The Last Bell of Cedar Falls

I grew up in the shadow of the bluffs near Cedar Falls, a town that clung to the Mississippi like a barnacle to a hull. History was in the soil there—mounds of the Sauk and Meskwaki, the old fur trade posts, even a dusty stop on the Underground Railroad. We kids ran those hills, our bare feet slapping against the limestone paths that twisted through the woods, and we swore we could hear the drumbeats of old ceremonies in the wind. I loved it, the way the river whispered secrets only the lonely could understand. When I needed to be alone, I’d slip down to the old landing dock, where the wooden planks creaked under my weight, and I’d sit for hours, watching the brown water roll past, feeling the pulse of the current in my chest.

But high school ended, and the town felt like a closed book. I left for college, carrying a hollow ache in my stomach that no amount of new places could fill. I missed the way the fog rolled over the bluffs at dawn, the smell of wet earth after a rain, the faint chime of the old church bell that was rung only on Sundays. I tried to move on – I got a job in the city, married, had a daughter, divorced – but every year I’d find myself driving back, just for a day, to sit on that dock and remember who I was before the world got complicated.

In 1999, I was a divorced mother of a nine-year-old, working a dead-end office job in Des Moines. My car was a rusted-out Pontiac with a death rattle, so I scraped together every penny and bought a brand new 1998 Toyota Corolla – silver, with a CD player that made me feel like I’d finally made it. I told myself it was a new start, a sign that I was moving forward. But on a sweltering July evening, with my daughter visiting her father for the weekend, I felt the pull of Cedar Falls like a string tied to my heart. I packed a bag, filled the tank, and set off on the three-hour drive, not knowing I was driving toward something far older than me.

I arrived just as the sun was setting, the sky bleeding orange and purple over the river. The town was the same – the same steepled church, the same general store with its hand-painted sign, the same crooked houses that seemed to lean into each other for support. But there was a stillness that felt wrong. No kids playing in the streets, no dogs barking, no porch lights flickering on. The only sound was the river and a low hum from the old grain elevator, like a beast breathing. I parked at the landing, my tires crunching on the gravel, and stepped out into the humid air.

The dock was still there, rotted a bit more. I walked to the end, sat down, and dangled my feet over the water. For a while, the peace returned – the water lapping, the cicadas warming up in the trees. But then I noticed something new: a rope tied to a piling, stretching taut into the river. I followed it with my eyes, and there, about twenty feet out, something bobbed in the water. It looked like a buoy, but it was too dark for a bouy – maybe a log. I leaned closer, and the shape resolved: it was a child’s shoe, tied to the rope by its lace.

I told myself it was a prank, kids being kids. But my skin prickled. I got up, dusted off my jeans, and decided to walk to the general store to see if anyone was around. The store was closed, but the porch light was on, and through the window I saw an old man – Mr. Oberweis, who’d run the place since I was a girl – sitting at the counter, staring at a television that wasn’t on. I knocked. No response. I knocked harder, and his head turned, but his eyes didn’t meet mine. He just stared through the glass, his mouth moving as if he were chewing on air.

I gave up and walked back to the car. The town was too quiet, and I felt watched. I started the engine, and the radio came on – not the CD I’d left in, but static, and through the static a voice. It was faint, like a woman singing a lullaby, but the melody was wrong, off-key, and it made my teeth ache. I snapped the radio off, but the humming continued, coming from the car itself, from the frame, the seats, the metal under my feet. The car was trembling, and I looked at the rearview mirror – and saw a shape standing behind the car, silhouetted by the last light.

I didn’t think. I jammed the gear into drive and tore out of there, gravel spraying against the undercarriage. I drove through town, streets I knew like the back of my hand, but they didn’t look right. The streetlights were out, and the houses were dark, and the bluffs on either side seemed to lean in, narrowing the road. I kept driving, and the humming followed me. It was coming through the speakers, through the vents, through the floorboards. I turned right, then left, then right again, trying to find the highway, and every turn led me back to the landing, the dock, the river. The car’s headlights caught the water, and there was the rope, and the shoe, and now a small figure sitting at the end of the dock, feet swinging over the edge.

My hands shook. I opened the door and stepped out, and the humming stopped. The figure didn’t turn, but my feet carried me toward it, as if I had no choice. When I got closer, I saw it was a girl, maybe seven, dressed in a white nightgown – nightgown, and she had long black hair that fell over her face. ‘Do you want to hear the story?’ she said, her voice like wind through dry reeds. I couldn’t speak. ‘The one we tell in the river,’ she said. ‘About the bell that rings when someone’s lost.’ And she turned to look at me, and her eyes were the color of the river – brown, but too deep, and I saw myself reflected in them, standing on the dock, growing older and older as she watched.

I backed away, and the car was still there, but the humming was back. I jumped in, slammed the door, and floored it. The tires spun, and I didn’t look back. I drove for what felt like hours, and finally saw the green sign for the highway. I burst onto the interstate, and all the way back to Des Moines, I kept the radio off, but the humming never really left. It was in the engine, in the exhaust, in the hum of the tires on the asphalt.

I sold the car a week later. I couldn’t stand the sound of it. I moved to a small town near a lake, and life went on. But sometimes, when the water is still and the night is falling, I hear that humming in my head, and I remember the last time I was in Cedar Falls, and the girl who knew my name even though I never told her. I never went back. I couldn’t. Because I knew that if I did, the bell would ring for me, and this time, the shoe would be mine.