The Night Bells of Havelock

In the autumn of 1997, my family moved to the Canadian Forces Station at Havelock, a remote listening post in the dense forests of New Brunswick. For a twelve-year-old, it was a lonely place—endless rows of identical housing units, the constant hum of the nearby antenna arrays, and the unspoken rule that we never wandered into the woods beyond the perimeter. My name is Samuel, and I remember those nights with a clarity that time has only sharpened.

It started about a month after we settled in. I’d wake in the dark, my heart already pounding, to the sound of bicycle wheels spinning on the cracked asphalt outside my window. The tires made a soft, rhythmic whir, and the little bells—like the ones on kids’ bikes—would tinkle with a cheerful, out-of-place melody. There was laughter too, high and light, the kind you’d hear on a summer playground, but it was cold outside, and the window pane was frosted over. I’d lie there, confused, thinking some children were out late, but the clock radio always read between 1:00 and 3:00 AM.

At first, I’d pull the covers over my head and try to sleep, chalking it up to the wind or my imagination. But the sounds grew more insistent over the weeks. I began to notice a pattern: the laughter would grow louder, then suddenly cut off, as if someone had slammed a door on it. Then, just as I’d summon the courage to get up, I’d hear a boy’s voice—clear and close, as if he were right beside my ear—say, “We have to go now.” By the time I reached the window, there was nothing but the empty street and the skeletal trees swaying.

One particularly bitter night, I decided I’d had enough. I crept to the window, my fingers trembling on the curtain. The laughter swelled, and I pulled the fabric aside in one swift motion. The street was empty, but as I let the curtain fall, I caught something in the glass—a reflection. Not mine. A small, pale boy on a bike, his face a smudge of features, staring through the window at me. He raised a hand and waved, then pedaled out of sight. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

The next day, I asked my father about the station’s history. He was a signals officer, always busy, but he paused, his eyes distant. ‘There was a housing area on the other side of the base,’ he said. ‘They tore it down in the early 80s after the accident.’ When I pressed for details, he just shook his head. ‘It’s not something we talk about, Samuel.’ That only made it worse.

That night, I left my room and went to the living room window, which faced the old housing site. The moon was high, and I could see the clearing where the buildings once stood, now just bare foundations and weeds. I didn’t hear anything at first, but then a bell chimed—soft, as if from far away. I followed the sound, stepping out into the biting cold. The perimeter fence was just ahead, a chain-link barrier topped with barbed wire. There was a gap, large enough for a child to squeeze through, and beyond it, the dark forest. I felt a pull, an inexplicable urge to go through.

As I approached, a bike rolled out of the shadows, wobbling as if its invisible rider had just dismounted. It fell over with a clatter. The boy materialized then, not fully, but as a shimmering shape. He looked the same age as me, but his eyes were hollow, and his clothes were soaked, like he’d been pulled from a lake. ‘Found it,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper. ‘You can see us now.’

I stepped back, my breath clouding. ‘Who are you?’ I managed.

‘I’m Thomas,’ he said. ‘We used to ride here every night. Until the pond.’ He gestured toward the trees, and I heard a faint splashing sound, followed by the laughter of many children. ‘They said it was an accident, but it wasn’t. It was him.’ He pointed to a figure emerging from the woods—a man in a dark coat, carrying a lantern. His face was a blur, but his presence radiated malevolence.

‘He was the groundskeeper,’ Thomas said. ‘He hated us playing near his precious antennas. One night, he followed us to the pond. He held our heads under until we stopped moving. He buried us in the woods, but we always come back. We can’t leave until someone knows.’

I should have run, but I was rooted. The man with the lantern approached, and I saw his smile—a wet, hungry grin. ‘Another one,’ he rasped. ‘Time to play.’

Thomas grabbed my hand. His grip was cold, almost burning. ‘Run!’ he shouted, and we bolted through the gap, the forest swallowing us. Behind us, the lantern light bounced, and the man’s laughter mixed with the children’s. We ran until my lungs burned, and then we burst out onto the clearing where the old housing had been. The lantern light vanished, and Thomas released me. ‘You can still see me,’ he said, surprised. ‘He’s not strong enough yet. But he will be. Unless you tell.’

I didn’t sleep that night, or many after. I tried to tell my parents, but they dismissed it as nightmares. I tried to tell the base commander, but he said the pond had been drained and filled with concrete. ‘You’re imagining things, son.’ The laughter continued every night, but now it sounded desperate, and the boy’s voice always ended with a plea: ‘We have to go now… before he finds us again.’

One evening, I found a file in my father’s desk. It was marked ‘Havelock Incident, 1982.’ Inside were photographs of three missing children—Thomas, Anna, and Ben—and a brief report: ‘Groundskeeper Roland claimed they drowned in the pond. Bodies never recovered. Pond filled in. Roland committed suicide a month later.’ At the bottom, in red pen, was a note: ‘No further investigation. Case closed.’

I looked out my window. The street was empty, but I saw them now—the children, three of them, standing by the fence, their bikes tilted at odd angles. Thomas waved. I opened the window, and a cold wind rushed in, carrying their voices.

‘Tell our story,’ they sang. ‘Or we’ll keep riding forever.’

I closed the window. I never spoke of it again, not to anyone. But I still hear the bells at night, and sometimes, when the moon is full, I see a man with a lantern at the edge of the trees, waiting for me to join his game. I’ve moved away, changed my name, but the distance doesn’t matter. The night bells of Havelock still ring in my head, and I know, with a certainty that chills me more than any ghost, that Thomas and the others are still out there, riding in circles, waiting for the one who will finally listen.