The Misadventure of Marvin The Magnificient

Chapter 5:The Singing Caves and the Banshee Karaoke Debacle

Chapter 5: The Singing Caves and the Banshee Karaoke Debacle

The next morning, Marvin awoke to Bartholomew standing on his chest.

“Up,” the goat grunted. “We’re late.”

“For what?” Marvin yawned.

“For possibly dying in an acoustically cursed cavern,” Relka said from the doorway, already packed and visibly annoyed. “Let’s move.”

Marvin groaned, rolled off the straw mattress, and accidentally set his left sock on fire while trying to summon pants. He considered that a win.

The road to the Singing Caves wound through a landscape so oddly cheerful it felt like nature was trying too hard. Birds chirped too harmoniously, flowers arranged themselves into suspicious smiley faces, and a nearby squirrel offered them tea.

“I don’t trust this,” Relka muttered.

“Maybe we’ve crossed into a children’s book,” Marvin suggested.

“That squirrel just mugged a badger,” Bartholomew pointed out.

They passed the brawling woodland creatures and eventually reached the mouth of the Singing Caves, a yawning, jagged hole in a cliffside humming with eerie melody.

“Do you hear that?” Marvin asked.

“Yes,” Relka said, drawing a dagger. “And I already hate it.”

The music was haunting—soprano voices wailing in the distance, echoing through the stone, singing lines like:

“Ooooh the bones, the bones, the rattling bones…”

“That’s either a choir or a cult,” Bartholomew said.

“Or both,” Relka added.

Inside, the cave twisted and turned like it had been designed by a drunk worm. The singing grew louder, more discordant. They passed what looked like an ancient microphone stand made of femurs.

“I feel like we’ve entered an open mic night for the damned,” Marvin whispered.

“You have,” hissed a voice.

They turned to see a glowing figure emerge from the shadows: translucent, floating, dressed in tattered robes and holding a crystal microphone.

“Banshee,” Relka growled, stepping in front of Marvin.

“Correction,” the banshee said, adjusting her hair dramatically, “I am Lady Harmonica Screechwail, five-time winner of the Afterlife’s Got Talent competition. Prepare... for the final performance!”

She opened her mouth—and unleashed a shriek so powerful it shattered a nearby stalagmite and curled Marvin’s hair.

“AHH!” Marvin yelled. “MY EYEBROWS!”

Bartholomew, unfazed, pulled a flute from his saddlebag.

“Excuse me,” he said politely. “May I challenge you to a sing-off?”

Lady Screechwail hovered mid-shriek. “A what?”

“A duel of vocals. Goat vs ghost.”

Relka facepalmed. “Why is this our life?”

And so began the Great Karaoke Duel of Pebbletwig.

Lady Screechwail went first, belting a banshee ballad titled “Lament of the Eternally Misfiled Souls.” It caused three minor rockslides, two cave bats to retire early, and Marvin to weep from one eye.

Then Bartholomew stepped forward, cleared his throat, and played “Funky Hooves”—a jazz-bleat fusion track with soul, spice, and questionable rhythm. It somehow summoned glowing butterflies and a small raincloud that clapped in time.

The cave held its breath.

Then erupted in applause. Literal applause. The walls clapped.

Lady Screechwail narrowed her eyes. “I concede. Your goat has soul.”

“I know,” Bartholomew said. “I’m practically a hoofed bard.”

She floated back, smiling. “As promised, you may pass… and take this.”

She held out a glimmering shard of crystal—one of the missing mana conduits.

Marvin grabbed it reverently. “This... is incredible. And slightly damp.”

Lady Screechwail winked. “I spit on it a little.”

Relka gagged.

They left the cave triumphant, glowing shard in hand, egos inflated, eardrums recovering.

“We’ve got two beacons now,” Marvin said. “That’s, like, almost a collection.”

“We’ve also made enemies of a sandwich ghost and become legend in the afterlife karaoke circuit,” Relka added.

Bartholomew nodded. “We’re thriving.”

As they walked back toward Pebbletwig, something rustled in the woods. A shadow passed overhead. And far, far away, another beacon began to glow.