The Bellringer’s Toll

The church bell’s toll was the first thing I heard when I moved to Ravensreach. It sounded at midnight, loud and clear, though the clock tower—a crumbling relic of stone and ivy—hadn’t been used for decades. The locals brushed it off, offering little more than muttered warnings to “ignore the toll.”

But I couldn’t.

I moved to the village for solitude, looking for an escape after my wife’s death. The old cottage I rented stood on the edge of town, with a clear view of the tower. On my first night, the bell rang twelve times. Each chime reverberated through the valley, low and mournful. By the final toll, I felt a presence—a heaviness—as though unseen eyes were watching from the shadows.

By the third night, curiosity outweighed fear. I grabbed a flashlight and walked the overgrown path to the churchyard. The tower loomed above, its silhouette sharp against the moonlit sky. The air grew colder as I approached, my breath visible in the unnatural chill.

The door to the bell tower creaked open, unlocked. Inside, the air was thick with dust and decay. My flashlight cut through the darkness, revealing stone stairs spiraling upward. With each step, the toll of the bell echoed in my ears, louder now, though the clapper hung still when I reached the top.

The bellroom was empty, save for the massive iron bell. Its surface was tarnished, etched with strange symbols that seemed to shift in the dim light. My flashlight flickered, and for a moment, I thought I saw a figure standing behind the bell. A man, cloaked and hooded, his face obscured.

Then he vanished.

I stumbled back down the stairs, heart pounding, but the door wouldn’t budge. The tolling resumed, deafening now, though the bell remained motionless. Whispers joined the sound, soft and insistent. They spoke my name, over and over, until I screamed for them to stop.

They didn’t.

When I finally broke free and ran back to my cottage, I found the front door open. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of burning wax. On the table lay a single black candle, melted into a pool of dark red wax, though I hadn’t lit a candle since arriving.

The tolling hasn’t stopped. It follows me now, a constant presence, though no one else can hear it. At night, I see him: the Bellringer. He stands in the corner of my room, cloaked in shadow, his hands gripping the rope that’s never there. When the bell tolls, his head tilts, and though I can’t see his face, I feel his gaze piercing through me.

The whispers have grown louder. They speak of debts unpaid, of promises broken. I’ve searched the town’s history, combed through every record, but there’s nothing about the Bellringer. Nothing but a vague warning passed down through generations: “The toll is never without cost.”

I don’t know what I owe him, but I know what he wants. Each night, he steps closer, and the toll grows louder. I can’t escape it.

If you hear the bell, leave Ravensreach. Don’t ask questions. Don’t look back. And whatever you do, don’t answer the whispers.