Sayantan Bhattacharya
The village of Greystone sat on the edge of the moorlands, where the sky always seemed a shade too gray and the winds carried whispers only the old dared to interpret. People rarely left, and even fewer arrived. Those who did often left soon—troubled, changed, or not at all.
At the heart of the village stood the remnants of St. Cyprian’s Church, a crumbling stone relic with no roof and a bell tower that cast long shadows over the graves below. The bell had not rung in decades, not since the fire in 1893. But every year, on the last night of October, some claimed to hear a low, hollow tolling from the tower, as if the bell mourned something long buried.
For most villagers, this tale had passed into myth. But for Rowan Ellis, a young folklore researcher from London, it was a mystery begging to be unraveled.
Rowan arrived in Greystone with a notebook, a camera, and a skeptical heart. She had read about the Hollow Bell in an obscure collection of English legends and dismissed it as poetic embellishment. But a recent letter, unsigned and postmarked from Greystone, had changed her mind:
“The bell rings for the ones who listen. Come All Hallows’ Eve, and you shall hear the dead speak.”
That was all it said. She checked into the only inn in the village, a small place called The Lamb’s Hollow, run by an elderly couple named Martha and Edmund Lane. They were kind, but guarded.
“I’m here researching local folklore,” Rowan explained over tea.
“Then you’ve come at the right time,” Edmund muttered. “Or the wrong one, depending on your appetite for fear.”
Martha looked up sharply. “Don’t encourage her.”
“I’m not,” Edmund said. “I’m warning her.”
They spoke no more about it that night.
On her first morning, Rowan explored the ruins of St. Cyprian’s. The church stood alone on a rise, surrounded by ancient, lichen-covered tombstones. The bell tower loomed, gutted by fire, its iron stairs twisted and broken. The bell itself—if it still existed—was hidden from view.
She took pictures, jotted notes, and sketched the surrounding headstones. Most were illegible, but a few bore dates from the 1800s. One, half-buried and cracked, simply read: E. T. – Forgive the Ring
A cryptic epitaph. She added it to her notes. That evening, she visited the village pub. The locals were wary of strangers, but the ale was good, and after a pint or two, tongues loosened.
“Aye, the bell still rings,” said a man named Harold. “But only for those who hear regret.”
“What does that mean?” Rowan asked.
“Means you’ll hear it if you’ve done something terrible.”
“Or if something terrible is meant for you,” chimed another.
They laughed nervously and changed the subject. Rowan walked back to the inn through the dark lanes, the wind howling like a wounded beast. Behind her, she thought she heard footsteps on gravel—but when she turned, the path was empty.
On the 31st of October, Rowan returned to the church just before dusk. She brought a recorder, a flashlight, and her resolve.
The sky was low and heavy with clouds, threatening rain. A murder of crows circled the tower before scattering toward the moors. Inside the ruin, silence reigned, save for the wind moaning through the empty windows.
She set up near the old altar, positioning her recorder toward the bell tower.The hours passed. At midnight, she heard it. A deep, bone-shaking toll, resonating from above.
Rowan jumped, nearly dropping her flashlight. She scanned the tower—still no sign of a bell. The sound came again, louder this time, as if from the very air. Then, with a sudden burst of cold, the wind ceased. And she was not alone. A figure stood at the far end of the nave. Pale, thin, and barely solid. A man, dressed in priestly robes blackened with soot. His eyes, hollow pits of shadow, locked onto hers. The figure raised a hand, pointing toward the bell tower. Then he vanished. Rowan staggered back, heart pounding. She grabbed her recorder and ran.
Back at the inn, she reviewed the tape. At midnight, the recorder captured the exact sound she heard: a resonant bell, three slow chimes. But there was something else beneath it—whispers. Faint, almost like static, but unmistakably voices. She played it again. One whisper grew clearer than the rest: “Forgive the ring…”
Rowan couldn’t sleep. She reread her notes, researched the fire in 1893. The church had burned during a Halloween sermon. No one knew how it started, but thirteen people perished—including the vicar, Elias Thorne.
The next morning, Rowan returned to the ruins in daylight. She climbed the outer wall of the tower using the scaffolding left by restoration workers years ago. At the top, she found the remains of the bell. Or rather, a fragment of it.
The rest lay shattered on the stone floor, blackened and twisted. Burn marks covered the tower walls. Rowan noticed something odd—beneath the rubble, a trapdoor, almost hidden. She forced it open. A narrow passage led into the tower’s foundation. She descended with her flashlight trembling in her grip. At the bottom was a small chamber—circular, stone-lined. In the center stood a pedestal, and upon it, a metal object: a handbell. Blackened like the rest. She reached out. The moment her fingers touched the bell, a cold burned through her arm. The flashlight flickered—and died.
In the darkness, a whisper: “You heard it. You answered.”
A shriek pierced the silence, not human, not alive. That night, she packed. Whatever she’d come to find, she’d found enough. The legends were real. The bell did ring. And it was cursed.
But when she tried to leave the inn, Martha blocked her way.
“You can’t leave now, dear,” she said softly. “Not until you finish.”
“Finish what?”
Edmund appeared behind her. “You rang the bell.”
“I didn’t! I just touched—”
“Doesn’t matter. The bell is listening now.”
Rowan backed away. “You knew all along.”
Martha nodded. “The bell chooses someone every year. It’s the only way to keep the rest of us safe.”
Realization hit Rowan like a blow. “You used me.”
“We guided you,” Edmund said, almost gently. “That’s different.”
She fled to the church, the only place she could think of. Rain lashed the stones as the sky split with thunder. Inside, the air was thick and bitter, like smoke and rot. The bell toll sounded again. Once. Twice. On the third chime, the dead came. They rose from the graves—burned, twisted, hollow-eyed. Among them walked Elias Thorne. Rowan tried to run, but the pews shifted, trapping her. The spirits formed a circle. The vicar spoke.
“You heard the toll. You took the bell. You carry our sin.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You must finish the rite.”
A burned hand pointed to the altar. There lay the handbell.
Trembling, Rowan stepped forward. She understood now. Every year, someone had to take the guilt of the past. Someone had to ring the bell. She lifted it.
“Let it end,” she whispered. She rang the bell once.
A sound like a storm erupted. Screams filled the air—not just from the dead, but from within her own mind. Pain. Fire. Memory. Then—silence. The spirits were gone. The rain stopped.
In the morning, the sun rose clear over Greystone for the first time in years. Rowan stood alone in the church ruins, the bell in her hand. She walked back to the inn. Martha and Edmund waited, solemn.
“It’s over?” Rowan asked.
“For now,” Martha said. “You survived. That’s more than most.”
“What do I do with this?” She held up the bell.
“Keep it. You’re its bearer now.”
Rowan left Greystone that afternoon. She never returned. But every year, on Halloween, she rings the bell once. And listens for the dead.
The End
