The first bell at the fire station tolls at 6 o’clock, accompanied by a long, wailing siren. It rises and falls like an angry yowling cry. The blare echoes through the homes of Bloomingdale. The fire station sits on a main road called Route 3. Just behind it lies a two-acre park called “The Ballfield’ which features three baseball diamonds, a small playground, and a recreational shack. The youth refer to this street as President’s Road while the elders call it by its given name, Roosevelt Lane. The road is lined with rows of single-story houses, most filled with families, and a few with elderly residents. At the very end of the road is a gated drive, one that no one has ever been known to enter.
When the first bell rings, Joyce Driscoll and her two children are sitting at the dining room table. She motions for her daughters, Edith and Maybel, to hurry and finish their supper. With a circular movement of her wrist, she urges them to eat faster. They can’t afford to leave anything on their plates, nor can they afford to waste any time.
“Quickly, quickly, girls!” calls Joyce as she walks into the kitchen then comes back out again. “If we want to finish our chapter tonight before bed, we must hurry.” she adds placing her plate in the sink.
“Mamma, I don’t like peas,” complains Maybel who turned five last month.
“I don’t like peas either!” Edith chimes, tossing a pea into her waterglass. She knows better but does it anyway.
“Four year olds don’t put peas in their water,” Joyce says firmly. She walks over to Edith, picks up a pea with her daughter’s fork and gently puts it in Edith’s mouth. “They eat them like this,” says Joyce.
The girls finish their dinner and place their plates by the kitchen sink. Joyce quickly clears the dinner table, glancing at her watch as she stacks the peas and chicken thighs onto a plate. Joyce puts the leftovers in the refrigerator for her husband, Silas. He will be home soon–- some nights late but always before the fourth bell. She thinks about the day and looks at the calendar on the wall. Today is only Tuesday. Soon she will start planning the menu for Thanksgiving in the coming few weeks.
Earlier this fall, Silas Driscall was in the yard playing with the girls when he collapsed with a seizure. Though he continues to work, Silas is often fatigued and confused at night, frequently falling asleep on the couch. One doctor says it’s epilepsy but another says it’s too early to tell.
Each night after dinner, Joyce washes Edith and Maybel’s hair in the bathtub. She dries them off with an oversized towel and helps them get dressed. Tonight, they are reading a chapter book about a bear, a rabbit, and a pig. During the story, the second alarm sounds with a long eerie howl.
“It’s 7 o’clock,” Joyce says. “You know what that means.” She closes the book, kisses the girls on the forehead, and tucks them into bed.
In the few weeks since Silas’s fall, Joyce has begun to wonder what is beyond the fourth bell. As a child, she always heard the fourth bell ring but could never remember anything after it. At night her mother would tuck her in just as the last siren sounded, and she always fell asleep quickly. That was all she could remember for years. Her dreams were vivid, but never once did she wake up in the night to use the toilet or get a glass of water.
On Sunday afternoons, Joyce and her friends– Odessa Moore, Alice Kelly, and Gladys Doyle– sit around the table and play Bridge. But this past Sunday was different. Gladys, a thin, wealthy woman with freckles on her wrists always held her cards in her right hand, but on this day, she held them in her left.
“I thought you were right handed?” Joyce asked, noticing a tremor in Gladys’ right hand.
Gladys looked down at her cards in embarrassment, then up at Joyce. “No, darling, I’ve always used my left,” she said, quickly hiding her right hand. “You must be misremembering.”
Joyce thought for a moment but decided not to press further. When she got home from her game of bridge, she made a note in her notebook: Gladys used left hand at bridge. Right hand was shaking, just like Silas.
Each day, Joyce made a note in her notebook to remember something from that day. Joyce glanced at the note above from last week: Take milk before bed to curb nausea. She then remembered there was no milk in the Fridge. The nausea had only appeared during this pregnancy and always at night. Joyce tried but couldn’t remember the details of her two previous pregnancies, nor could she recall her deliveries. Since Silas’s seizure, the extra care he required had taken a toll on Joyce’s memory.
A note from a few days ago read: Another death, neighbor Gregory Walsh. Age 44. Sixth person this year to suffer from memory loss and brain injury.
Yesterday’s entry was Follow the moving light.
She stared at herself in the bathroom mirror, thinking hard about her latest note, when the front door slammed shut. Silas was home from work.
Joyce listened for Silas through the bathroom door. She could hear him taking off his
shoes, one by one, as they dropped to the floor. He walked across the room to settle down to rest. Tonight, like most other nights, he would sleep on the couch.
Joyce checked her watch, then glanced out the bedroom window. She could see the neighborhood lights beginning to dim. A few gaslit street lamps remained on as the porch and
post lights faded away, one by one. The third bell rang—it was now 8 o’clock.
Amid the long, continued moan of the siren, Joyce cracked her bedroom window. She bent down to breathe in the cold, crisp air. It helped immensely with her nausea. On the corner of the window was a small yellow sticker with black lettering that read: “Forbidden to open at night, sickness drifts in darkness.” Below it was a picture of a skull and crossbones. She left the window open anyway; the fear of not falling asleep before the last bell was greater than the fear of getting sick. Joyce pushed her bed up against the window, letting the cold outdoor air wrap around her like a thick cloud.
When the fourth bell rang, Joyce knew it was 8:30 PM. In her dark room, she felt the cold air but no nausea. She closed her eyes and tried to fall asleep.
It felt like hours, but it had only been minutes. Joyce opened her eyes, assuming it was the early hours of the morning. She sat up in bed, ready to go downstairs to wake her husband before breakfast. She glanced at her watch– it read 8:37 PM. She had never seen that time at night; everyone was always sound asleep by then.
“I am not asleep,” Joyce whispered to herself. She went to the window to look outside. The town was completely dark. Not a single light shone. She hesitated to turn on any lights in the house, unsure if she had ever been awake at this time before.
Joyce walked to her daughters’ bedroom. She pressed her ear to each of their mouths, listening to their slow, steady breathing. Next, she went to the living room, where Silas had fallen asleep on the couch. She lightly pushed on his chest to wake him, but he did not respond.
“Silas,” Joyce called. “Silas!” she raised her voice.
His body remained still. For a moment, she thought he might be dead. Joyce leaned in close to his mouth and listened. He exhaled softly, then inhaled again.
“He’s alive,” Joyce said to herself. “You must be so tired.” She grabbed a blanket from the bedroom and gently tucked him in.
In the dark living room, Joyce paused, unsure of what to do next. She looked outside into the pitch black. “I am beyond the fourth bell,” she said.
Suddenly, there was a flash of light that circled by her window, then disappeared. A few seconds later, the same light reappeared only to vanish again. Joyce dropped to the floor in fear. The window, she thought. Someone must have known I opened it.
She crawled back to her bedroom, afraid someone might see her moving through the house at night. She wanted to close her bedroom window.
From the floor of her bedroom, Joyce saw the beacon of light float past her window. In a brief second, she could see the town, partially lit before it disappeared entirely. Joyce watched it for some time. In between each breath of light, Joyce grew more confident that no one was awake, and no one was looking for her. To be sure, she waited by her window for several hours.
“Where is this light coming from?” Joyce said aloud. “In all my life, I’ve never seen such a thing.” The nausea began to return. Joyce knew she couldn’t sit and wait around for it to pass. She went to her dresser and opened the top drawer, pulling out a torch. It was time for a walk.
Outside the cold air was sharp, and the moonlight was bright. Out of fear, Joyce didn’t use her torch right away. As the beam of light swept through the night sky, Joyce walked up Roosevelt Lane following its beckoning call. Its mysterious glow stirred a deep curiosity within her– a desire to uncover its source. On winter evenings, when the sunsets in the late afternoon, this light is never present. But here, after the toll of the fourth bell, the light passes by every few seconds. Joyce needs to know why, and where this light comes from.
At the end of the road, Joyce stood before a large iron gate. Beneath it, the brick fencing was old and crumbling. Across the gate, a sign read “Private.” She looked up from the gate and saw, in the tree line, the beacon of light coming and going, again and again. It was clear to her that the source of the light lay beyond the fence. Pressing her body against the iron gate, she heard it screech open. Joyce slid through and turned on her torch. The road ahead was unpaved, overgrown with decayed grass and covered in wet, frozen leaves. There were no signs anyone had used this path in years, perhaps even decades.
After walking for what felt like a long time, Joyce found an abandoned well house. As she approached, she turned off her torch. Through the flashes of the beacon, she saw a tall brick tower rising into the sky. With each flicker of light, she could make out the end of the driveway, which led up to a three-story Victorian brick house. It was so large that Joyce could hardly take it all in. The house stretched as long as it was high, with many windows—but not a single light illuminated its interior. It appeared to be abandoned, with parts of the roof missing, broken windows, and fallen shutters. The stairs leading to the entrance had crumbled. Joyce kept her torch off and hid in the well house.
When she opened the door to the well house, a damp, musty smell hit her. It was cold and wet inside. The only window in the well house looked out toward the driveway. The window was cracked, its paint peeling. Joyce watched the Victorian house, waiting for any sign of movement. The beacon of light circled over the property like a ghostly presence. The only movement Joyce could see was her own and the light itself.
After a while, Joyce turned on her torch, feeling reassured that the property was vacant. There were no signs of life. She surveyed the inside of the well house. In the tight space, she spotted the circular stone wall of the well. She could smell the ancient water below. Moving closer, she pointed her light down into the well. To the side of the wall hung a long, rusted chain that disappeared into the depths. Joyce tugged at the chain and found it heavy, assuming it was attached to a bucket.
She put the torch in her mouth to free both hands, then began hoisting the bucket. She pulled harder and harder, and slowly, something began to rise from the well. It was a small wooden bucket, heavy and resembling a miniature wine barrel. Joyce pulled it out and set it on the floor.
She had never seen a bucket like this before. It had four rings of iron around the wood. The wood itself was tough and durable, showing no signs of wear despite years of neglect. The handle was also iron, making it unusually heavy. Joyce peered inside, expecting to find it wet, but instead, it was dry.
Mesmerized by the bucket’s uniqueness, Joyce found it both beautiful and strange. It reminded her of a time when people would draw water from a well, and she felt relieved that she only had to use the kitchen faucet. She slid her hand into the bucket, brushing the smooth texture of the wood. As her fingers reached the bottom, they brushed against something rough—something that wasn’t wood, but rather a thick piece of paper. She pulled it out and unfolded it. It was a hand-drawn map of the property.
At the top of the map was the title “The Sovereign.” The Victorian house was centered, labeled “Buchanan Palace.” To the left of the house stood a tower called “Lincoln’s Light.” Joyce studied the map further and spotted her location in a small square marked “Oasis.” Behind the house, off to the right, were three smaller buildings: Johnson House, Grant House, and Hayes House. Next to Hayes House, a note read “All town Gas shutoff” with faded lettering beneath it that said “Use Code for town when necessary.”
Joyce brought her flashlight closer, squinting to make out the numbers. “Twenty and thirty,” she murmured.
She thought about what the “gas shutoff” meant and why the code was included. The town didn’t have gas, only electricity. She flipped the map over and found a message in the bottom right corner: “Quell the bells. Extinguish the gas. Only then will the town remember its calm… or forget what it has lost.” She considered keeping the map, but the information felt too dangerous. She didn’t want to risk breaking the law.
Joyce folded the map and placed it back in the bucket. She then lowered the bucket back into the well. She searched the room one last time, her feet crunching on the stone floor. She examined the decaying roof and the stone walls for any more clues, but there was nothing. She glanced at her watch—it had been nearly six hours since the last bell. She decided it was time to head home.
Joyce walked back down the long driveway. As she neared the gate, nausea swept over her again. She felt her dinner rising, and before she could stop herself, she vomited onto the ground. She turned on her light to check her shoes, and beside her pile of vomit was another, older pile—likely a few days old. Joyce recoiled in horror. Looking up, she saw the beacon of light still circling in the sky. Feeling uneasy, she hurried home.
When she arrived, Joyce grabbed her notebook and quickly wrote down the message from the back of the map. She thought long and hard about the message. She checked on Silas one last time. His breathing was rhythmic and steady. Joyce wanted to tell him everything she had learned from the map, but she decided to wait until morning. She sat down in the living room chair, her mind still focused on the message. As she leaned back, Joyce could hear the toll of the bell in her memory. Within minutes, her body relaxed, and she began to drift into a dream of going to the firehouse.