Don’t Ring That Bell

“Don’t ring that bell.”

Mira said it while carrying three coffees, which was impressive because she was also smoking and complaining about the heat. I laughed. “Why?” “Because I said so.” “That isn’t an answer.” “It is in this village.”

We were standing outside the old chapel above a small bay south of Cavtat, where the stone was so hot my sandals stuck slightly whenever I stopped walking. It was late September, although the weather hadn’t got the message. The sea below was almost too blue to look at. Mira put the coffees on the low wall. “I’m serious.” “About the bell?” “About everything.” “That’s vague.” “You’re always asking questions.” “That’s because nobody tells me anything.”

She gave me a cigarette. I don’t smoke, normally. I took it anyway.

The chapel had been locked for years. Everyone knew that. The door was green once, but most of the paint had peeled away, leaving grey wood underneath. Above it hung a little bronze bell with a rope disappearing through the ceiling. I looked at it. “Why can’t I ring it?”

Mira sighed. “Because the last person who did disappeared.” “That’s ridiculous.” “He didn’t disappear.” “Ah.” “He drowned.” “That’s different.” “Not really.” “It is.” “No, it isn’t.”

And then she picked up her coffee. That was Mira. She’d tell you something horrifying and then change the subject to whether the bakery in Cavtat still sold those little almond biscuits.

I asked again. “Who drowned?” “Josip.” “Who was Josip?” “Man from here.” “Where?” “Here.” “That’s helpful.” “He lived in the blue house.” “Which blue house?”

She pointed toward the village. There were at least six. “Forget it,” she said. I didn’t. I never do. That was my problem.

We sat beneath an olive tree and drank coffee. A ferry moved slowly across the water, white against the dark line of the island. Somewhere behind us, somebody was cutting stone. The rhythmic grinding went on for ten minutes, then stopped. Mira looked at her watch. “I have to go.” “You’re leaving me here?” “Yes.” “With the haunted bell?” “It’s not haunted.” “You just said someone died because of it.” “I said he drowned.” “After ringing it.” “Yes.” “That’s basically the same thing.” “No. That’s basically you making things dramatic.”

She stood. “Promise me.” “What?” “Don’t ring it.”

I smiled. “I promise.”

She looked at me for a long second. “You’re lying.” “Yes.”

She walked away.

I waited twenty minutes. Maybe thirty. The sun moved behind the hill. A lizard ran across my shoe. Then I heard the bell. One small sound. Not from above me. From inside the chapel. I stood. “Hello?”

Nothing. I looked toward the village. Nobody. The road was empty. I should have gone. Instead I walked toward the chapel door. The lock was hanging open. That was new. I pushed the door. It moved inward with a long wooden groan.

The smell inside was dust, wax and damp stone. There were four rows of wooden benches. A faded picture of St. Roko hung crooked above the altar. And the bell rope was moving. Slowly. Back and forth. There was no wind. “Very funny, Mira.”

No answer. I stepped inside. The rope stopped. I touched it. Cold. Much colder than the room. I pulled. The bell rang. Once. The sound went out over the bay. I waited. Nothing happened. I laughed. “See?”

Then somebody behind me said: “You shouldn’t have done that.”

I turned. An old man stood in the doorway. He was wearing a blue work shirt and carrying a plastic Konzum bag. “Sorry,” I said.

He didn’t smile. “Go.” “I’m leaving.” “No. Now.” “Okay.”

I moved toward him. He stepped aside. Then he looked up at the bell. “Did you ring twice?” “Once.”

He shook his head. “You rang twice.” “I didn’t.”

He looked at me. “You don’t remember?” “No.”

He nodded as though that settled something. “Go down to the village.” “Why?” “Because if you hear it again, don’t answer.” “What does that mean?”

He was already walking away. “Wait.”

He didn’t. I followed him outside. “Sir?”

He kept walking. “Excuse me.”

Nothing. Then he disappeared around the bend. I stood there. The chapel bell rang again. Once. I didn’t move. Then again. Twice. I counted. Three. Four. Five. It kept going. I ran.

Mira was sitting at the harbour when I found her. She was eating fries from a paper tray. “You rang it.”

It wasn’t a question. “How do you know?” “Because everybody heard it.” “It rang by itself.”

She stopped eating. “Don’t say that.” “Why?” “Because you don’t know.” “I was inside.”

She stared at me. “You went inside?” “Yes.” “You’re an idiot.” “I know.” “Did you pull the rope?” “Yes.” “How many times?” “Once.”

She put the fries down. “Come on.” “Where?” “My aunt’s.” “Why?” “Because she knows what to do.”

That should have been reassuring. It wasn’t.

Her aunt lived in a narrow stone house behind the church. There were pots of geraniums along the steps and a plastic chair with one broken leg. Her name was Zora. She looked at me once and said, “You rang it.”

I was getting tired of that. “Apparently.” “Twice.” “Once.” “Twice.”

Mira interrupted. “She says once.”

Zora looked at her. “You weren’t there.” “I know.” “Then don’t speak.”

Mira shut up. Zora went into the kitchen and came back with a small black notebook. She opened it on the table. Pages of names. Dates. Some had crosses beside them. “What’s this?” “People who rang the bell.”

I looked down. There were dozens. “Why?” “Some people want to know things.” “What things?” “Who died.” “Who?”

She looked at me. “Who didn’t.”

I didn’t understand. She turned a page. There was a name near the bottom.

Josip Vuković.

Beside it:

17 September 2011.

Underneath:

He rang three times.

“That’s the man who drowned?” “Yes.” “How?” “He went into the sea.” “Why?” “He heard someone calling.” “Who?”

Zora closed the notebook. “His wife.” “But his wife was dead.”

She looked at me. “Yes.”

The room went quiet. Outside, a scooter went past. Somebody shouted something in Croatian. A dog barked. Ordinary noises. I wanted them. Zora said, “You have until midnight.” “For what?” “To hear her.” “Whose voice?”

She didn’t answer. Mira did. “His wife.”

I laughed. Nobody joined me. “Okay.”

I stood. “Where are you going?” “Back.”

Mira grabbed my wrist. “No.” “I need to know.” “You don’t.” “I do.” “No, you don’t.”

But I pulled away. And I walked back toward the chapel.

The moon was up when I reached the hill. I could see the sea from the path. Black now. Almost still. The chapel door was open. I stopped. There was a voice inside. A woman’s voice. Soft. “Come in.”

I should have left. Instead I went inside. “Who’s there?”

Nothing. Then: “Come closer.”

I walked toward the altar. The bell rope hung perfectly still. On the floor beneath it was a photograph. I picked it up. A young couple. The man was Josip. The woman was smiling. On the back someone had written:

Don’t let him hear me.

I turned the photograph over again. The woman was no longer smiling. I dropped it. The bell rang. Once. Then a woman’s voice whispered behind me. “Please.”

I closed my eyes. “Who are you?” “Help me.” “Where?” “Under the chapel.”

I opened my eyes. There was a trapdoor beside the altar. I had never noticed it before. I lifted it. A smell came up. Salt. Damp earth. Something rotten. A narrow stone staircase disappeared below. “Don’t.”

I froze. Mira stood behind me. Her face was pale. “You followed me?” “Yes.” “Why?” “Because I knew you’d come.” “I need to see what’s down there.” “No.” “I heard her.” “I know.” “You heard her too?”

Mira shook her head. “No.” “Then how do you know?”

She looked at the open trapdoor. “Because my mother did.”

I stared at her. “What?” “She rang the bell.” “When?” “Twenty years ago.” “And?” “She heard my father’s voice.”

I waited. Mira’s eyes filled, but she didn’t cry. “She followed it down there.” “Did she come back?” “No.”

The woman’s voice came from below. “Mira.”

Mira stopped breathing. I heard it too. “Mira, come down.”

She took one step toward the stairs. I grabbed her. “No.”

She pulled away. “That was my mother.” “I know.” “I have to go.” “No.” “You don’t understand.” “I understand enough.”

She stepped onto the first stair. Then the second. I followed. Of course I did.

The tunnel was narrow and wet. Water dripped from the ceiling. There were old candles in niches along the walls, most of them burned down to nothing. At the bottom was a small room. There was a table. Two chairs. And a cassette recorder.

Mira stopped. Her mother was speaking from the machine. “Don’t come looking for me.”

Mira covered her mouth. The tape clicked. Then another voice began. Her father’s. Then Josip’s. Then mine. “Come closer.”

I looked at Mira. She looked at me. The cassette recorder clicked again. And from behind the wall, somebody knocked. Three times. Mira whispered, “That’s where she is.”

I said, “No.”

But she was already reaching for the stones. And behind the wall, her mother’s voice said: “Please, Mira.”

Then the bell rang above us. Once. Twice. Three times. And we heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Fast. Too fast. Mira looked at me. “Who is that?”

I don’t know. I never found out. Because the lights went out.