Short Story: “King Brian’s Bells,” Part 3

26 November 2025

Here follows part 3 of “King Brian’s Bells.” Happy Thanksgiving! We will return next week for the final installment of this tale.

4 March 2013

Sirens blaring, wailing in my dreams. Voices clamoring for my attention, voices which could not penetrate my darkness. A nightmare–devils, imps, vampires, witches, gremlins–laughing, striking me, dropping ducts on me, stuffing bitter tasting pellets into my mouth. Darkness and silence. Familiar and unfamiliar voices speaking. And sirens screaming so loudly my head ached. Sirens becoming a single long wail–a fire searing my guts–pain slicing my darkness. And then, nothing. . . .

I slowly became aware of voices–distant, hollow.

“ . . . lucky they found him so soon–he swallowed enough poison to kill an elephant–strangest suicide attempt I’ve ever seen.”

Swallowed poison? Suicide attempt? No!

“. . . raving about ‘monsters,’ the knock he took certainly scrambled his senses.”

Suicide attempt? “No!” my voice, a hoarse whisper, croaked finally becoming audible. I tried to sit, but found my arms restrained.

A hiss and light footsteps followed; the door clanked shut. I tried to turn my head toward the sound, but pain stopped my movement–my neck and throat stiff, sore. My vision, still blurry, an effect of what I had been given to keep me out, prevented me from learning the time.

They think I tried to kill myself by swallowing rat poison! But it wasn’t me–monsters did this–monsters with voices like tinkling bells. And if I say that, who’ll believe me?

The door clanked open. A white shape stood next to me and the bed. Pain pierced my right arm. Soon, I floated into the never land of a drug induced sleep.

How do you feel?”

I started, thinking I still slept. The voice–Smitty’s, I realized–sounded odd, not his normal speaking voice.

“Like Hell,” I croaked, frog-like. I opened my eyes, looked around, and saw Smitty clearly. He held a red baseball cap in both hands, wringing it as if he could get answers from mute cloth. Smitty noticed his hands, and jammed the hat onto his head, our company’s logo emblazoned on the front. I had witnessed this behavior in him before–at times when he labored under extreme stress, or when he wanted to hide something.

“They think I tried to kill myself,” I said.

“Shit!” He stood and threw himself toward the room’s only window. “What the hell am I supposed to think? A cop shows up and tells me my best friend and business partner tried to kill himself–like he was telling me a headlight was out on my truck!”

I nodded, not knowing what to say and flicked on the TV. I hardly paid attention until Dan Rather spoke of the worst air crash in U.S. history. Smitty turned to watch the unflinching Texan describe the event.

A DC-10 crashed today during take off from Chicago’s O’Hare airport. American Airlines flight 191 bound for Los Angeles exploded only seconds after leaving the runway. Witnesses say one of the right engines broke loose, igniting the wing fuel tanks. There were no survivors. . . .

I slammed my hand down on the remote, muting the sound. “Smitty–what’s today’s date?”

Smitty took one step back. “What kind of a question is . . . ?”

“Answer, dammit!”

“Cool it, Dave.” He raised his left arm, checking his watch. “May 25. Do you want to know the year?”

I sighed, stalling to regain composure. “I haven’t lost my mind.”

“Sorry.” He turned back to the window. “Why do you ask?”

“On May 22, I shipped a DC-10 part to O’Hare.”

“Dozens of DC-10s pass through O’Hare every day.”

“Let me finish–I sent an exhaust tube for one of the right engines to American Airlines’ maintenance hangar.”

“An exhaust tube doesn’t hold the engine in place–obviously there was something wrong with the engine mounts.”

I shrugged, turning to watch the silent screen. No, I thought to myself, but what if whatever did this to me hid inside the tube–something small like an imp or a gremlin–and somehow caused the plane crash? I remembered a cartoon I’d once seen where gremlins sabotaged planes causing them to crash unexplainably. If I say so, who would believe me? Unless. . . .

“Smitty,” I said aloud, “why did you quit working for George?”

His eyes flicked in my direction. “Like I told you, Tami’s business boomed unexpectedly–she needed my help.”

“Nothing happened between you and George?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing strange occurred in the warehouse?”

“What do you mean, strange?”

“You didn’t hear any odd noises–scratching, or whispering sounds . . . or bells?”

His eyes flicked toward me again. “It’s an old building.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, nothing.” Eyes flicked. “Can you believe it?” He pointed to the window. “It’s over 100 and some fool kids still play in the park.”

“What are you hiding from me?”

“You’ve had a rough night–I’d better leave so you can rest.” Smitty started toward the door.
“
You’ve heard them.”

He stopped, mid-stride. “Heard who?”

“The gremlins infesting the warehouse.”

He hissed. “There aren’t any gremlins! You’re suffering from delusions brought on by the heat!”

“And what did you suffer from?”

He coughed and laughed at the same time and mumbled something under his breath about my sanity. “You keep talking like that and the big burly orderlies will put you in a canvas coat with long arms, take you to Orofino, and lock you in a padded room. Even if I did hear your gremlins, I wouldn’t mention the fact where anyone could hear me.”

I lost my temper then, realizing Smitty had heard the gremlins. I shouted: “I did hear them! You heard them! They tried to kill me! Gremlins wrecked the plane!”

The orderlies came in, strapping me to the bed while the nurse administered another sedative. I screamed curses against the little gremlins until my voice faded into the silence and darkness of an unnatural sleep.

Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion to this twisted tale!