The rain was coming down in sheets that made the city lights bleed into the darkness. Detective Killian McMiller stood in the backseat of the unmarked cruiser, leaning forward between the front seats, eyes fixed on the silhouette of the old Saint Dymphna Bell Tower. A call had come in—a scream, choked and cut short. The address was wrong, the timing too quick. It reeked of the murderer's usual game.
"We're being pulled here," Killian murmured. "This isn't rescue—this is bait."
Hill McCallister's knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. "And we're the fish."
A gust rattled the tower's broken windows. Somewhere inside, the faint clang of metal echoed, irregular and wet.
---
Inside, the killer's breath came in slow, measured pulls, each one tasting of rust and rot. The woman—no older than twenty—hung suspended from a rusted pulley by her wrists. Her eyes were wide, darting to every corner of the bell room as if an escape route might appear if she stared hard enough.
"Shhh," the killer whispered, voice warm with mock comfort. "You'll ruin the music if you keep crying."
The rope was threaded through the bell's clapper, every twitch of her body making the massive bronze tongue shiver. The killer's gloved hand smeared a thumbprint of crimson across her cheek. "Do you hear that? That's the sound they'll follow. Every strike will bring them closer… but not in time."
---
The detectives reached the base of the tower.
"Split up?" Hill asked.
Killian shook his head. "Not in this rain. We go together. Keep your light down—you'll make us ghosts until we're right on him."
The inside smelled of mold and burnt oil. The staircase creaked under their boots, each step a groan in the dark.
Halfway up, a low, hollow gong rippled through the walls. Hill froze. "That wasn't the wind."
Killian didn't answer—he was already moving faster.
---
The killer watched the woman's head jerk at the sound, hope flaring in her eyes.
"Oh," he grinned, "you think that means they're coming to save you. You poor thing… they're coming because I let them."
He turned the rope on the pulley with a slow crank. The bell swung forward, and with it, the clapper slammed into its side—GONG!—a deafening toll that drowned her scream.
"That's number six," he said quietly. "I wonder if they'll make it before ten."
---
When Killian and Hill burst into the bell room, the first thing they saw was the bell swaying violently.
"Drop it!" Hill barked.
The killer turned slowly, stepping into the beam of Killian's flashlight. His mask was a crude scrap of stitched leather, slick from the rain. His gloved fingers rested on the pulley's crank.
"You're just in time," he said. "For the final note."
Before either detective could reach him, the killer twisted the crank hard. The pulley screamed as the rope snapped upward, dragging the woman toward the ceiling with a sickening jerk. Her body swung against the cold metal of the bell—GONG!—and the killer was gone, melting into the shadows behind it.
The detectives lunged, but the sound swallowed their shouts. By the time they pulled her down, the rope was still warm, and the rain from the broken window mingled with the blood on the floor.
Outside, far below, a lone figure slipped into the storm. And somewhere in the night, another bell began to toll.