The Hollow Bell Farm

In the autumn of 1987, my cousin Marcus and I drove out to the old Hollow Bell Farm, a place that locals had whispered about for decades. The farm sat at the end of a dirt road that wound through a dense, gnarled forest, and the only thing left of it was a collapsed barn and the stone foundation of a house. We’d heard the stories: lights flickering in the windows of a house that no longer stood, the sound of a dinner bell ringing at odd hours, and the feeling of being watched from the treeline. I’d always dismissed them as typical rural folklore, but Marcus, newly returned from a stint in the army, was curious. He’d dragged me out here with a six-pack of beer and a flashlight that cast a weak, yellow beam.

We parked the truck at the edge of the property, the engine ticking as it cooled. The air was thick with the smell of rotting leaves and damp earth. The moon was nearly full, but clouds scudded across it, making the landscape shift between silver light and pitch black. Marcus popped two beers and handed me one. ‘You ever hear about the family that lived here?’ he asked. I shook my head. He leaned against the hood, his breath fogging. ‘They say a woman went mad here in the 1920s. Her husband was a farmer, and they had a daughter. The girl got sick and died. The mother, she started ringing this big brass bell she kept on the porch, every night, thinking it would call the girl home. Eventually, she died too, ringing that bell. Her husband stayed on, but he was never right. He’d sit on the porch, listening for the bell, until he passed in the ’40s. Since then, people claim to hear it.’

I took a long swallow of my beer, trying to ignore the chill that ran down my spine. ‘It’s just a story,’ I said. But as we stood there, a sound reached us—a faint, tinny clang, like a distant bell. We both froze. Marcus whispered, ‘Did you hear that?’ I nodded, my throat tight. The clang came again, closer. Then a third time, as if the bell was moving toward us through the trees. We exchanged a look, and without a word, we headed toward the foundation, our boots crunching on the gravel.

The foundation was a low rectangle of crumbling stones, filled with weeds and debris. In the center, a blackened pit marked where a fire had once burned. As we approached, the bell rang again, now right on top of us. It was coming from the pit. We peered down, and in the faint light, I saw something glinting at the bottom. Marcus pointed. ‘There’s something down there.’ He knelt, reaching his arm into the hole, but his hand came up empty. ‘It’s too deep.’ He stood and kicked a loose stone, which tumbled into the darkness. The bell rang once more, and then a voice—a woman’s voice—rose from the pit, singing a lullaby, sweet and haunting. My blood ran cold.

We stumbled back, and the singing stopped. The clouds parted, and the moon illuminated the clearing. I saw the woodline begin to shift, as if the trees were closing in. Marcus grabbed my arm, his grip iron. ‘We need to go,’ he said. We turned to run, but the truck was gone. In its place stood a tall, gaunt figure, silhouetted against the moonlight, holding a small bell. It raised the bell and rang it. The sound was deafening, and I felt a pulling sensation, as if my soul was being yanked toward it. Marcus shouted my name, but his voice was drowned out by the ringing. The figure began to walk toward us, its movements jerky, like a marionette.

I tried to scream, but no sound came out. The figure reached me, and I saw its face—a woman’s face, withered and hollow, with eyes like black pits. She pressed the bell into my chest, and I felt a terrible coldness seep into my bones. ‘Bring her back,’ she said, her voice like rustling leaves. ‘Ring the bell, and she will come.’ She shoved me, and I fell backward into the foundation, the stones scraping my back. I landed in the pit, and the world went dark.

When I woke, I was lying on the ground next to the truck. The sun was rising, and Marcus was shaking me, his face pale. ‘You passed out,’ he said. ‘I dragged you out of there. What the hell happened?’ I tried to speak, but my throat was raw. I looked around, and the foundation was gone. In its place was a field of tall grass, undisturbed. I thought it had been a nightmare, but when I raised my hand to rub my face, I saw a small brass bell clutched in my fist. It was warm, despite the morning chill.

We drove back in silence, and I threw the bell out the window on the highway. But I still hear it at night. Every night, from somewhere deep in the woods, a faint clang, just at the edge of hearing. And when I close my eyes, I see the woman’s face, waiting. She’s still out there, ringing her bell, calling for her daughter. And now she knows I heard her. She knows I have the bell. I think she’s coming for me.