The Morning Bell

My first semester at Ashworth College, in the fall of 2019, I was assigned to Draper Hall, a crumbling Victorian mansion that had once been a convent for a forgotten order of nuns. The college had converted it into dormitories, but the original bones remained: high ceilings with carved roses, narrow corridors that smelled of dust and old incense, and a bell tower that no one ever climbed. The rooms were small, with single beds and heavy oak desks, and the windows were arched, letting in a sickly yellow light that seemed to never quite brighten the corners.

From the first day, I felt an unease in that building. It was more than the creaking floorboards or the way the radiators knocked in the night. It was a deep, primal sense that I was not alone. In my room, which had once been a nun’s cell, I would find my books rearranged, my uniform laid out on the bed even though I hadn’t touched it, and a faint smell of rosewater that came and went without explanation. I told myself it was the old pipes, the draft, my imagination, but the feeling persisted.

One chilly October morning, as I was heading to the shared bathroom down the hall, I heard the sound of hurried footsteps behind me. They were quick and light, like a child running, and they stopped right behind me. I felt a soft bump against my shoulder, as if someone had brushed past me. I spun around, expecting to see a fellow student, but the corridor was empty. The only sound was the distant hum of the heating system. My heart hammered in my chest, and I hurried into the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

A week later, as I was coming out of that same bathroom, my hair still damp from a shower, I saw a woman peering at me from around a corner at the end of the hall. She was small, with long black hair that hung over her face, and she wore a gray dress that seemed too old-fashioned for a student. She stood frozen, one hand on the wall, and the moment I made eye contact, she withdrew, disappearing around the bend. I ran to the corner, but there was no one there. The hallway stretched empty, and the only door was a closet that was locked from the outside.

I tried to shrug it off, but the sightings became more frequent. I would catch glimpses of her in the reflection of the dark windows at night, or see her silhouette in the garden that surrounded the hall, always just at the edge of my vision. My roommate, a girl named Emily, began to notice my nervousness. She told me that the building had a history, that it was once home to a sister who had vanished without a trace in the 1920s. Some said she was murdered, others that she had run away, but no one ever found her body. Emily laughed it off, but I saw the fear in her eyes too.

One night, a deep, resonant bell tolled from the tower. It was not the usual chime for the hour; this was a single, mournful peal that echoed through the halls at 3 AM. Every resident in my wing woke up. We gathered in the hallway, listening, but the bell fell silent. The next morning, I decided to investigate. I climbed the creaking stairs to the tower, my flashlight cutting through the dust. At the top, I found the bell, ancient and green with patina, but there was no clapper. It was completely still. Yet I felt a cold breeze, and in the silence, I heard a whisper, so faint I almost thought I imagined it: ‘You are not welcome.’

From that night on, I became obsessed. I spent hours in the college library, digging through old records. I found a diary belonging to a Sister Margaret, who had lived in the building in 1923. She wrote of a deep loneliness, of feeling watched, and of a secret that she could never reveal. The last entry was simple: ‘They know that I know. I must hide before the bell tolls for me.’ The diary ended abruptly, and the next day, she was reported missing.

I returned to my room, the diary clutched in my hands, and I began to notice things I had missed before. The carvings on the walls were not just roses; they were thorns, and some of them spelled out a name: ‘MARGARET.’ The stained glass window in the common area depicted a woman with long black hair, her face shrouded in a veil, and she was pointing toward the tower. I felt a chill run down my spine. The woman I had seen was not a student; she was the ghost of Sister Margaret, and she was trying to tell me something.

One evening, as the bell tolled again—this time at dusk—I followed the sound to a hidden door in the basement, behind an old boiler. Behind it, a spiral staircase led down into darkness. I descended, my heart pounding, until I reached a small, stone-walled room. In the center, there was a wooden crate, rotted and crumbling. Inside, I found a skeleton, still clad in the tatters of a gray nun’s habit. A silver cross lay on its chest, and a folded piece of paper was tucked into a pocket. I carefully unfolded it, and it read: ‘They buried me alive for what I saw. They feared the truth. Now the bell is my only call for help.’

I stumbled back, vomiting. The ghost of Sister Margaret had been trying to lead me to her remains all along. She wasn’t a threat; she was a victim, broken by the cruelty of her fellow sisters. But as I stood there, I heard the sound of footsteps above, growing louder. I turned to flee, but the door had closed behind me, locked from the outside. I was trapped in the crypt, and the bell began to toll again, louder and louder, until it drowned out my screams.

Three days later, my roommate Emily found me in my bed, pale and unresponsive. I had been in a coma, the doctors said. They found no physical cause, but in my mind, I kept hearing the bell, and I saw Sister Margaret’s face, not angry, but sad, whispering, ‘You found me, but now they know you know.’ When I finally woke, I was transferred to a different dorm, but I never escaped entirely. Sometimes, in the quiet hours, I still hear that bell, calling out across the years, and I know that Margaret is still waiting, and whatever she witnessed is still looking for a voice to speak the truth.

The college eventually closed Draper Hall, citing structural issues, but I know the real reason. Some doors are better left locked. And some bells should never be rung.