The Last Bell

The Anchor & Wrack was a stubborn old building, squatting on a rainy corner of the harbor town of Porthbarrow. I’d been helping out at the bar for a few months, mostly because the owners, Tom and Eliza, were good friends of mine, and they were short-staffed after a fire at the nearby cannery had lured away half their part-timers. The pub had a reputation for being haunted by a previous landlady, a stern woman named Agnes who had taken a fatal tumble down the cellar steps some fifty years ago. But I’d never seen anything, and I chalked the stories up to sailors’ yarns and pint-induced imagination.

That morning, I had the place to myself. The rain was hammering against the windows, and the town was quiet. I was in the kitchen behind the bar, stacking clean glasses and listening to the old radio that crackled with static between stations. I’d unlocked the front door as usual, even though we didn’t open for another two hours. Tom and Eliza were at a wedding up-country, and my friend Danny was supposed to join me for the morning shift. I figured he’d be late, as he often was, so I didn’t look up when I heard the front door slam shut, followed by the jangle of the bell that hung over the door.

‘I’m in the back!’ I shouted, assuming it was Danny. ‘Put the kettle on, will you?’

But there was no reply. The only sound was the rain and the hum of the fridge. I wiped my hands on my apron and stepped into the bar. The room was empty, but the air felt colder. I noticed the door to the cellar, which I had bolted shut the night before, was now standing ajar. A thin, dark gap, like a mouth, and from it came the faintest whisper of cold air. I frowned. I was sure I’d locked it. Maybe Tom had come back for something? I called out again, but no one answered.

I walked toward the cellar door, my footsteps echoing on the worn flagstones. As I reached for the handle, a sound from the far end of the bar made me freeze. It was the unmistakable clink of a glass being set down on the counter. I spun around, heart thudding, but there was no one. The glasses I had just washed were lined up on the shelf, but one of them was now resting on the bar, a few drops of dark liquid at its base. My blood went cold. I hadn’t poured anything.

I stepped closer, and that’s when I noticed the smell. It was something sweet and rotting, like flowers left too long in water. It clung to the air, and with it came a whisper, so faint I couldn’t make out the words, but it seemed to come from all directions at once. I felt a presence behind me, and I turned, expecting to see Danny, but instead I saw a shape at the top of the stairs that led to the staff quarters. The staircase was old, with a crooked banister, and at the top stood a woman in a grey dress, her face in shadow. She was just standing there, perfectly still. I blinked, and she was gone.

I backed away, my mind racing. The pub had always felt warm and safe to me, but now it felt alien. I decided to get out, to call Tom, but as I reached for my phone, the front door banged open again, sending a gust of rain inside. Danny stood there, dripping wet, a sheepish grin on his face. ‘Sorry, mate, the bus was late. You seen the state of the weather?’

He stopped when he saw my face. ‘What’s up? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

I tried to laugh it off, but I couldn’t shake the feeling. I told him about the glass, the smell, the woman on the stairs. Danny just shrugged. ‘Probably just the draft and a bit of imagination. You’ve been working too hard. Come on, let’s get the till sorted.’

But as the morning went on, things only got stranger. Danny claimed he saw a shadow move in the mirror behind the bar, and when he went to check the cellar, he found a single, hand-carved wooden key on the floor, which he swore wasn’t there before. At noon, the pub started to fill with regulars, and the atmosphere returned to normal, but I couldn’t shake the dread that had settled in my stomach. Just before we closed for the afternoon, a old fisherman named Bert sidled up to me and said, ‘You’d best be careful, boy. Agnes only shows herself to them that’s going to follow her down the stairs.’

I asked him what he meant, but he just shook his head and shuffled off. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept hearing the whisper, and I saw that woman’s face every time I closed my eyes. I made a decision. I would go back to the pub the next morning, alone, and find out what she wanted.

I let myself in with my key, the bell jangling in the empty room. The pub was dim, the only light coming from the windows, grey and heavy with rain. I went straight to the cellar door. It was open again. This time, I didn’t hesitate. I flicked on the light and started down the narrow, stone steps. The air was damp, and the smell of rot grew stronger. At the bottom, in the middle of the floor, stood a single, unopened bottle of rum, covered in dust. I recognized it as the same brand Agnes was fond of, according to the old stories. I picked it up. The label was yellowed, but I could read the year: 1967, the year she died.

I heard a creak behind me, and I turned to see the woman standing at the foot of the stairs, her face now visible. It was pale, her eyes were dark, and her lips were moving soundlessly. She pointed a trembling finger at the bottle, then at the stairs. I understood. She wanted me to bring it up, to open it, to pour a drink for her. With shaking hands, I did. I climbed the stairs, set the bottle on the bar, and poured a glass. I raised it in a toast. ‘To Agnes,’ I said, my voice cracking.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then I felt a cold breeze, and the glass tipped over, the rum spilling across the bar. A single, deep voice, like the toll of a bell, filled the room: ‘Not that one. The other.’

I looked at the bottle. It was the wrong one. Agnes hadn’t fallen down the cellar steps; she had been poisoned. The bottle I’d chosen was a fake, a prop from a play. The real bottle, the one with the poison, was still in the cellar. I ran back down, and there, hidden behind a stack of crates, was a bottle of same brand, but the label was faded, and the cork was broken. I brought it up, and as I did, I heard a chorus of whispers, all saying, ‘Open it.’

I uncorked it, and a foul, viscous liquid poured out, staining the bar. The whiskey receded, and the smell of almonds filled the pub. I heard a final, grateful sigh, and the presence vanished. The pub fell silent. The rain had stopped, and a beam of sunlight broke through the clouds, illuminating the spot where the woman had stood.

I never told anyone what had happened, but I did find a diary in the staff quarters, hidden under a loose floorboard. It belonged to Agnes. She had discovered that her husband was planning to kill her for the insurance money, and she had hidden the poison bottle, hoping to expose him, but he had gotten to her first, by tampering with the cellar steps. She had been trying to warn someone ever since.

The pub is still open, and I still work there, but I always check the cellar door now, and I never leave a glass of rum on the bar. And every time the bell over the door rings, I look up, half expecting to see her standing there, waiting for the truth to be told. Some nights, when the pub is empty, I hear a faint clink, as if she’s toasting the last bell.

But the last bell has already rung for her, and for me, it’s a sound I’ll never forget.