Exactly once every ten years, every bell in my village’s cemetery begins to ring.
We have a tradition here that dates back to medieval times when the living were something buried by accident: we attach a string to the hand of each corpse as we lower them into the ground and attach it to a bell.
The bells are almost always silent. My village is a windless place, and we consider it bad luck to ring the bells ourselves. Even the children don’t dare.
But once in a decade on the 19th of January, the bells all begin to ring at dawn. At first, they all clang at once, a regular cacophony. But as time goes by, they begin to slow their pace. First one stops, and then another, until silence returns to the cemetery. By lunch, the bells are done, and we emerge from our homes to picnic in the grass.
Last year, my mother died. Probably Covid, though we never knew for sure. It happened so unexpectedly that for a months after, my family still believed they’d made a mistake burying her.
My brother, Nikola, would pace around her grave, hoping to hear her bell ringing, but of course it never did.
It was on one such day that Nikola began to wonder what truly happens underground on the 19th. What if they are all alive again, made whole? And what if they simply choke to death over the course of ours, ringing their bells in vain?
Nikola shared this theory with a me and a few friends, but we cautioned him that such talk is dangerous. Perhaps the dead are trying to lure us down so that we can join them. Perhaps some sort of gateway to the underworld is open.
Others offered more innocuous explanations. It could be a prank from some old hand in the village, or insects breeding on a ten year cycle.
On the 19th, we draw the shutters and stay inside. It is supposed to be a time of quiet and remembrance. It is also a time of fear. Since I was a child, I’ve always imagined the dead clawing at the ground six feet below, trying to reach us at the surface.
We are encouraged not to even look outside. It goes without saying that you must not leave the house.
This morning, though, I woke before dawn to find Nikola gone, along with our shovel. I was about to run out into the street and go look for him when the sun rose over the distant mountains and the bells began to ring.
Except they seemed louder this time. The clanging was so intense that I shoved cotton into my ears to block the sounds. I found myself shaking, wondering if the end of the world had arrived, if the dead would ascend and walk amongst us.
And then, at the top of his lungs, I heard my brother screaming, “Mama! Mama! Mama!” over and over again, barely audible over the clanging of the bells.
I wanted so badly to run to him. But I was afraid. I huddled in the corner of my room, a wool blanket pulled tight around me, clutching a kitchen knife.
By noon, the bells were quiet again. I opened my front door and sprinted to the cemetery. There, I found Nikola’s shovel beside my mother’s grave. The earth there was disturbed, like it had been dug out and then put back in place.
I called out my brother’s name over and over. But there was no answer. Then, just as I was about to give up hope, the bell above my mother’s grave gave one weak ring.
I looked at the shovel and down at the ground. I looked at the bell, waiting for it to ring again. But all was silent.
I was not brave like my brother. I lingered there for a moment more.
And then I walked away.