The Hollow Bell

The air in the city had turned sour with the smell of rain and exhaust, but the farmhouse was a world apart. It sat alone in a wide, flat valley, its whitewashed walls glowing faintly under the bruised sky. We had come on motorbikes, a convoy of ten, laughing and swerving on the dusty road that ran from the city’s edge into the dark fields. By the time we arrived, the last light was dying, and the farmhouse looked less like a retreat and more like a forgotten tooth in a giant’s jaw.

Inside, warm lamps pushed back the gloom. We ate, drank, and played games, our voices filling the old rooms. The clock on the mantel ticked unevenly, but we paid it no mind. Then, at some point past ten, my phone buzzed. It was my mother, her voice tight as a wire. My aunt and uncle had come from a distant town, and they would leave at dawn. They wanted to see me, just for a moment. I tried to explain, but she said it would be rude, disrespectful. I hung up, the joy in the room turning to ash in my mouth.

I told the others I had to go. They protested, but I was already pulling on my jacket. My friend Maya offered to come with me, but I shook my head. ‘It’s fine. I’ll be back in an hour.’ The door swung shut behind me, cutting off their calls.

Outside, the night had deepened. The moon was a thin sliver, and the stars were smeared by a high, thin cloud. My bike was parked near a rusted tractor, its headlight cutting a weak cone into the dark. I kick-started the engine, and it coughed to life, the sound swallowed by the emptiness around me.

The road home was a ribbon of gravel and dirt, bordered by tall, dry grass that whispered in the breeze. About a kilometer in, something caught my eye. A faint light, white and pulsing, off to the left, among the trees. It was rhythmic, like a heartbeat. I slowed down, squinting. There was nothing supposed to be out there. No houses, no power lines. Just groves of old olive trees and a dry riverbed.

The light pulsed again, stronger now. My engine sputtered, as if the bike itself was afraid. I twisted the throttle, and it responded, but the light matched my speed. It was pacing me, staying just at the edge of my vision. My heart hammered. I thought of the stories my grandmother used to tell, of a bell that rang in the valley to guide lost souls home. But this was no bell. This was silent.

I pressed on, and the road began to curve. The light vanished, and I felt a wave of relief. Then I saw it. A figure standing in the middle of the road, no more than fifty meters ahead. It was tall, impossibly thin, draped in a white cloth that didn’t move in the wind. It had no face, only a smooth oval where features should be. And in its hand, it held a bell. A small, brass bell, tarnished and covered in dust.

I slammed on the brakes, the bike skidding to a halt. The figure didn’t move. The bell in its hand began to swing, slowly, silently. The air grew cold, and I could see my breath. The bell swung faster, and I heard a sound, not a ring, but a hollow, deep thrumming that seemed to come from inside my skull. The figure tilted its head, and I saw that it was not a face at all, but a gaping hole, endlessly black.

I tried to turn the bike around, but the engine died. The thrumming grew louder, and the figure took a step forward. Its movement was wrong, as if it was not walking but being dragged. I abandoned the bike and ran, scrambling over a low stone wall and into the fields. The grass was tall and sharp, cutting my hands. I didn’t look back. I ran until my lungs burned, until I collapsed on the cold, hard earth.

When I opened my eyes, it was dawn. I was lying in a shallow ditch, covered in mud and dew. The farmhouse was a distant smudge on the horizon. I walked back, my legs shaking. The others were awake, worried sick. They said I had been gone all night. I told them nothing. I couldn’t.

Later, when I went back for my bike, it was still there, but the battery was dead, and there was a fine layer of dust on the seat, as if it had been sitting for weeks. As I pushed it back to the farmhouse, I saw the bell lying in the dirt near where the figure had stood. I picked it up. It was cold, and there were no markings on it, but when I shook it, it made no sound.

I haven’t ridden a bike since. I’ve moved back to the city, but sometimes, at night, I hear that hollow thrumming, deep in my bones. And I remember the figure, standing there, with its bell. I wonder if it’s still waiting on that road, waiting for the next traveler to pass by. And I wonder if one day, I’ll hear the bell ring, and I’ll have to follow it into the darkness.