The first thing you noticed about Marrowood Academy was the silence.
Not the peaceful kind. The heavy, suffocating silence that pressed down on your shoulders like wet wool. The old boarding school sat buried in a forest where the sun barely touched the ground, its towering stone buildings weathered and laced with creeping ivy. Inside, the air was always slightly too cold, even in summer. As if the walls remembered a time when warmth wasn't allowed.
I arrived in October, transferred in from a public school after my father's job relocated. My dorm was in the east wing of the oldest building—Holloway Hall. The plaque outside said it was built in 1872. It felt older.
The school bell rang eight times every day. Once at dawn, then hourly until dusk. But by my second week, I'd heard it ring nine.
The ninth bell rang at night. 2:13 a.m., exactly.
The first time I heard it, I thought it was a dream. But by the third night, I was sure. A single, deep, metallic clang that echoed through the walls, long and slow. It woke me from a dead sleep each time. My roommate, Jasper, claimed not to hear it.
"Must be the pipes," he mumbled, face buried in his pillow.
But I could tell. He was lying. His eyes were too wide.
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In History class, I asked Mr. Bellamy about the bell schedule.
"Eight bells a day," he said, not looking up from his chalkboard. "No more, no less. It's been the same for a century."
I hesitated. "What about the ninth bell?"
He stopped writing.
The room fell so quiet I could hear the wind scrape the old windows. Then, slowly, he turned toward me.
"There is no ninth bell," he said flatly. "Forget you heard it."
He went back to writing like nothing had happened. But I didn't miss the way his hand trembled, just a little.
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That night, I stayed awake.
The dorm was silent except for the occasional creak of the building settling. Jasper snored softly across the room. I watched the digital clock tick past 2:12. The numbers flicked.
2:13.
CLANG.
I sat bolt upright. The sound echoed from deep within the school. Not a recording. Not pipes. Real.
I looked at Jasper.
He was already awake, sitting stiffly in bed, staring at the wall.
"You hear it," I whispered.
He didn't respond.
"I'm going to find it," I said.
His voice was flat. "Don't."
But I was already grabbing my flashlight and jacket.
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The halls were darker than usual. As if the power had dimmed, just slightly. The portraits on the walls seemed to turn with me as I passed, their eyes too glossy, too alert.
I followed the sound. Down two flights of stairs. Past the library. Through the back of the music hall. And then—down.
There was a door I had never seen before. It was hidden behind a faded velvet curtain. Black wood, carved with nine small circles in a ring pattern. No handle.
As I reached out, the door creaked open on its own.
A narrow stone staircase led downward into darkness.
The air changed instantly—thick, wet, and cold, like the breath of something ancient.
I descended.
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At the bottom was a chamber lit by candlelight. Dozens of wax pillars lined the walls, dripping into hardened stalagmites of yellow. The air reeked of mold and iron. In the center of the chamber stood the bell.
It was massive—blackened brass, ten feet tall, suspended by chains that disappeared into the ceiling. Around it, carved into the stone floor, was a circle of symbols I didn't recognize.
But I wasn't alone.
Seven students stood silently around the bell, wearing black robes. Their faces were masked with carved wood—each one painted with the number nine in red. None of them spoke. They stared at me.
I backed up, breath catching.
"You shouldn't be here," one of them said. The voice was familiar. Jasper.
He pulled off his mask.
"You followed the bell," he said quietly. "That means it's chosen you."
"Chosen?" I echoed.
He looked tired. "It's not a bell. It's a door."
The others turned toward him sharply, but he ignored them.
"They built this school around it. Over it. To contain it. Every night at 2:13, it tries to open. Every generation, nine are chosen to hold it shut."
The ninth bell.
It wasn't a signal. It was a warning.
"It feeds on fear," Jasper continued. "On memory. If it opens—"
He didn't finish.
The bell rang again.
CLANG.
This time, the sound didn't fade. It grew. Like something waking up.
The candles flickered violently. The stone floor beneath the bell began to crack. A low, impossible growl rumbled through the chamber. I saw shadows moving inside the brass as if something enormous stirred inside the metal.
Jasper grabbed my wrist. "You came down. That means you're the ninth. You have to stay. Help seal it."
"No," I whispered. "I didn't agree—"
"You don't get to agree," he said sharply. "You heard it."
The others began chanting. Low, rhythmic, terrifying. The bell glowed faintly red.
The growl became a voice.
It spoke in a language I didn't know—but I understood it. My head ached. My nose bled.
It whispered my name.
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I don't remember leaving.
I woke up in bed. My pillow was soaked with blood. My ears rang.
Jasper was gone.
No one had seen him. The school said he withdrew. His things were gone. No trace. Not even in the yearbook. Like he'd never existed.
But I remembered.
And at 2:13 a.m. that night, the bell rang again.
CLANG.
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Now, I hear it every night. So do the others. We pass in the halls but never speak. We know. We're the new nine. The seal is breaking again. The cracks spread further each night.
I dream of the bell now. Of the voice inside. It tells me things. Things I can't unhear.
I think... I think we're losing.
And one day soon, when the bell rings for the ninth time—there won't be anyone left to stop it.