The Muddy Night of the Rusted Bell

Vinay was a college student in the early ’90s, living in a small town in the hills. He and his friends—Dev, Ramesh, and Suresh—were known for their restless energy. They often wandered far beyond the town limits, exploring tea gardens, abandoned bungalows, and the forested trails that snaked through the mountains. One monsoon evening, as they sat in a tea stall watching the rain pound the tin roof, Suresh mentioned a yearly fair in a village called Talegaon, about twenty kilometers away. ‘They say it’s the biggest fair around, with giant Ferris wheels and food stalls stretching for miles. It happens only once a year, and it’s tomorrow,’ he said. Vinay’s eyes lit up. A chance to escape the mundane routines of college and lose themselves in the chaos of a fair was too tempting. They decided to go, despite the heavy monsoon rains that had been falling for days.

The next morning, the skies were overcast but the rain had temporarily stopped. Ramesh, the most cautious of the group, suggested they take bicycles. ‘If the roads get flooded, we can stay together by holding onto the bikes. And it will be faster than walking.’ They each borrowed a cycle from neighbors or relatives, and set off on the narrow, muddy path that wound through the countryside. The first few kilometers were fine—the path was mostly dry, bordered by dense bamboo groves and paddy fields. But soon, they entered a stretch where the road was barely a track, more mud than stone. The previous days’ rain had turned it into a quagmire. The wheels of their bicycles churned through wet earth, and their legs were soon splattered with brown mud. They labored for two hours, pushing and pulling the cycles through the sludge, joking to keep their spirits up, but the strain was beginning to show. ‘I thought you said the fair was only twenty clicks,’ Dev grumbled. Suresh shrugged. ‘That’s what I heard. Maybe it’s a bit more.’ They decided to rest under a large banyan tree at the edge of a clearing. As they caught their breath, they noticed the sky had turned an ominous greenish-black. In the distance, thunder rolled. Within minutes, rain started to pour down in sheets, the kind of rain that soaked through to the bone almost instantly.

They scrambled to find shelter. Ahead, through the curtain of rain, they spotted a low structure—a small temple, perhaps. They pushed their bicycles towards it, the wheels now sinking deep into the mud, making every step a battle. The temple was old, its walls covered with moss and lichen, and the entrance was guarded by a rusted iron gate that creaked open as they approached. Inside, the air was cool and dry, carrying the scent of old stone and damp earth. The main shrine room was empty—no idols, no offerings—just a stone pedestal in the center, and a small bell hanging from the ceiling. ‘This is a bit creepy,’ Suresh said, his voice echoing in the emptiness. They parked their bicycles against the wall and huddled in a corner, hoping the rain would pass. But the storm only intensified, and as the light dimmed, the temple seemed to come alive with shadows. They lit a small candle they found in Dev’s backpack, and its flickering flame cast dancing shapes on the walls.

It was then that they noticed the bell. It was old, made of some dark metal, and covered in a green patina. In the dim light, it seemed to sway slightly, as if caught in a draft. Vinay heard a faint humming sound, like the vibration of a distant temple bell. He looked at his friends; they were silent, strained. Ramesh whispered, ‘Did you hear that?’ They nodded. The humming grew louder, a low drone that seemed to come from the bell itself. In a panic, Suresh stood up and shouted, ‘Who’s there?’ The sound echoed through the chamber, but the only response was the patter of rain. Suddenly, the bell rang—a single, deep, resonant toll. It was so loud that they covered their ears. It rang three times, each toll shaking the floor. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, it stopped. A cold wind swept through the temple, extinguishing the candle, plunging them into darkness. They froze, hearts racing. Vinay fumbled for a flashlight, his hands trembling. When the beam of light flickered on, he saw that the bell had gone—the chain it hung from swayed slightly, but the bell was gone.

They decided they had to leave, rain or no rain. They grabbed their bicycles and rushed out into the downpour. The path ahead was now completely submerged in mud and water, more like a small river than a road. They pushed their cycles together, forming a line, one holding onto the back of the other’s bike, as Dev had suggested earlier. The water rose to their knees, then to their waists. They could see the road ahead barely visible, but they pushed on, desperate to get away. As they struggled through the muck, Vinay noticed something horrifying: the mud beneath his feet was moving, as if something were crawling just below the surface. He saw small, finger-like projections rising from the murky water, grasping at the wheels of the bicycles. Suresh screamed, ‘There’s something in the water!’ They tried to move faster, but the mud clung to them, making every step heavy. The fingers began to wrap around Vinay’s ankle, and he yelped, kicking hard. He saw faces in the water—pale, gaunt faces with empty eyes, staring up at him. They were the faces of people who had drowned, centuries ago, caught in a flood. The faces smiled, a grotesque parody of welcome.

They finally emerged onto a higher, drier patch of ground, gasping for breath. They collapsed, mud-covered, shivering despite the warm rain. When they looked back, they saw the temple in the distance, a dark silhouette against the stormy sky. The bell was there, hanging on the porch, but it was no ordinary bell. It was the same rusted bell, and it was covered with glistening mud, like it had been dredged from the earth. It rang again—a slow, mournful toll. One, two, three. And then, in the rain, they heard a voice—a low, rasping whisper that seemed to come from the bell itself: ‘The fair is not for the living. Return to your world, and never come back.’

They didn’t sleep that night. They returned to town, but the image of the bell and the muddy fingers haunted them. Vinay and his friends tried to forget, but the memories persisted. Decades later, Vinay (now a father) still wakes from nightmares where he is knee-deep in black mud, and the bell rings to seal his fate. He never went back to that village, and he never again walked on a muddy road during a storm. The fair, they later learned, had never been held in Talegaon—it had been abandoned years before, because of a mysterious flood that swept away an entire village, leaving only a temple and a bell that no one dared to touch. And to this day, local farmers say that on stormy nights, you can hear a bell ringing from the old temple, and in the mud, if you look closely, you can see the outlines of hands reaching up, as if to pull the living down into the earth.