The Bells of Hollow Creek

The trouble started not long after I moved into the old farmhouse on Hollow Creek Road. It was a fixer-upper, cheap, and I thought the isolation would be good for my writing. The first week was fine, just the usual creaks and drafts. Then the smells began. At first, it was a faint whiff of cheap cigars, like my landlord had smoked in every room before I arrived. Then it grew stronger, mingling with the sharp tang of burning rubber and the acrid bite of smoke that would appear in a column right in front of me, leaving a charred scent that lingered even after I opened the windows. But the worst was the smell of rotting flesh, sweet and sickly, that would come and go at odd hours. My grandmother, a devout woman, insisted on having her priest come by. He did a blessing, but instead of calming things, it seemed to anger whatever was here. Soon, I started hearing footsteps in the hallway, soft but deliberate, and murmurings of conversation when I knew I was alone.

I tried to rationalize it all as the old house settling, as drafts and wildlife. But last Saturday, the nineteenth of September, I was jolted awake by a sound that cut through the quiet: cowbells. Loud, jangling cowbells right outside my window. Now, I knew my great-uncle had a collection of rusted cowbells in the back shed, but they were clapperless, useless, and the window faced the front yard. I figured it was neighborhood kids playing a prank, so I pulled on my boots and went outside to shoo them off. The yard was empty, bathed in the pale light of a gibbous moon. The fence gate was swinging slightly, though there was no wind. I walked to the gate, and that’s when I saw them: a line of figures standing at the edge of the tree line, maybe a dozen of them, all facing me. They didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. But each of them held a cowbell, and as I stood there, they all raised their arms in unison and rang the bells once.

I backed toward the house, my heart hammering. When I dared to look again, the figures were gone. But the bells kept ringing, coming from all directions now, from the woods, from the barn, from inside the house. I rushed inside and locked the door, but I could still hear them, muffled, as if they were in the walls. Then the footsteps started again, heavier this time, stomping up the stairs. I grabbed a flashlight and a kitchen knife, every cell telling me to run, but my legs wouldn’t move. The footsteps stopped right outside my bedroom door. I held my breath. The doorknob turned slowly. I screamed, and then the door burst open with a thunderous crack, and a wave of cold air washed over me, carrying the stench of rot and burnt hair. In the doorway stood a figure—tall, thin, with a face that was mostly shadows, but I could see its eyes, pale and empty. It didn’t speak, but I heard its voice in my head, a dry rasp: ‘You should not have come here.’

I don’t remember much after that. I woke up in the hospital with a broken arm and a concussion. The doctors said I crashed my car on the old bridge. But I know what I saw. And ever since I’ve been back in the city, in this tiny apartment, I haven’t been alone. There’s a smell of smoke that follows me, and sometimes, when I’m about to fall asleep, I hear cowbells in the distance, getting closer. Last night, I looked out my window, and there they were again, the same figures, standing under the streetlight, all facing my building. They rang their bells in unison, and I felt the cool touch of something wrap around my ankle. I’m writing this now because I know they’re coming for me, and I don’t think I’ll survive the night. If you find this, don’t go to Hollow Creek Road. Don’t ever listen for the bells.