Short Story: “King Brian’s Bells,” Part 4

27 November 2025

Happy Thanksgiving! We hope you all enjoy today’s feast, and remember to give thanks to the Father of us all for our many blessings! Here is the final part of our story, that breaks one of those fundamental rules of the short story. . . .

11 March 2013

“King Brian’s Bells,” Part 4

I spent three months “resting” in State Hospital North. During that time, Ductworks was investigated by the FAA but found not guilty of any infractions. “Metal Fatigue” was listed as the cause of flight 191’s crash. I went back to work on September 1, but did not receive an order until the 14th. Even though we had been cleared, few were willing to take a chance on our refurbished parts. When I entered the warehouse on the 14th, a pair of red, glowing eyes looked at me for the instant before I flicked on the lights, and I heard the familiar sound of tinkling bells. I stopped mid-stride, but saw nothing. I flicked off the lights and the eyes reappeared, closer, the tinkling bells, louder. A tinkling, bell-like voice whispered my name: “Dave.” I leaped back, pulling the door shut. I sat on the edge of the cement dock, head in hands; I could hear the tinkling voice still whispering in my mind: “Dave . . . Dave . . . Dave. . . .”

“Dave–you okay?”

I looked up and saw Ron leaning out of his police car. I waved him over. I knew he had been told to keep an eye on me, but he was the only friend who would still talk to me. I pointed to the door. “Take a look inside and tell me what you see, but don’t turn the lights on.”

Ron climbed up on the dock and pushed the door open. “Nothing,” he began, but stopped and limped into the dark warehouse. I held my breath, waiting for his surprised shouts. He limped out moments later, smiling. “Do you mean the two points of red light?”

My eyes opened wide. I nodded.

“There are two small nail holes in the siding on the west wall–the sun shines through putting two dots of light on some red lettering on the side of a carton.”

The breath exploded from my lungs; I giggled. “Thanks, Ron. Just making sure I wasn’t seeing things.”

“Have you got much to do?”

I shook my head and climbed to my feet. “No–just need to package one duct.”

“Need any help?”

“I’ll be fine.”

He patted my shoulder. “See ya’ later.”

I packaged the long air tube and shipped it to Montreal. The commission on this part would go a long way to pay for my three-month “vacation.” Two weeks later, the dispassionate Texan related of the near disaster of an Air Canada flight over the Atlantic, which lost part of its tail cone under a sudden depressurization–the DC-9’s cargo door mysteriously opened. The passengers only lost their luggage.

When I returned to the warehouse during the last week in October, I saw the two red “eyes” and heard the tinkling bells; I laughed before I flipped on the lights. I thought I saw movement in the shadows around the warehouse. I was so startled, I flicked off the lights and saw many pairs of red eyes staring at me, along with a renewed tinkling. I flipped the lights back on, caught what must have been movement even as the tinkling fell silent. “Imagination,” I muttered to myself–the eyes, the bells, did not exist–they were only figments of my troubled mind. While I packaged a duct, I slapped at my arms, feeling tiny pinpricks–just bug bites, I told myself. Then I remembered the stubby pitchforks carried by the gremlins that had troubled my dreams since that day–I thought I saw them, all around me, poking at me with their tiny, sharp forks. “Absurd!” I said out loud. I slapped at the occasional sting, cursing the mosquitoes that had long since gone into hibernation. The “bug bites” were replaced by the bells, tinkling voices, whispering my name: “Dave . . . Dave . . . Dave. . . .” I shrugged off the whispering, thinking it the product of loneliness. I had visited Smitty a couple of times after getting out, but he remained aloof, cold, and distant. He complained he was too busy to stop and chat. I stopped visiting him. My family and other friends acted similarly–none wanted to be seen associating with a “certified looney.” Only Ron continued to visit, not bothered by my perceived mental state. I spent more time alone in the warehouse. I began to speak to the voices I heard–the tiny gremlins I imagined.

“Hello, Dave,” said a voice sounding like the movie computer, but the voice tinkled. “What are we doing today?” the voice asked, now sounding more like a bell then a computer.

“I’ve got two orders to fill,” I replied, as if someone were actually there.

“Two, in one day? How nice.” The voice paused, as if to take the time to move to my desk and look over my arm. “One for Western Airlines in LA, and a second for Air New Zealand–I’ve meant to visit the land down under.”

I nodded.

“Dave, do you know what special day approaches?” the voice asked as I looked for the parts.

“Halloween?” I ventured.

“You are so very smart, Dave. We will do something special–to commemorate our re-introduction into your human world. And for you, I’ll see that you live comfortably for the rest of your life. Goodbye, Dave.”

“Whatever,” I replied. I packaged and shipped the parts–a cockpit fresh air duct to LA and a control line for the yoke to New Zealand–and returned to my apartment to sleep away the remainder of the night.

My dream that night was stranger than normal, even unsettling. I dreamed I knelt, bound hand and foot, in a small throne room. A gremlin king, naming himself Brian in the same tinkling, bell-like voice, sat upon the throne telling me over and over again: “It’s Halloween, Dave. We must commemorate our re-introduction into your world. You will be rewarded for releasing us.” A small bell tinkled. I opened my mouth and one of the devils tossed another pellet of rat poison onto my tongue. I swallowed reflexively. King Brian grinned and nodded. Another voice spoke. “It’s Halloween, Dave–we must celebrate.” The bell rang; I swallowed another pellet. “You will be rewarded for releasing us, Dave.” Another bell and pellet. “It’s Halloween, Dave.” Ding, swallow. “Celebrate, Dave.” Dong, swallow. The voices, bells, and pellets came faster. “Rewarded, Dave.” Ring, pellet. “Halloween, Dave.” Tinkle, pellet. “Celebrate, Dave.” Gong, pellet. “Rewarded, Dave.” Ding, pellet. A cacophony of bells and voices; poisoned pellets shoved down my throat. I tried to scream, but no sound could escape the constant stream of poison pellets forced into my mouth. My guts burned with fire. “Halloween . . . celebrate . . . rewarded . . . Dave.” More pellets. I struggled to be free from the voices shouting, the bells ringing, the poison flowing into my stomach . . . voices . . . bells . . . pellets . . . voices . . . bells. . . .

I jumped out of bed, tangled in the sweat-soaked sheets. How could I be so foolish? I admit I’m not the smartest guy, but even a half-wit would not have missed the cues. I threw on my clothes, still hearing the voices whispering around my room. I ran out of the door, jumped into my pickup, hoping I wasn’t too late.

I flew down the Eighth Street grade, pretending to speed without speeding. I glanced at the billboard and slammed on the brakes. Angry horns followed as several cars swerved around me. I slammed her into reverse, backing up the hill to see the sign. “It’s Halloween, Dave–we must celebrate!” I stared at the six foot high letters and heard the gremlins’ tinkling laughter. More angry honking dragged me from my stupor; I sped onward. The billboard at 8th and Main read: “We will reward you for releasing us, Dave.” The First Federal Time/Temperature sign flashed the words: “Halloween–Celebrate–Reward–Dave.” I flew down Main and crossed the Clearwater River. The sign on the Pepsi warehouse flashed the same words. I believe I started mumbling to myself at that point.

“Sorry, Dave,” Bill said, “your freight was shipped out three hours ago. Did you forget something or ship the wrong part?”

“The gremlins are planning to wreck another plane,” I replied.

Bill laughed at me. “Oh sure, and Peter Rabbit is coming to my place for dinner!” He turned away, laughing and making jokes about gremlins.

#

I made two calls when I got home–Western Airlines laughed before they hung up; Air New Zealand just hung up. I made a second trip downtown to the Tribune, but the reporter only shook his head and gave me the number of the Daily Gossip. I called the radio stations and the TV station with similar results. Finally, I called George.

“Maybe you should take more time off,” George replied. His words sounded guarded and careful. “I’ll get someone to fill in until you feel better.”

“Dammit, George! I feel fine! The gremlins are planning another accident! They are going to wreck another plane! Why won’t you listen?”

“Hold on, Dave. I have to take another call.”

Elevator music did little to calm my anger. I cursed several times while waiting for George.

“I’ll be over in fifteen minutes–wait for me.” The line went dead.

“Damn!” I slammed the phone down. In the silence that followed, I heard their whispers: “It’s Halloween–we must celebrate. You will be rewarded for releasing us . . . Dave.” A bell rang. I swallowed reflexively. “Halloween, Dave.” Ding. “Celebrate, Dave.” Dong. “Reward, Dave.” Ring. . . .

“No!” I screamed. “There are no gremlins!”

“Halloween, Dave.” Ding.

“You’re figments of my imagination!”

“Celebrate, Dave.” Dong.

“You don’t exist!”

“Reward, Dave.” Ding.

“You’re not real!”

“Halloween, Dave.” Dong.

“No little men!”

“Celebrate, Dave” Ding.

“Imagination!”

“Reward, Dave.” Dong.

“Noooooooooooooooo . . . !”

Ding. Dong. Ding. Dong. . . . Dingdong. Dingdong. Dingdong. Knocknocknock. Silence. Knocknocknock. I looked around. I stood at the center of a disaster. The furniture and tables were overturned. Pictures had been torn from the walls and added to the wrack. Knocknocknock. I checked my watch–thirty minutes had passed. I heard the door forced open.

“Dave?” George’s voice called. “Are you okay?”

George came into the room followed by two beefy men in white hospital uniforms. I spun to flee and heard the back door open. Trapped–trapped in my lair. I collapsed to the floor, sobbing. Grips of steel lifted me from the floor and draped the canvas jacket over my shoulders, then buckled the leather straps tightly in place.
“It’s not my fault,” I moaned. “The gremlins did this to me. They must celebrate Halloween . . . they will reward me . . . they’re going to wreck more planes . . . please . . . I’m telling the truth . . . you must listen!”

#

On October 31, Western Airlines flight 113, from LA to Mexico City, referred to as the “night owl express,” crashed just short of the runway in Mexico City. The last words of Captain Gilbert were, “The little devil has blinded me!” At about the same time, an Air New Zealand sight-seeing flight over Antarctica crashed on Ross Island. The DC-10 did a nose dive into the ground after all control was lost. One week later, a hearing was held to decide if I was fit to stand trial for the deaths of nearly seven hundred people. The hearing lasted only fifteen minutes–I raved about the gremlins dancing across the judge’s bar, playing with the gavel and making faces at the judge and attorneys present.

#

“Didn’t I say you would be well-taken care of?” Brian noted with a grin.
I lunged for him; he vanished in a puff of sulphur scented smoke. I crashed into the wall again–I’ve lost track of how many times this has happened. It is good that the walls are padded–I might have a better chance of catching him on the rebound.

The end.