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Soul-Searching Bell
墨書 Inktalez
The wind howled through the door frame, creaking ominously. Old Xi tossed and turned on the kang, unable to find sleep. She felt that something was amiss with the sounds from that night—not just the wind, nor mere figments of her imagination. It was as if a deep, resonant bell was tolling from a faraway place.
“Dong—”
Just one sound was enough. That single note lingered, echoing like it floated down from the heavens or emerged from the depths of the earth. Old Xi sat up abruptly, her wrinkled face appearing particularly haggard under the dim light of the oil lamp.
Her son, Xiao Wangzi, had been missing for three days.
They had shared a meal together that night. Xiao Wangzi had mentioned that the Ancient Bell Tower in the village had been acting up again, saying he had heard its chimes for several days. Old Xi hadn’t paid much attention at the time and scolded him, “Why do you keep running over to that bell tower? That place is cursed.”
Xiao Wangzi had waved his hand dismissively with a smile. “Don’t worry, Mother. I just find that bell interesting. You said no one rings it anymore; how can it still toll at midnight?”
That was the last time she saw Xiao Wangzi.
The next morning, his bed was neatly made, but he was nowhere to be found. On the table lay a note: “Mother, I’m going to check on the bell tower; I’ll be back soon.”
But he never returned.
In the past few days, Old Xi had searched throughout Zhonglou Village, asking everyone she encountered. Yet the villagers were evasive and spoke haltingly, as if no one knew what lay near the bell tower. Only Old Woman Zhong, an elderly woman over eighty who spent her days fortune-telling at the village entrance, uttered a strange remark: “Those who hear the bell are destined to leave.”
Yang Su flipped through the yellowed letter several times. It was sent by his mentor, Gu Linshan, with a postmark dating back ten years to Lunar December. Yet he only received it today; the envelope was so old it was nearly falling apart.
The handwriting inside was hurried and messy, as if written in extreme panic:
“Dear Zi,
I’ve discovered a peculiar village in Chuanxi; there’s an old bell here said to be related to rituals from the Qing Dynasty. The villagers claim this bell has been silent for ages, yet I hear its chimes every midnight.
Strangely enough, there’s a complete twenty-year gap in the village records. I’ve found some information but haven’t managed to piece it all together yet. If I (the ink has smudged here and is now illegible)…
If you receive this letter, it means I may have already…
Come to Zhonglou Village and find me; all answers lie within the sound of the bell.”
The letter ended there, stained with dark brown splotches.
Yang Su tucked the letter into his bag and gazed out at the overcast sky. As a folklorist, he had traveled across the country over the years collecting folk tales and ritual records. Yet he could never forget his mentor’s disappearance ten years ago.
At that time, he was just starting graduate school when his mentor mentioned going deep into Chuanxi for research and promised to return in no more than half a month. But after that day, there was no word from him again.
The police searched for three months and ultimately found only his notebook in a place called Zhonglou Village, filled with notes about the Ancient Bell and some cryptic symbols.
Yang Su glanced at his watch; it was three in the afternoon. If he set off now, he should reach that village before dark. He had long wanted to trace his mentor’s footsteps but had never found a clear direction until this overdue letter arrived.
He packed his belongings and wrote “Zhonglou Village” in his notebook. Outside, a strange wind swept by, carrying with it a damp and decaying scent.
As night deepened, the bus struggled along the winding mountain road. Yang Su leaned against the window, dozing off, when he was suddenly startled awake by a strange sound. It was faint, drifting from a distant valley, deep and lingering.
“Dong—”
He opened his eyes wide, but the sound had already vanished. The other passengers in the bus were still asleep, seemingly unaware of anything amiss.
“Driver, how far is it to the village ahead?” he leaned forward to ask.
The driver grinned, “We’ll be there soon. Are you heading to Zhonglou Village? That place hasn’t seen visitors in years.”
“Why is that?”
“That village has a dark reputation,” the driver lowered his voice. “I’ve heard that people used to go missing there without a trace, and after that, no one wanted to go back. That old bell isn’t something good.”
Before Yang Su could ask more, the bus suddenly screeched to a halt. A thick fog had rolled in on the mountain road, obscuring everything in a white haze.
“What a strange day; why did the fog come out of nowhere?” the driver muttered. “Well, I can only take you this far. The turn ahead leads to the village; you’ll have to walk from there.”
Yang Su grabbed his luggage and stepped off the bus. In the fog, he could vaguely make out a tall silhouette—it must be the bell tower. The night breeze carried with it a faint herbal scent mixed with a hint of decay.
Taking a deep breath, he walked toward the bell tower. In the mist, something seemed to move, but he couldn’t make it out clearly.
Another gust of wind swept by, this time carrying what sounded like a sigh, as if someone was gently whispering in his ear:
“You’ve come; you’ve finally come…”
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