Back in the 1700s, the Candia Cemetery was a stiff, proper place. Tall slate gravestones stood in neat rows, each one carved with winged skulls and solemn angels that watched over the dead. The air was heavy with prayers and silence.
But centuries passed, and silence turned into boredom. By the 2000s, the place wasn’t solemn anymore—it was just empty, forgotten, and cracked. That’s when the little demon punks showed up.
Nobody knows exactly where they came from—maybe a botched séance, maybe a cosmic accident involving a broken record player—but they’ve claimed the cemetery as their turf.
And these aren’t your average demons. They look like cartoon mascots that got kicked out of Hell for being “too rowdy.” One’s got a bubblegum-pink mohawk and baggy pants with chains that rattle louder than the wind. Another’s a stubby gremlin with a crooked grin, a sleeveless vest full of safety pins, and boots way too big for his legs. The tiniest one—a gremlin-cat punk—handles lead vocals, yowling into a busted karaoke mic that somehow feeds off the cemetery’s static charge.
The old headstones? Those are their canvases now, spray-painted with slogans like “MORBID LIFE FOREVER” and "NO GODS, NO TOMBSTONES.” The cracked marble steps of the family vault? That’s their stage. The Puritan ghosts buried beneath the moss? They’re the unwilling audience, forced to endure eternal midnight concerts.
Every night, the demon punks crank their amps, shredding noise so raw it makes even the dead roll over. Their shows are sloppy, loud, and absolutely cursed. And yet… some folks swear if you sneak through the cemetery after midnight, you’ll leave with your hair spiked by ghostly static, your shoes mysteriously untied, and a strange urge to start a band.
The demon punks don’t care if you’re alive, dead, or somewhere in between. If you show up, you’re part of the pit.
