Short Story: “King Brian’s Bells” Part 2

25 November 2025

Here is the second part of the short story, “King Brian’s Bells”:

25 February 2013

Summers in the Valley tended toward misery–daytime highs soared over 100, most days reaching 110 degrees. The air was usually still, but if the wind blew it was like opening the door to a furnace–hot, dry–an exhalation from the depths of Hell. It leached moisture from the skin, leaving one parched and thirsty. On good nights, the temperature dropped below 90 around 2 A.M., but good nights happened rarely. Most nights one lay awake, one’s bed a roasting pan, bedroom an oven, a holiday turkey, plucked of clothing, cooking in one’s own juices.

When the heat came early, in late May, I worked alone. Smitty had bowed out a month before, claiming his wife’s sewing business boomed. We spoke little after that, and George has never since mentioned him–I think they must’ve had a falling out over who knows what. Since the warehouse had no ventilation, I worked late at night–when the city was quiet and all the “turkeys” prayed for release from purgatory.

At first, I blamed it on the heat–delusions created by my overheated mind. Then, for three nights running, I heard scraping noises and sounds like whispering in the old part of the warehouse. I’d step on the spongy wooden floor, which still smelled of musty oil and rancid gasoline, hear scratching, then silence. I’d turn back to the new warehouse and hear the whispering. Later, as I packaged an exhaust tube for an American Airlines DC-10 and addressed it to O’Hare Airport in Chicago, I heard light tapping on the metal siding: tink, tink, tink-a-tink. I stepped out of the warehouse, shining a flashlight along the building. A city cop named Ron, who sometimes visited when nights were slow, stopped in the street next to the building.

“Anything wrong?” he asked.

I flushed. “I keep hearing noises under the old building–scratching, tapping, whispering.”

Ron mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. “It’s the heat.” He sighed, “makes us all edgy. I’m surprised we haven’t had more domestic disturbances.”

“That’s what I ‘been thinking, but it hasn’t stopped.” I peeled off my sweat-soaked, white T-shirt.

Ron turned his spotlight on, aiming the beam along the foundation of the warehouse. It may have been a trick of the light, but as it touched the corner, I could swear I saw the skirting move. Ron stopped his light on the corner, moved it away, and then back quickly. The corner snapped closed–we both saw movement and heard the dull clunk. I dropped my shirt and jumped off the cement loading dock.

“Rats,” Ron said.

I stopped, shuddered, and looked over at Ron. “Rats?”

“Sure–that’s it,” he added. “They’ve gotten under the building and make the noises, move the skirting. Got any poison?”

“I’ll get some before coming tomorrow.”

Ron nodded once, put the car in gear. “See ya’ tomorrow.”

I waved as he rolled away. Rats–I hate rats! I jumped on the dock, grabbed the package, flicked off the lights, and locked the door. I’m not hanging around any rat-infested place!

The following night, I waded through the heat placing small boxes of rat poison under and around the old half of the warehouse. I quickly packaged two parts for shipping and left, not wanting to encounter the rats.

Another day passed before I received an order for parts. I returned to the warehouse, hoping the poison had taken care of my “problem.” Before entering, I walked around the old warehouse, checking the boxes of poison. Ron must have been waiting for me, since he pulled up as I stooped to check the first box. He limped toward me, uniform unbuttoned, underarms wet with sweat.

“Did you put out poison?” he asked, mopping his brow.

I nodded. “Just checking the first box.” I pointed toward the corner of the skirting we had seen moving two nights before. I pulled back the tin; Ron shined his flashlight into the opening. The box and poison were gone without a trace. I sat on my heels, stunned; the tin snapped back, clanging.

Ron laughed. “You sure you put poison out?”

I jumped up, running to the second box. Gone. Also, the third.

“You don’t suppose some prankster stole the poison?” I asked. We stood at the back of the warehouse, where old met new.

“I don’t know that you put any out.”

“You jackass! I know I put poison out!”

I stomped toward the front door. “I’ll show you the receipt–it’s on my desk.” I unlocked the large padlock first, then opened the door with a second key. I flicked on the lights and stopped, frozen in place by what I saw. Ron bumped into me and gasped. Three boxes of rat poison were spilled onto my desk. The drawers were open, papers flung everywhere. The file cabinets were open–more scattered paper–steel cabinets still locked. Random boxes of ducts had been pushed from the shelves to the floor. Instinct overcame Ron’s initial shock–he pushed me out of the door, followed, and called for backup. I sat glumly on the dock, wondering who would have done such a thing. Ron reentered when help arrived, beginning to investigate.

I sat on the dock, waiting, while Ron, with the help of the Valley’s only detective, tried to find an explanation.

Two hours later the detective drove off in his unmarked car.

“Find anything?” I asked.

Ron mopped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief and shook his head. “No sign of forced entry–if I hadn’t seen you unlock the door . . . and the freight door can only be opened from the inside. . . .” He sighed and stuffed his hanky into his shirt pocket. “Anybody else have the keys?”

“No, Smitty gave his set back to George months ago, and George is on the east coast buying parts,” I replied.

Ron shook his head again, slid off the dock, and walked back to his car. “I’m off at three,” Ron said before leaving, “I’ll come back and help you clean up the mess.”

I grumbled my thanks.

I just finished cleaning my desk when I heard what I thought was the tinkling of bells in the distance; I jerked my head to the left, looking for the source of the strange sound, eyes trying to pierce the shadows between the shelves. I stood slowly and took one hesitant step toward the sound, which reminded me of sleigh bells; when my foot touched the floor, the sound stopped. I shook my head and snorted–sleigh bells in the middle of summer? What utter nonsense! I sat down and began wiping the dirt from my now clear desk; several moments ticked slowly by, then the bells sounded from the opposite direction, causing my head to turn, my eyes to peer, and my body to rise of its own volition, but as before, the moment my foot moved one step forward, the bells stopped. Again, I shook my head and sat down, then all at once the lights went out and two points of red light appeared, floating in the darkness before me, like the eyes of some unholy creature. I was so startled by their sudden appearance, I tipped my chair over backward. I heard the bells tinkling all around me, like high echoing laughter, magnified as if I were trapped inside a tomb. I remembered many summers as a child, trying to beat the heat by staying indoors and watching the afternoon creature feature. A host of mummies, devils, vampires, werewolves, witches, and goblins, paraded across my mind with those same glowing red eyes, except that none of them made sounds like the tinkling of bells. I tried to sit, but a heavy object struck my head, knocking me senseless. . . .

Stay tuned for Part 3!