“That bell hasn’t been sounded since the night of the fire,” said Jethro.
“No more it has nor should be ever,” added Mari Clutterfield. “That’s a bell outa Hell.
It should never be rung; never.”
‘Never’ was a word young Father Finn didn’t care for.
“And how long ago was this fire?” he inquired.
They all turned to Sal who looked as if she wasn’t listening but was taking in every word. She looked up from her embroidery. “A hundred year.”
“A century? You can’t remember back a century,” said the priest.
“Who’s you to know what folks remember and what they doesn’t remember?” Jethro said.
“But”
“If Ole Sal says it’s a hundred year, it’s a hundred year.”
Finn estimated Sal was in her eighties but there were no parish records of any kind and so it was difficult to be sure. He was pretty certain she wasn’t a hundred and anything – on grounds of probability for a start.
“So how far back do you remember, Sal?”
Sal looked him straight in the eye. Her face seemed timeless, her expression inscrutable. Her thin lips had no colour and her pinpoint pupils, embedded in pale grey irises, looked sharp enough to pierce the soul. Her hair curled in wispy strands about her face, but it was thin and sparse. She reminded him of an angel in the church window when he was a boy. He used to stare at that angel during long masses and it would stare back, medieval, unmoving and unmoved by all the lives it saw come and go – christenings, weddings, funerals – all one to those unheeding eyes. Sal was like that now. Her face said, ‘You do not question me,’ though she said not a word and the young priest lost his train of thought.
“So, back to the business of the bell,” he said.
“There is no business to be discussed,” said Jethro. “You’m meddling, Sir. That bell’ll not be rung by any in this parish ‘cept by yourself p’rhaps and you’re a damned if you do.”
“I am a man of the church. That bell is perfectly sound and we need the benefits of a larger congregation. I’ll not be damned and that bell will be rung.” He avoided the disapprobation of Sal’s gaze.
“Any other business?”
There was silence. Somehow Jethro and Sal were in cahoots.
“I declare this meeting at an end.” He closed the minutes and stalked out of the room.
“Well I never!” declared Miss Clutterfield.
Father Finn was over six feet tall and sturdily built; assured of his presence in and out of the pulpit and he was used to having his way. He determined to ring the bell on Easter Sunday and that would be that.
Easter Sunday fell in March and a low mist hung about the fields and in the graveyard turning slowly to flame as the sun came up. Early frost lingered by the lych-gate and so did the congregation – mostly strangers to Finn. Jethro barred the way as he approached. Sal stood at one side, pale and insubstantial like a wan spirit. Others had gathered to see what would occur.
“You will not dissuade me,” said the priest.
“If you ring that damned bell we’ll not be setting foot in that church this day.”
“Very well. Now the key please.”
Jethro handed it over. “It’s a fact not a threat,” called Jethro after him.
The key felt heavy in the lock. It creaked and growled with unaccustomed pains. Inside, the old rope shimmered like new silk. Finn felt it tingle in his hand as he reached out. He looked up through the gap to see that the bell was seated in its wheel. Then he coiled the rope around his hand and saying a silent prayer, for he was shaking, he pulled upon it gently and waited for the clear bright sound of the bell. The sound did not come – just screaming; people screaming in agonies of torment and from beneath the floor, flames rose and ignited his cassock. Living fingers of flame caught his flesh and blistered his feet. Father Finn ran from the bell tower crying out for help. He was greeted instead with laughter. Sal and Jethro chanted an incantation by the gate and all the congregation of the dead – victims of the hundred year fire, mocked him in his death throes.
“I cannot be damned! I am a man of G..”
His final word was drowned out by the bell. It rang out repeatedly a satanic rhythm of its own making – a savage, triumphant discord. For the second time in a hundred years the tower burned as did its virgin sacrifice. There in the churchyard, Ole Sal regained her youth and danced with young Jethro just as they had centuries ago when he had forged that bell – or so Miss Clutterfied says but then she lost her marbles years ago. She’s that lady who hears bells.
_____________________________
©2011 Oonah Joslin
Oonah is Managing Editor at everydaypoets.com and three times a winner of the Microhorror Hallowe’en Competition. You can find links to more stories and poems on her blog at oovj.wordpress.com
Tags: Oonah V. Joslin
January 25th, 2012 at 5:25 am
[...] have a story in Flashes in the Dark “That Bell” It is slightly longer on horror than my usual fare but chilling enough for a Burn’s Night [...]
January 25th, 2012 at 9:50 am
Excellent scary tale. Really enjoyed.