The Chimes Of The Phantom Bells

I had been travelling by carriage along a narrow and solitary patch of snow-covered road between Bedford and Luton in the South Midlands of England, leading to the small village of Clophill. It was a cold and wintry day at the end of November in the year 1845, when I arrived. There, I was to meet a certain rector by the name of Father Allbrook, who was in charge of the church of St Mary, located in the centre of the village.

It was my first visit to this village in years, ever since my sister had last invited me. My recollection of the village was that it was mostly faint and quaint. I had come to Clophill to attend the funeral of my deceased sister, Stellina, who had mysteriously died. Her cause of death was declared a suicide, brought upon by major bouts of depression.

I, who knew my sister well, was not convinced that she was depressed, as diagnosed. Therefore, I had come to investigate the matter in person on behalf of the family. My name is Julian Madison. Alfred, my sister’s widower, was the only person who had witnessed her untimely death. At the moment I could not speak to him, since he was inconsolable and still dramatically affected by her passing.

For that reason, I sought the only other person in whom she had confided and who knew her in depth: Father Allbrook. He was an elderly man, short in stature, but noble in his demeanour. He had a noticeable gait in his step that was rather conspicuous. He shook my hand in a firm clasp.

It was not my intention to take much of his time with my enquiry. When I spoke to him, he was receptive to my questions and offered his sincere condolences to me and the family. I was very eager to hear what he could disclose. He was in the aisle of the church near a pew, preparing for the mass service.

In his words, he told me that my beloved sister had confided in him her most intimate thoughts. At first, I thought that rather queer, but after further deliberation I realised my sister was a God-fearing Christian woman. I wanted to know specifically everything he could tell me about her behaviour. I did not wish to discuss the supposed illness of madness from which she was believed to have suffered. Instead, I concentrated on what he knew of her public and private life.

Had she been active before her death? Had she been attending church regularly? Had she confided in the rector about any personal troubles? There was so much mystery and too little information I could glean based on the exposed facts.

Father Allbrook had given me a silver crucifix that my sister had entrusted to him a week before her passing. When I asked why she had given him the crucifix, he simply replied, ‘She wanted me to bless it for her.’ Unfortunately, that was the end of the story. She had died before he could bless it and return it to her. There was something powerful and inexplicable that must have occurred for my sister to make such a request.

Stellina was always conscious of the fact that the church was her sanctuary. If she had been depressed, why did she not confide this hidden illness to any member of the family, including myself? This was simply an enigma, a thought that would require time to unravel in its complexity and nature.

I ended the conversation with Father Allbrook and exited the church, still bemused by the entire ordeal and the realisation that I had much to uncover if I were to discover the truth about my sister’s death. I was told as a child that some things are best pondered alone, and others will remain forever a mystery.

The irony in that statement was that I could not remain indifferent to its cruelty. I was six years older than my sister, but we had become estranged due to the distance between our homes. I lived in the bustling city of London and she in the tiny hamlet of Clophill.

She was fond of her mundane life in Clophill and often mentioned how she enjoyed the pacific nature of the village and the days of yore. I could imagine the soothing sense of the vim and verve of the countryside. As I stood outside reflecting in thought, I noticed the unique architecture of the ancient church. It was approximately 650 years old. The original church had been built in the year 1350.

It had a churchyard known in local legend for the activities of body-snatchers. I was not one to be influenced by idle chatter. The church had a nave, with a chancel and galleries. It also featured a chapel, a lych gate and two bells attached to the belfry. It was built directly on the crest of the Greensand Ridge, offering incredible views over the surrounding countryside. Its sombre graveyard was submerged in snow, with only the headstones visible from where I stood.

The church was constructed of coarse ironstone rubble with ashlar dressings. It had two-light windows in the belfry, with arched nave walls. I was offered a room at the rectory for the duration of my stay. Clophill was only a small village with a civil parish on the north bank of the River Flit in Bedfordshire. There was not much for a stranger to do there, except gaze at the expansive countryside, which at that moment was covered in snow and ice.

It was indeed different from London, as I have mentioned, but after considering its entirety, it did offer the casual visitor an insight into what the English countryside represented in imagery. Stellina once told me that life was simpler in the countryside than in the city. She had preferred the sith of gaiety over the sith of sorrow and suffering. I had preferred the bustle of the city to the monotony of the village. It was by sheer circumstance, as I pondered, that I began to doubt that belief. Perhaps I was becoming more optimistic than pessimistic.

At the rectory, Father Allbrook had prepared my room for the stay. I had planned on staying in Clophill for only a couple of days and returning to London afterwards. That was my original plan, but it would be altered suddenly by unfolding events that would transcend the comprehension of mortals.

I had heard tales of the supernatural as a child, yet what would befall me had no logical explanation. As a man of reason and logic, it would challenge my perception and understanding. There are things that occur in this world of the living that conflict with the past and must co-exist with the dead. I do not know whether immortals exist in the conventional sense. What I do believe is that immortality is a realm that few ever traverse and live to tell their tale.

The night was quiet and sombre. The eerie sounds of a wintry wind howling reached my window. I had tried to sleep, but I was awakened in the night by a terrible nightmare and the loud clangour of a bell ringing from the belfry.

The nightmare had left me in a deep sweat, and the noise had compounded my consternation. I had not expected to hear bells tolling so late. Once I regained my composure, I reminded myself that I was no longer in London, but in the quiet simplicity of a village. After several minutes, I managed to sleep the necessary hours I had lost during my journey.

In the morning, after breakfast, I had left early to speak to my brother-in-law, Alfred. I was expecting that he would be capable of assisting with the funeral and finally speaking to me. Once at his residence, I found him still vividly shaken and afflicted by the death of Stellina. I could perceive this clearly in his eyes and tone of voice. I was grateful that he gradually demonstrated some composure amidst the great tragedy.

I offered my assistance with the planning of the funeral and the support of the family. I did not have to ask him about Stellina's death; he spoke of it freely. He harboured a lingering and daunting guilt—this I intuited. The question was: what was the guilt, and how much of it was he willing to bear?

I desisted in my questions for the nonce, until after the funeral had passed. I saw no need to further depress him in his waning condition. The funeral was to take place that same day. It would be the first time I would see my dearest sister anew. I had prepared myself for that tristful encounter.

There was a mass at the church planned for her, and only a select few had attended in person. It was intended to be a private mass and funeral. I was the lone representative of her family. I was not only Stellina's brother—she had a sister living in Scotland, but she was unable to attend due to illness.

Our parents had been deceased for twenty years. They perished from a sickening fever. I cringed in utter sadness when I saw Stellina’s once-beautiful face languished in a hoary pallor. I was shocked to behold her in such a horrendous state.

Her brunescent locks were dried, stiffened by the cold. Her body was rigid, like the ice amassed outside. Her long white gown was ruffled at the seams. It had once been that pulchritude which I so admired. Whatever had caused her irrepressible depression was plainly shown in her listless countenance.

Poor Alfred—he had been unable to control his inner emotions and wept openly. Stellina's death was still fresh in his mind and heart. I could plainly sense his pain, his anguish was palpable, and I comforted him in his hour of commiseration.

At the cemetery, we bid farewell to Stellina, placing earth over her wooden coffin, which was draped with an array of colourful blooms—her favourites. I watched as the coffin was lowered into the ground by the sexton, and the soil embraced her mortal quintessence. It was difficult to bear such a gloomy event. There were no words adequate to comfort the soul.

I suppose that in death, we attain some measure of tranquillity. Little by little, the few guests in attendance dispersed, and only Alfred and I remained. I thanked Father Allbrook for the sermon given at the cemetery, and he kindly allowed us to linger at the gravesite to mourn a while longer.

It was there, at the solemn gravesite, that Alfred began to murmur—then mumble—words I could not at first distinguish. It seemed he was speaking directly to his deceased wife. I did not wish to intrude upon his private moment with Stellina, yet I was curious as to what he was saying.

As I drew closer, I understood him to be pleading. He was asking for forgiveness and for Stellina not to forsake him in abandonment. The rest was incoherent and indistinguishable. There was something eldritch about the mystery of her passing—the unknown veracity that led to her death. Something eerie lingered, yet to be uncovered.

After we departed the grounds of the calmant cemetery, I escorted Alfred back to his residence. I did not wish to leave him alone in his melancholy and ineluctable despondency. His plaintive expression was that of a man who had deeply loved his wife. I did not know much about their relationship. Alfred was a very private man and did not reveal much about his personal life or marriage.

We sat in the room near the fireplace. One could hear the gentle crackling of the wood. There we discussed, at length, the funeral and his state of mind. He spoke of Stellina with such reverence that I was moved by his genuine affection. But as we continued, I perceived a flicker of anger in him—he clenched his fists tightly. It was a side of him I had neither known nor seen erstwhile.

What had caused this sudden anger, I wondered? Was it helplessness? Or the guilt of being unable to save Stellina? I was uncertain whether it was impotence or a troubling sign of fault. Whatever it was, it chewed at the very core of his soul. I worried he would go mad if left unattended. I suggested that he accompany me to London for a week to distract himself, but he was adamant that he would not leave Clophill or Stellina.

I tried to persuade him, telling him it would be for his own good not to dwell on the tragedy. He was unreceptive. Then he began to speak of her death again—and what he divulged disturbed me. As we discussed the details surrounding her passing, the more morbid his words became.

He told me, ‘Stellina had fallen into despair after learning she had lost the pregnancy’.

I was not aware she had been with child. He proceeded to disclose more.

‘She never recovered after that’, he said. ‘From that day, she spiralled into a deep depression...and it never left her. It consumed her’.

I had always known Stellina as winsome and spry, never so defeated. Judging by Alfred’s reaction, he too had been greatly affected, yet something in his manner unsettled me. I began to wonder what exactly had transpired on the day of her death.

When I enquired, he did not deflect. Rather, his account struck me as irrational. He said, ‘I was sleeping in my room...when I heard the strepent clangour of the church bells. It woke me up’.

How ironic. Those same bells had awakened me.

Then came the reluctant revelation:

‘Stellina was not in bed beside me. I looked for her everywhere in the house—but she was gone. Then...then came the knock at the door. It was Father Allbrook’.

He paused. His voice faltered.

‘He told me...Stellina had been found hanging in the belfry’.

I had not heard these lurid details until that moment. I was astonished. If this was true, it would explain her death—but if not, then someone had murdered her and staged the scene. According to Alfred, it was a suicide, taken in vain.

I left his residence, heavy-hearted, and made my way to the rectory to speak with Father Allbrook. I needed confirmation. I found him seated in one of the pews, praying. I waited respectfully until he finished, then approached him and asked about the matter.

He confirmed that Stellina’s body had indeed been found just as Alfred had described. Yet one critical thing remained unverified: whether she had been strangled beforehand or leapt of her own accord. This compelled me to begin an investigation of my own.

I left the church and stepped outside into the snow, examining the exterior. From every angle I could see, it was impossible to determine whether Stellina had slipped or hanged herself. The belfry was too high for accurate judgement from below.

I re-entered the church and asked Father Allbrook for permission to ascend the stairway to the belfry. He allowed it. At the tower, I pondered. Both theories seemed plausible—suicide from despair, or perhaps something more sinister. But there was no conclusive evidence to support either.

I was forced, for the time being, to accept the notion that Stellina had died up there, alone in the belfry, broken by the sorrow of her miscarriage. Yet, deep within me, I was unconvinced. I resolved to uncover the truth—every detail, every fact. I would not rest until I did.

As I was leaving the church, a stranger approached me. He identified himself as Charles Wingrave and addressed me directly:

‘Mr Madison, I believe?’

He was the church caretaker—the man who handled its menial tasks and upkeep. I had no idea what he wished to speak to me about—but it was about the death of my sister.

I was interested in knowing what he had known about her death. He had told me that Stellina had been arguing that day with her husband. They had both come out of the church, when she had suddenly re-entered. There was no mass at that time, nor was Father Allbrook present inside the church. He then proceeded to tell me that Stellina had rushed up the stairway to the belfry. Her husband had pursued her, shouting for her to come down.

When she did not respond, he climbed up to reach her. There was a struggle, and the next thing he saw was the lifeless body of my sister hanging from the belfry. That was all he could tell me. I was horrified by his claim, and I did not know whether or not he was telling the truth. Even though it seemed obvious that the culprit in Stellina's death was her beloved husband, Alfred, I did not have enough evidence to report him—nor accept the event as a factual account.

After all, the struggle did not necessarily implicate that my brother-in-law had murdered my sister. It only suggested that he was present when she died. I thanked the caretaker, Mr Wingrave, for his information and testimony. My immediate thought was to confront Alfred about what the caretaker had revealed to me. When I reached his home, he was nowhere to be found. He had left the village.

I reported him missing to the local authorities. There was not enough evidence for me to report his possible crime at the church. Whilst I allowed the authorities to conduct their due diligence, I returned to the church to speak to Father Allbrook. He was not there.

He was at the rectory. I went there and spoke to him about what the caretaker had told me concerning the struggle between my sister and her husband, Alfred. At first, he was surprised by what I recounted. Then, he disclosed something about Alfred that I had not previously known. He told me that Alfred, my beloved brother-in-law, had asked for a divorce. He had sought to annul the marriage.

Perhaps that was the main factor contributing to her death, not merely the tragic miscarriage. A gentleman by the name of Mr Addlington, a banker, had approached me. He wanted to speak privately about an issue of which I had not been informed.

Unbeknownst to me, Alfred had amassed a significant debt with his creditors and had forged letters of accreditation and promissory notes. He had been swindling money that did not belong to him. Mr Addlington did not reveal the exact sum, but it was considerable. He asked if I knew where Alfred could be found. Naturally, I told him I did not know his whereabouts. I informed him that both the police and I were searching for him. Alfred had vanished without informing anyone in the village. I wondered whether Stellina had known of his irresponsible debts and illicit dealings.

That night, I tossed and turned in bed, haunted by a dreadful nightmare of seeing my sister hanging from the belfry and wandering amidst the falling snowflakes on the church grounds. The nightmare was so intense that it awoke me, drenched in chills.

Once again, the bells of the belfry rang. This time, they chimed echoically rather than clanging loudly. The wind began to howl outside my window, blowing the shutters open. When I attempted to close them, I saw outside the unmistakable guise of my sister Stellina, dressed in the same gown and manner in which she was interred. Was it truly her apparition I had seen? Or was it a nocturnal hallucination that had appeared unbidden? She emerged through the mist and gathering darkness.

The howling wind prevented me from opening the window, though I longed to see her more clearly. The dauntless apparition appeared convincing, though I could not determine if it was truly her in the flesh. Her eyes reflected no natural colour; they were blanched. Her stare was ghastly—a gaze into the abyss of senseless death.

I had the impression that she wished to tell me something important. It was beyond belief that I was standing before the pallid image of my deceased sister. I uttered her name thrice, hoping she could hear me. There was no response, although her dry and parched lips moved.

After several minutes, she finally disappeared into the mist that had accompanied her. I had never been a firm believer in the supernatural world of ghosts. Nothing in my life had ever persuaded me to accept such absurdity. But I knew then that the key to solving my sister's death was somehow connected to the place where she had died.

Was her appearance at my window a sign that she wished to be released from torment, or a token that she had come to reveal the truth about her death? I began to connect the incident at the church, the troubled marriage, and the miscarriage. All these events could have destabilised her mind, causing her to lose control of her life. Her unhappiness was not the only cause of her death. I sensed it had more to do with her relationship with her husband in her final days.

Despite the snow and bitter cold, I decided to return to the church and ascend the belfry once more. My instincts compelled me to prove she had not died by her own volition. I dressed and left for the church. Father Allbrook was asleep in his room, unaware I had departed the parsonage. I felt there was no need to wake him.

He had already done all he could to assist me in my quest for truth. The rest was a task I had to face alone. I stood before the front door of the church as it opened. There was no one inside, yet someone had opened the door for me. I stepped in, and a humming noise was clearly audible, as if someone were singing a mournful song.

I began to feel a cold breath caress my neck, then spread across the rest of the church interior. Was I witnessing my sister's presence again? Had she come with me to the church—or had she been waiting for me there? Whatever the case, she was indeed near. I called on her to appear before me. There was no reply, no reaction.

I climbed the stairway that led to the belfry. There, at last, I found my dearest sister. It was her wan image I beheld—not the radiant beauty of her earthly self. Her unsettling eyes pierced into mine with a haunting gaze that spoke of her horrifying ordeal. She pointed towards the cemetery, where she was buried.

Then, she leapt to the ground and vanished into thin air. That would be the last time I ever saw her. The final days of her life had been cruel, but I did not wish to remember her only for her tragic death. Life, I had learned, was full of many wonders—as well as mysteries. Stellina was not the dreadful monster her husband had wrongly depicted. She had been the pawn and victim of a cruel tormentor who had exerted dominance over her.

This I would later discover through conversations with the villagers. They had appreciated Stellina and had done all they could for her. But as a private person, she had chosen to carry her anguish to the grave. Her death was not a suicide—it was murder. It was eventually discovered that Alfred had strangled my sister and thrown her from the belfry in a fit of unbridled rage.

I was later informed by Mr Wingrave, the caretaker, that during the night, two clever graverobbers had attempted to desecrate Stellina’s grave and had unearthed her. They were in the process of removing the body when he caught them unawares.

He would then inform the local authorities, and they would be apprehended. They confessed to their crime and told the authorities that they had been paid by my brother-in-law to uncover her listless corpse. He had been the sole instigator of her death and was the very person who had professed to love her unconditionally.

I was deeply grateful to Mr Wingrave for his bold action. It was an undeniable sign of Alfred's culpability and lack of probity. I had entrusted him with the care and supervision of my beloved sister, and he had only taken advantage of her unstable state of fragility. That would be her misfare.

Alfred would be found days later, hanging from a lone tree somewhere in England. I was never told the exact location, but I was relieved to know the truth—and that divine punishment awaited him in the chasm of his hell. Apparently, he had taken his own life in a cowardly act that did bewray his true character and temerity. He had written a confession regarding the murder, in which he accepted his culpability.

I had suspected that the unsurmountable guilt consuming him was too unbearable and uneath to tolerate any longer. It was the wroth untowardness of his action that had doomed him thereafter. He was not permitted to be buried in Clophill; instead, he was interred in a remote, unmarked grave in a cemetery unknown to me.

I said my affectionate goodbyes to Father Allbrook, and for the nonce, to my dearest sister also. My time in Clophill had abated—but not before I visited Stellina's grave. I could feel serenity in the cemetery anon, with the empyrean wind that disrupted the clum. There was no one present to interrupt us, nor to cause us any unwanted solicitude. I began to speak to her aloud, and she responded with a cold breath from her spectral soul.

I made a simple request to Father Allbrook: that her favourite poem be placed on her epitaph. He had no objection to the petition and embraced the idea. I was grateful to have been there for Stellina—even in the shadow of death. I knew my presence had consoled her aimless soul. I would often visit her grave and bring her fresh blooms she had adored, to awaken her with their familiar scent.

Erelong, I would read the bardic versifications of poetry she had once enjoyed, and I wist—yonder sister that had once roamed thither, where the perennial bells had rung. In the end, the chimes of the phantom bells would be replaced by the chimes of new church bells.

After Alfred’s confession was received, I remained in a state of melancholic reflection. The letter, now yellowing at the folds, lay before me on the desk of the vicarage parlour. Its ink was smudged in places—perhaps by the trembling of his hand, or the tears of a man who had belatedly glimpsed his own damnation. Though I had read it thrice, I could not bring myself to burn it. It remained, like an lingering emblem of his cowardice, a testament to the enormity of his guilt.

Father Allbrook entered quietly, clasping his prayer book, and looked upon me with an expression both sorrowful and understanding. He did not speak at once. Instead, he poured a modest cup of black tea and placed it before me on the polished table.

‘You may find some comfort in absolution, Mr Madison’, he said gently. ‘Though I do not expect you to forgive him’.

‘No,’ I said plainly, my voice hollow. ‘I do not believe forgiveness is due to him. Not in life, and certainly not in death. There are certain deeds too vile for pardon in my humble opinion’.

The priest did not contest me, but sat across from me, eyes fixed on the dim embers in the fireplace. The room had grown cold, and the hearth had been neglected.

‘He was a man ruled by his shadow’, Father Allbrook murmured. ‘And now he walks in it forevermore alone with his shadow’.

Later that day, I returned alone to the copse behind St Hilary’s Church, where Stellina had once wandered in quiet solitude. The trees here were ancient, twisted in such a way that they resembled arthritic fingers clawing upward toward the indifferent heavens. Their barren branches creaked softly as though whispering secrets of the dead to the living.

It was here, beneath a trembling willow, that Stellina and I once shared a moment I had near forgotten. She had taken my hand and guided me to a stone bench, half-consumed by moss, and told me of a recurring dream.

'It always begins with bells’, she had whispered, her eyes distant, as though the dream hovered just beyond the veil of waking thought. ‘Not bells rung by man, but bells of the wind—phantom bells. They echo from nowhere, and yet everywhere. I follow them through the mist, and I see...a white shore. And someone is waiting there, though I can never quite reach them’.

I recalled how I had dismissed the vision as fancy, a whimsy of a poetic soul. But now, it lingered with new meaning. I wondered if, in her final breath, those phantom bells had summoned her at last to that white shore.

As twilight descended, I felt compelled to revisit the vicarage attic, a space long disused. The door creaked open with some protest, and the scent of dust and old paper clung to the air like a shroud. Amongst boxes of brittle books and church vestments, I discovered an old writing desk that bore Stellina’s initials carved faintly into the wood. It had been hers in childhood.

Inside its drawer lay remnants of her inner world—pages of sketches, verses written in a hand both delicate and forceful. There were poems addressed to no one, fragments of thoughts, musings on grief, on faith, and on love unfulfilled. A particular entry caught my attention, dated the spring before her death:

'There is a cruelty in love that cannot be named. It disguises itself as gentleness, but devours with quiet teeth. I am held in a silken noose, and Alfred tightens it with kisses. He calls it care, but it is possession. I cannot breathe'.

I sat on the wooden floor as the candlelight flickered, my hands unsteady as I absorbed her words. Each line was a cry for freedom I had never heard. Each syllable, a breath I had failed to notice was being stolen from her.

A sudden gust of wind rattled the windowpane, and I thought I heard her voice—soft, like it had been in childhood, when she would wake me from nightmares.

‘Do not weep, brother. You have seen me now. Return to your home'.

The days that followed were veiled in mist, as though the village itself mourned the truth that had come to light. The townsfolk, though not privy to all the details, had heard whisperings of Alfred’s misdeeds, and his name was thereafter spoken only in hushed tones or bitter condemnation.

One evening, I found myself at the old inn, The Whispering Lantern, seeking no company, but the comfort of silence amongst the living. The innkeeper, a woman of austere appearance named Mrs Penleigh, served me a modest supper and left me in peace. Yet as the night wore on, a figure joined me at the far end of the table—a stranger clad in black with a traveller’s cloak, his voice low and precise.

‘You are the brother, are you not? Of Miss Stellina’.

I nodded cautiously.

‘I knew her once', he said. ‘Long ago, in Paris. She saved my life, in her way. Spoke to me on a bridge one night when I had no reason to remain in this world’.

I studied him. He did not look mad, nor inebriated.

‘She was like that,’ I replied. ‘She saw people others ignored.’

He bowed his head. ‘I thought you should know. Her words linger. Some lights never die’.

And with that, he left as quietly as he had come.

On my final day in Clophill, I brought with me to the cemetery a volume of Shelley’s poems—Stellina’s favourite. I sat beside her resting place and read aloud from Adonais, my voice wavering with each verse. The pages turned in the wind, as though guided by unseen fingers.

“He has outsoared the shadow of our night;
Envy and calumny and hate and pain,
And that unrest which men miscall delight,
Can touch him not and torture not again…”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, I laid the book atop her grave, wrapped in linen and bound with twine. It was not meant to last. I wanted the weather and time to claim it, to carry her words and those of others into the earth, into the winds she once adored.

Father Allbrook met me at the lychgate.

‘Will you return, Mr Calthorne?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘When the bells ring again'.

And so, I departed Clophill, with sorrow in my heart, yet no longer bitterness. The past had spoken its truths. I carried them with reverence—and with resolve. Stellina’s life, though stolen, had not vanished. Her presence remained, in verse and memory, in the hush of spectral winds, in the hush between the chimes of the old and the new that rang with the haunting bells.

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