The Last Bell of St. Augustine

In a quiet village nestled between dense woods and rolling hills stood a long-abandoned church known as St Augustine. It had once been the pride of the town, its bell ringing proudly every Sunday morning. But the bell had not rung for over fifty years. Not since the fire.

The church was rarely mentioned by villagers. It was as if it had vanished from their minds. Children were warned not to go near it, and those who did returned pale and silent, never explaining what they had seen.

Eliot Langley was a journalist from the city, young and curious. He had heard of the village and its abandoned church while researching haunted places for a magazine article. A story about a ghost bell that still rang at midnight on some nights caught his interest. Locals claimed the sound could be heard on foggy nights when the moon was hidden, echoing softly through the trees like a warning.

Eliot arrived on a cloudy afternoon. The village looked peaceful, almost too peaceful. He asked around about the church, but most people shut their doors or shook their heads. Only an old man at the inn, named Harold, spoke to him.

"You want to know about St Augustine?" Harold asked, his voice gravelly. "You're not the first to come poking around. Most never come back the same. Some don't come back at all."

Eliot leaned forward. "What happened there?"

Harold stared at the fire in the inn's hearth. "It was a fire. Fifty-one years ago. Sunday morning. The place was full. Pastor Merrick was giving the sermon when the bell tower burst into flames. Some say it was lightning. Others say it was something else."

"What else?"

As if weighing his words, Harold paused. "There was a boy. William. Strange child. Spoke to shadows. They said he cursed the church before he vanished. They never found his body."

"And the bell?"

Harold looked up. "It fell during the fire. Killed the pastor. Since then, people say they hear it ring at night. No one has dared go near it after dark."

Eliot walked to the forest's edge that evening. The church stood in the distance, half-buried in fog. Its roof had caved in, the stained-glass windows shattered. Trees had grown through the walls, and ivy covered much of the stone. Yet the bell tower still stood, blackened by smoke but eerily intact.

Eliot waited. Midnight came. The air grew still. And then, faint and distant, came the sound of the bell.

Ding.

Ding.

Ding.

It rang three times, slow and heavy. Eliot felt a chill run down his spine. He turned on his flashlight and stepped into the woods, walking toward the church.

The path was overgrown, branches clawing at his jacket. The air grew colder with every step. He reached the iron gate, rusted and hanging open. Inside, the church smelled of damp earth and ash. Leaves crunched beneath his feet as he entered.

The bell tower loomed above. Eliot climbed the stairs, which groaned under his weight. At the top, he found the bell, hanging perfectly still. No wind. No movement.

He took a photo. Then another. Suddenly, his flashlight flickered and went out.

Darkness.

He fumbled for his phone, but the screen remained black. Then he heard it. A whisper.

"William..."

His neck was brushed by a cold breath. He spun around, but no one was there.

"Get out..." the voice hissed.

Eliot stumbled down the stairs, nearly falling. He burst into the open air and ran all the way back to the inn.

The next morning, he packed his things. Harold watched him from behind the counter.

"You saw it, didn't you?" he asked.

Eliot nodded slowly. "Something is still there. I felt it."

Harold looked away. "Some say William never died. The fire, according to some, opened a portal between worlds. And that bell... it rings for the dead."

That day, Eliot left the village, but the bell's sound stayed with him. He wrote his article, but left out the part about the whisper. About the cold breath. About the feeling that something had followed him.

A week later, in his apartment in the city, Eliot woke at midnight. The room was dark. The air was still. And from the distance, carried through the wind and concrete and glass, he heard it.

Ding.

Ding.

Ding.

The bell of St Augustine.