The Bell House Letters

From Clara to Henry

Bell House, September 3, 1922

My dearest Henry,

We’ve arrived.

Bell House is even older than I imagined—stooped with age, as though the stone bones of the place remember more than they ought to. It sits like a relic on the cliff’s edge, gazing out over the sea with a sort of resigned watchfulness. The wind never stills here. It moves through the halls and under the doors like it belongs, sighing through the rafters at night as if recounting secrets in a tongue just out of reach.

You’d laugh to see me now, wrapped in my traveling coat like a child, writing by lamplight in a drawing room with windows tall enough to swallow me whole. The glass rattles in its frame every time the sea throws a tantrum below. I can’t tell if it’s thrilling or unnerving. Perhaps both.

Jonathan is already quite at home—he says the sea air will do us good, and I suspect he rather enjoys playing the part of lord of the manor. There’s something theatrical about it, don’t you think? I teased him that he ought to grow a mustache to complete the image. He did not find that especially funny.

The house has a name, of course—Bell House, as the brass plate on the gate proudly announces. Yet I’ve searched and searched, and there’s not a single bell to be seen. No grand bell by the front door, no faded one in the servant’s hall. Odd, for a name so particular. You’d expect it to ring out, wouldn’t you?

Still, there’s a strange kind of beauty to it all. The house feels… aware. I know that sounds fanciful, but it’s the best word I can think of. As though it listens when you speak too loud. As though it watches when your back is turned. Not with malice—no, nothing so sinister—but with the weary attentiveness of something that has waited too long to be left alone.

I must go now. The tide is rising and the waves are beginning their nightly ritual against the rocks. I can feel the salt in my lungs even with the windows shut. Tell me how the city treats you—does it miss me terribly, or has it already forgotten?

With all my love,

Clara

From Henry to Clara

September 7th, 1922

Blackthistle, Yorkshire

My dearest Clara,

How good it was to see your handwriting again. Your letter arrived this morning, and I must say I read it twice over my tea. I can nearly hear your voice in your words—eager, a touch breathless, always hunting for the lovely or peculiar in a place. You never did walk through the world without noticing the shadows under the leaves.

Bell House sounds like something out of one of your novels—salt in the air, stone halls that listen, and that endless rush of the sea just below. I hope it proves more charming than unsettling, though I would urge you (as any older brother must) not to dismiss your instincts so quickly. If the place feels watchful… well, perhaps it is. Old houses tend to remember things. Some more deeply than others.

You mentioned the name—Bell House. That stirred something in me. Do you remember the stories we used to hear when we were small, staying with Aunt Maud? Something about a bell that never rings? I asked around at the pub last night—Old Tom, who fancies himself a historian of the odd, said the house was once a signal point. The bell was supposed to warn ships of the cliffs in fog, but it never rang when it should have. There was a storm, a wreck, and afterward… silence. Some say the bell was cursed. Others claim it only rings now when no one should hear it.

Whether that’s village nonsense or something deeper, I can’t say. But I do feel compelled to tell you—should you find a cellar door, especially one that’s locked or seems older than the rest of the house—leave it be. There are some spaces better left in shadow.

You know I’m not one for superstition. But I do believe in the weight places can carry. Be kind to the house, but keep your wits sharp.

Write again soon. And give my regards to Edward, even if he doesn’t believe in ghosts.

Yours always,

Henry

From Clara to Henry

September 14, 1922

Dearest Henry,

I hope this letter finds you well, though I confess I am beginning to doubt whether my own letters ever make it beyond the cliff’s edge. Bell House seems to swallow everything whole—light, warmth, sound. And perhaps now, even time.

Something has begun to happen. Or perhaps it has always happened, and I was simply too dazzled by novelty and salt air to notice. Each night—each night, Henry—I wake at precisely 3:17 a.m. I do not use that word lightly. Not “around,” not “somewhere near.” Exactly.

And each time, I hear it.

A bell.

Not loud, not the sort that calls hands in from the fields or tolls a churchyard hour. No, it is thin, metallic, and wrong, as though struck underwater—or struck once, a long time ago, and still echoing faintly across the years. I rise to listen, every night, and every night my husband says it is only the sea wind, or the house shifting on its foundations. But I know the sound of a bell. This is not the wind.

I went searching. The cellar is colder than I remembered. It always smells of salt and something else—wet stone, or rotted rope perhaps. Yesterday, I found a door I do not recall seeing before. At the far end of the cellar hallway, behind a shelf I thought too heavy to move. The door was locked—rusted iron—and nailed to it, like some warning or forgotten ritual, was a small iron bell. Blackened with age, its clapper long gone. I touched it, and the cold sank into my skin like a bruise.

Since then, I feel watched. Not constantly, but in moments when I let down my guard—brushing my hair before bed, walking the upper hall alone. I turn, and there is no one there, but I swear the air still trembles.

And the cold, Henry—there are places in this house where it should not be cold. No open window, no draft, and yet a chill seeps from the walls like breath. It feels old. It feels…aware.

I haven’t told my husband about the door. Not yet. He already looks at me strangely when I speak of the bell. I don’t want him to think I’ve grown fanciful or ill. But I trust you, Henry. I always have.

Please—write soon. I need to feel the world is still out there. That I haven’t drifted too far from it.

Yours always,

Clara

From Clara to Henry

September 24, 1922

Bell House

Henry—

I’m writing this in haste. I don’t know if the post will go out before morning, and I don’t trust the staff here—they whisper when they think I’m not listening. My hands are shaking. I’m sorry if the ink runs; I spilled the lamp when I reached for the window latch. The wind is howling tonight. Like something alive.

I saw her again.

Just before dusk, I went out onto the cliffs for air—I thought perhaps the sea would calm my thoughts, though even its roar feels stranger now. That’s when I noticed her. A woman, standing at the very edge, her dress stiff in the breeze, completely still.

She did not move, Henry. Not once. I called out—twice. Nothing. And when she turned…

She had no face.

Not blank in the way you’d think. It was as though her face had been taken, smoothed away, the suggestion of a mouth where it shouldn’t be. And yet I swear to you—she was looking at me. Staring. Seeing.

I ran. I don’t even remember my feet touching the earth between the cliff and the house.

And then—3:17.

The bell.

It rang, Henry. Louder than before. Not a dream. I was fully awake, sitting in the drawing room with every candle lit, my husband fast asleep upstairs. It echoed through the bones of this house like it belonged to it.

I couldn’t help myself—I went into the cellar. The door. The one I told you of. It was open.

There was no wind down there. No air at all, really. Just that cold, still damp you only find in graves or deep places that were never meant to be found. I held the candle tight and followed the stone steps. The walls are lined with strange carvings—etched deep, like something clawed at them. I think they’re letters, but not any I know.

And then—I heard her voice.

Soft. Crooked. Not like it came from a throat.

“There’s someone down there, Henry. She says she knows your name—”

From Village Constable Edmund Price to Mr. Henry Ellison

October 2, 1922

Briarwick Constabulary Office

Wrenmoor Village, Eastcliff

To Mr. Henry Ellison,

23 Inverleigh Lane, London

Sir,

I write in response to your inquiry dated the 29th of September concerning your sister, Mrs. Clara Ellison (née Ellison), currently listed as missing from the premises known locally as Bell House, Eastcliff.

Please be advised that an official investigation has been conducted.

According to Mr. Thomas Ellison—husband to the aforementioned—Mrs. Ellison departed the residence shortly after sundown on the evening of the 24th of September. He states she was in a state of emotional agitation, though he denies any quarrel between them. He claims she exited the home through the back garden and walked toward the cliffs. No witnesses corroborate this account. The night was moonless, and visibility poor.

A preliminary search of the shoreline yielded no trace of her. No footprints were preserved due to tide and wind. Dogs brought from Wrenmoor could not hold a scent beyond the garden gate.

Of particular note: the cellar beneath Bell House, mentioned in your correspondence, is presently inaccessible. The door in question has been sealed by brick and mortar. Mr. Ellison asserts this was done “for Clara’s safety” following an incident wherein she reportedly fell while descending the stairs. There is no record of medical attention sought, nor signs of recent disturbance behind the wall. Our mason confirms the work is not less than one week old.

We are treating the matter as a probable case of wandering and misadventure. No evidence of foul play has been found at this time. Should new developments arise, you will be contacted directly.

Enclosed: copy of the official Missing Persons Notice filed with Eastcliff Registry.

Respectfully,

Edmund Price

Village Constable, Briarwick Division

“Fortem Praestat Silentium” – Silence Befits the Brave.

From Henry to an Unknown Recipient

October 5, 1922

Bell House

To whom it may concern, or to no one at all—

I write this letter with little expectation of reply. The address book yields no names I recognize anymore, and the post feels like a formality, a tether to the world I once inhabited. Still, I feel compelled to set these words down, if only to make sense of the things that now move around me—within me.

It has been three nights since I arrived at Bell House. The local constable gave me the key without a word. He did not meet my eye. I imagine they think I’ve come to retrieve something: furniture, perhaps, or closure. But I’ve unpacked everything. I’ve made up the bed Clara once slept in. I’ve lit fires in the same hearth. I am not leaving.

At first, I told myself I came to understand. Now I wonder if I was summoned.

There are dreams. Vivid, weightless things. Every night, I hear the bell before I sleep. A sound low and submerged, as if rung underwater, or from beneath the floorboards. The hour is always 3:17. I check the clock each time—though I’ve started to suspect it’s no longer wound. In the dream, I stand on the cliff’s edge and the sea roars upward, impossibly tall. From its crest, a shape rises: a woman, veiled in brine and shadow, with her face turned just so—always away. But I know her. Even in sleep, I know her.

In the waking hours, she appears in stranger ways. I catch glimpses in mirrors, not of my reflection, but of hers. Not clearly—never clearly. Only the hem of her dress as it vanishes around a corner. A hand brushing the glass from the other side. Once, I thought I saw her mouth form my name. The mirror fogged where her breath would have touched.

Clara.

It is quiet in this house, but never still. The cellar door remains sealed—bricked over by some desperate hand. I run my fingers along the mortar, and it is cool, damp, as though something breathes behind it. Some nights, I sit on the cellar steps and listen. There is no sound, not really, just… an impression. A tension, as if the house is waiting for someone to ask the right question.

And I have asked. God help me, I’ve asked.

Last night I dreamed again. But this time, I stood inside the house—her house. Clara’s house. And she was walking through it. Not ghostly, not vague—but real. Solid. Her red hair dripping saltwater, her feet bare. She looked back over her shoulder, not at me but… through me. And then she smiled. Not cruel, not kind. Just certain. She opened her mouth and I heard the bell again, louder than before, as though it rang from inside my own chest.

I did not wake screaming. I woke calm. Calm, and certain.

I think she’s still here.

And I think she’s waiting for me.

—H. W.

(Unsigned. Unsent.)