The Idle Bell

In 2009, I had just bought a second-hand courier van, a battered gray Mitsubishi L300 that I’d converted into a makeshift camper. I spent most weekends driving the winding mountain roads of northern Luzon, chasing the cool breeze and the quiet solitude of the highlands. One balmy October evening, a distant cousin who managed a small coffee farm in the Cordillera range invited me to their harvest festival. The drive from Manila to Baguio usually took five hours, but I planned to leave at 2 AM to avoid the traffic and enjoy the night roads.

I fueled up at a 24-hour station along EDSA, checked the van’s oil and tires, and made sure my license and registration were in the glovebox. At 2:15, I merged onto the North Luzon Expressway, the city lights shrinking in my rearview mirror. By 3:00, I was climbing the steep, winding Kennon Road, a route known for its sharp curves and sudden fog banks. The air grew cooler, and the pine trees blurred past in my headlights. I felt a sense of peace, the hum of the engine a steady companion.

At around 3:30, I passed the small town of Pugo, and soon after, I saw the dim glow of the municipal cemetery of Baguio, a sprawling hillside of tombs that bordered the highway. In the Philippines, it’s common to see graves near major roads, but this particular cemetery had an unsettling layout: the graves rose in terraces, and at the top stood an old, abandoned chapel with a rusted bell tower. As I drove past, my headlights caught a fleeting silhouette near the chapel’s entrance—a tall figure in a white robe, standing perfectly still. I blinked, and it was gone. I chalked it up to fatigue and pressed on.

Just a hundred meters past the cemetery, my van’s accelerator pedal suddenly went slack. I pressed it to the floor, but the engine just idled, losing speed. I coasted to a stop on a gravel shoulder, my hazard lights blinking. I tried the ignition—the engine turned over but wouldn’t rev. I popped the hood, but everything looked normal. I cursed, realizing I’d have to walk to the next town. The nearest civilization was about two kilometers ahead, I guessed.

I grabbed my flashlight from the glovebox and stepped out. The night was eerily silent, not even the usual insects. The air smelled of damp earth and pine, but there was an underlying sweetness, like rotting flowers. I began to walk, my footsteps muffled by the asphalt. After a few minutes, I heard a faint sound—a low, metallic clang, like a distant bell. I stopped and listened. It came again, from behind me, from the direction of the cemetery. The sound was deep and resonant, as if a large bronze bell was being struck slowly, deliberately.

I told myself it was just the wind or an animal, but my heart quickened. I continued walking, but the bell tolled again, closer this time. Then I heard something else: a shuffling sound, like bare feet dragging on gravel, coming from the roadside. I swung my flashlight toward the noise, and the beam caught a figure standing at the edge of the trees, partially hidden by a low-hanging branch. It was the same white-robed shape I’d seen at the chapel. This time, I could see its face: hollow eye sockets, a gaping mouth, and skin stretched taut over bone, like a mummy’s.

I ran. I sprinted as fast as I could, my heart pounding in my ears. The bell tolled faster, now a frantic death knell. I didn’t dare look back. I rounded a curve and saw the lights of a small barrio ahead. I burst into a tiny “sari-sari” store, panting, and told the elderly owner what I’d seen. She listened calmly, her wizened face expressionless. When I finished, she said, “Ah, the Idle Bell. You must not stop near the cemetery, especially at 3:30 in the morning. The bell calls those who witness the ‘bell-ringer’ and stops their engines. It seeks a new companion.”

I slept on a bench in the store until dawn. When I returned to my van, it started without any trouble. I drove straight to my cousin’s farm, but for the rest of the trip, I heard that faint clang in my ears, growing fainter and fainter, until it faded entirely. I never passed that way again at night. But sometimes, when I’m driving alone on a quiet road, I catch a glimpse of a white robe in my peripheral vision, and I know the Idle Bell is still waiting for me.

I told my cousin about the incident during the fiesta, but he just laughed and said, “You’re lucky. That bell hasn’t claimed a soul in years. But it’s never silent for long.” I looked at him, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of something in his eyes—not amusement, but a warning. I changed the subject, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the bell was still calling, and that one day, it would find me again. From that day forward, I never traveled alone at night without hearing that faint, metallic chant in my mind, a reminder that some roads are best left untraveled after dark.