The Bell at Ward’s Point

I’m sorry I haven’t written in so long. But I had to put this down while the details are still sharp in my mind.

We’re in New Zealand for my sister’s wedding—she married a Kiwi she met during her exchange year. The wedding was on the 14th of February, and we’ve been staying at a restored lighthouse keeper’s cottage on the Otago Peninsula, near Dunedin. The cottage is charming, with thick stone walls and a wrap-around porch overlooking the churning Pacific. The owners, the Hendersons, live in the main house up the hill and left us a basket of scones and a note about the local seals and the historic bell tower that sits on a cliff about a kilometer away. They said the bell was used in the old days to warn ships, but it’s been silent for decades. They warned us not to ring it, just as a precaution, because ‘it brings bad luck.’ I laughed it off.

On our second day, my brother, Liam, and I decided to hike to the bell tower. The path was muddy and overgrown, but we pushed through. The tower was a squat, granite structure with a rusted iron bell hanging from a wooden beam. The beam was cracked, but the bell itself looked pristine. Liam, always the joker, grabbed the rope and gave it a tug. A deep, resonant tone boomed across the cliffs, startling a flock of gulls. We laughed, but a chill ran down my spine. That night, I had a dream: I was standing in the tower, and the bell was ringing by itself, and a voice whispered, ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’ I woke up, convinced I felt the floor vibrate.

Over the next few days, strange things began to happen. My phone would ring, but when I answered, there was only static. My sister, Emma, found a fish head on her pillow, though we had no idea how it got there. Then, our parents started arguing about things that never happened—like my dad forgetting their anniversary, which he’d never done. I tried to dismiss it as wedding stress, but the tension was palpable. The Hendersons came by to check on us, and I mentioned the bell. Their faces went pale. Mr. Henderson said, ‘You rang it? Oh, no. That bell was forged from the hull of the Wreck of the Maheno, a ship that went down in a storm in 1947. The survivors said the bell rang on its own as the ship went down, and anyone who rings it after will have their own shipwreck.’

He told us the legend: the bell is cursed. It calls to the sea, and the sea answers. And if you ring it, the sea will come for you. We laughed it off, but that night, the wind howled like a living thing, and the waves crashed against the cliffs with unnatural fury. In the morning, we found a dead seal on the beach, its body twisted, as if it had been struck by something massive. Liam was visibly shaken. He admitted he’d had nightmares of drowning, of being pulled into a dark whirlpool.

On the day of the wedding, the weather turned apocalyptic. The sky turned green, and a wall of fog rolled in from the sea. The ceremony was moved indoors to the cottage, and everyone tried to keep spirits high. But during the vows, Emma’s ring slipped and rolled under the piano. As she bent to pick it up, she screamed. We rushed over, and there, carved into the floorboards, was a warning: ‘THE BELL CALLS.’

That night, after the guests left, we sat in the living room, trying to make sense of it. Liam confessed he hadn’t just rung the bell once—he’d rung it three times, ‘for good luck.’ My blood ran cold. I remembered the old legend: three rings summon the drowned, and they will come to take you to the deep. We decided to leave the next morning, but as we packed, we heard a sound from the cliff: the bell, ringing on its own. We ran to the window. The fog had cleared, and we could see the tower. The bell was swinging violently, as if invisible hands were pulling the rope. And below, in the water, there were shapes—pale, bloated figures, floating on the surface, staring up at us.

We fled the cottage, drove to a hotel in Dunedin, and spent the rest of the trip in a daze, never speaking of it. But I can’t shake the feeling that we brought something back with us. Last night, I heard a faint ringing from the bathroom. I opened the door, and the mirror was fogged, and written in the condensation was ‘YOU CAN’T ESCAPE.’ I’m too afraid to look behind the shower curtain. I don’t know what’s waiting for us, but I know one thing: we rang the bell, and the sea will collect its due.

We’re flying home tomorrow, but I have a terrible feeling that the bell will ring again—and this time, it will be for me.