ghost Stories was written by little Dorita and Jennifer Rachet with writing assistants by Alex Garland, fact checking by Claire Cronin and research by Adriana Gomez and Mikki Taylor. I'm Alastair Murden.

Listeners, there's no better time than right now to make a meaningful connection with the Spotify original from podcast Blind Dating every Wednesday. Find out if there's more to love than just looks follow blind dating, free on Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts.