B.S. Miller is a writer and teacher who lives with her husband and two children in a somewhat secluded area south of Pittsburgh, surrounded by critters, crows, and coyotes. Miller earned her MA in Literature from the University of New Orleans and BSEd in Secondary English from Slippery Rock University. She is a member of the Horror Writers Association. You can find her on Instagram HERE.
THE BELL HOUSING
by
B.S. Miller
Brisk wind carried stiff leaves in whisps across the rolling hills of the cemetery, barely illuminated in the purple night by the overcast moon. Tree branches bounced and swayed against the gusts. Newt rubbed his hands together, brought them to his mouth, and blew hot breath into them. He dropped a hand into his trouser pocket, pulled out a watch on a long chain, and checked the time in the dim moonlight. It was the morning of October 31st, just before dawn, and his graveyard shift was nearly over.
Three people were buried before Newt’s shift—two in unmarked graves until the families could afford to have markers made, and one marked only by a wooden post housing a bell.
***
Cyrus awoke in absolute darkness, blinking rapidly but not sensing any change in vision. A fusion of dread and confusion flooded his thoughts. His entire body ached and he wondered how long he had been laying down, or where he was. All he knew, with certainty, was it was difficult to breathe. He rocked his head back against the hard surface then tilted it to each side, trying to loosen his stiff neck. He lifted his head and winced when his forehead met an unforgiving surface with a thud. He instinctively started to raise his arms to his face but they caught between his stomach and the hard surface above him. He spread out his fingers to explore. Wood was below and on either side of him. He knew his head must have hit the same. He started to shift his body but his elbows and knees painfully knocked against the planks just inches away from where his limbs had rested. Agony replaced any lingering confusion. The stunted, frantic movements caused particles of dirt to sneak between the almost imperceptible gaps between the planks and fall into his eyes. He squeezed them shut and made a failed attempt to call out, choking instead.
***
Dirt mounds from the three fresh graves could be seen atop a large hill. At the bottom stood a small, wooden shed for shovels, lanterns, and miscellaneous tools workers may need on any given night. This is where Newt started and finished his shifts. He checked his watch again. The sun would be up soon. He gathered his handkerchief, lunchpail, and small tool crate on the workbench when something caught his attention. His head cocked and he listened more intensely. He stood still, barely breathing, not wanting to make any sound that could corrupt his ability to hear clearly.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
It was not his imagination. He quickly stepped half-out of the shed and looked up the hill, realizing the ringing was coming from the bell housing atop one of the fresh graves. He frantically grabbed for one of the shovels and tore off up the hill, boots slipping on the dewy grass. He caught himself with his palms and scrambled to get upright. He reached the top of the hill. Acid pumped in his lungs with every breath but he hammered the shovel into the packed soil and began chucking dirt to the right.
***
Cyrus clawed at the wooden lid. He had, with great pain, forced his hands to a position where they could be on either side of his chest. Dirt continued to trickle in and land on his face. He kept his eyes squeezed shut but his breathing was more labored now and dirt tickled at the corners of his dry mouth. He tried to ball his fists and push from his chest while pressing up what he could with his knees, but all it accomplished was allowing more dirt to fall in on his face. The pain was excruciating. The metallic smell of blood filled his small space and he knew it came from the stinging places—his knees, his elbows, his knuckles, and his fingertips… He felt his hands swelling. He knew he had broken at least two knuckles on each hand from trying to punch at the unforgiving lid with his precious inches of mobility. His elbows seared from knocking them repeatedly into the wood at his sides. He was running out of energy. He was running out of time. He was running out of hope. He tried to discharge any kind of sound loud enough that it might be heard by anyone, but dirt fell into his open mouth and he could only release a choking wheeze.
***
It felt to Newt like an eternity since the ringing had ceased. A warm, orange and pink glow started to illuminate the cemetery, making its way into the grave where Newt huffed. His shovel hit something solid beneath the dirt and renewed him with wild hope. He desperately tried to clear away enough dirt that he could force open the lid.
Please, please. C’mon! He muttered in frustration through gritted teeth.
He tossed the shovel up out of the grave—out of his way—and dug his feet into the dirt on either side of the coffin. He needed to be off of it if he was going to open it. He bent over and put his fingertips under the lip of the coffin and heaved. No movement. He stood up to adjust his back. He squatted this time, put his fingertips back under the lip, and used every ounce of his strength to pull with his fingers while he pressed down with his legs.
Creak.
He pulled again, this time hollering and forcing the air from his fiery lungs in a desperate attempt for more power, and the lid gave. He nearly lost his balance. Newt maneuvered himself onto one side of the coffin so that he could open the lid fully.
Beneath him, breathing shallowly, was a figure whose fingers were tied with cords that fed up through the bell housing to the bell.
“Can you hear me?” Newt asked, apprehensive.
A young woman in a white, muslin dress blinked open her eyes.