13 Feb The Culling Bell

The town of Culling needed a religious leader. That was what the church leaders had told Emmett, and it was what he firmly believed. They also used words to describe the townsfolk, such as “recalcitrant” and “inhospitable.” To Emmett, fresh out of seminary school and ready to spread God’s word to an unwelcoming world, this sounded like a perfect place to start. Culling’s pastor had clearly not been fulfilling the spiritual needs of the town, and while his death was, of course, sad, the timing truly did seem providential. Emmett gathered up his meager belongings, said a brief prayer that his car would make the trip, and drove off to discover his new home.

He was prepared for the rundown nature of the town, the peeling paint and weedy fields. He expected the rude stares and hostile silence when he introduced himself at the diner. He kept a soft smile on his face, ate his meal as if he could not feel their eyes upon him, and then set out for the church.

It was an imposing building, wider than most other buildings in town and taller even with the spire half-missing. Judging by the blackened wood at the top of that shattered tower, it had been hit by lightning at some point. The bell that should have hung there was gone. Emmett wondered where it had gone. Probably stashed in a closet or basement, waiting for him to restore it. He had no idea how one raised a bell into a tower. Probably something clever with ropes and pulleys, and a lot of help. He’d have to work on that.

As Emmett climbed the steps to the church’s front doors, he discovered that the issue of the bell tower would have to wait. The doors of the church had been nailed shut, criss-crossed by half a dozen fence rails. He tugged experimentally on one of the boards. It had been hammered firmly in place. This was no temporary measure. Whoever had placed these boards had intended them to remain permanently.

Emmett circled around to the back to find the same was true of the humbler rear entrance, only on a smaller scale. He tried a window, but it was locked. It was just as well. He didn’t want his first entry into his new church to be clambering in through a window like a child caught out after curfew. He needed to set a tone of leadership.

Emmett walked back out to the street and stared up at the church’s burnt tower and raggedly sealed doors. He told himself that this was the challenge he had wanted and that faith was nothing if not regularly tested. It helped a little.

He sighed and looked around. There were quite a few people watching him. None were moving to help. This test was to be his alone, it seemed.

He walked down the street until he came to a store labeled simply “Ron’s.” Through the dusty windows he saw an odd mix of items on the shelves, everything from hunting supplies to bed pillows. It seemed a likely place to have a pry bar. Emmett went inside.

“You from the church?” asked the man behind the counter, presumably Ron himself. He had a plug of dip in his mouth, and looked like he was debating spitting it at Emmett. After a moment’s deliberation, he spat into a styrofoam cup sitting by the register instead.

“I am,” said Emmett.

“You looking to get into the church?”

“I am,” Emmett said again. He felt like he should be adding more to this conversation, but nothing about the man’s demeanor invited extra speech. Still, he gave it a shot. “Did you—”

“Leave well enough alone,” said Ron.

“Sorry?”

“Them doors didn’t get nailed shut by accident. Leave them be.”

“I can’t do that,” said Emmett. “I have a responsibility.”

“We all got one of those,” said Ron. “For example, I got a responsibility not to sell you a hammer.”

“I see,” said Emmett.

“Did you know Pastor Orshank?” Ron asked.

“No.”

“We all did,” said Ron. “The church stays closed.”

“It’s not your building to decide,” said Emmett, surprised at his own steel.

Ron spat again. “But they are my hammers. And I’m not selling.”

“All right,” said Emmett after a moment. “I’m sorry for whatever happened with Pastor Orshank. I do need to reopen the church. We can talk more about this after services tomorrow, if you’ll be there.”

Again to Emmett’s surprise, Ron smiled. It was a grim and thin thing, but it was lighter than the scowl he had worn. “Can’t fault your hope.”

“Hope and faith can open many doors.”

“Guess we’re gonna find out if that’s true, pastor.”

“I suppose so.” Emmett exited the shop and returned to his car. He rooted around in the trunk until he found the lug wrench, which was the wrong tool for the job but was at least made out of solid metal. He brought it up to the doors of the church, wedged it under the first of the blocking boards, and began to steadily work the nails out.

It took time, sweat and a number of words that Emmett’s seminary teachers would not have approved of, but in the end, the fence rails were piled on the steps of the church, and the large doors stood open again. The slightly musty air had the smell of triumph. Emmett breathed deeply and stepped inside.

The church was dark and slightly dusty, but in good repair. Emmett wandered around inside, opening closets, until he found what he had been looking for: a small sandwich board with slate on both sides. He carried it outside and wrote, “Open for services on Sunday!” on both sides.

He looked up at the clouds gathering overhead. It seemed very likely that his sermon tomorrow was going to be held to the accompaniment of howling wind and thunderclaps. He added “Rain or shine!” to the board.

Emmett spent the rest of the day tidying up the church and the small living quarters he found in the back. He moved the fence rails around to a scrap pile in the back and unblocked the back door. He dusted off the pews and aired out the drapes and table coverings. It seemed very likely that he would be preaching to an empty house tomorrow, but he would be prepared for any who might arrive.

That night, as he slept in the bed that had once belonged to Pastor Orshank, Emmett dreamed. In it, a tall, gaunt figure stood at the foot of his bed, staring accusingly at Emmett. The interloper wore clerical robes much like Emmett’s own. His body was bent and flattened in odd places, and his robes shone wetly in the dim moonlight.

“Leave,” said the figure. Emmett knew in his dream it was Pastor Orshank. Who else could it be, in this church, in those clothes, appearing as a specter by night? “Leave now, before the storm.”

“I have come to help these people,” said Emmett, sitting up in bed. “I am here to guide them.”

“Do you know them?” asked Orshank, echoing Ron’s earlier question.

“No.”

“I do.” Orshank glowered. “Leave ill to fall ill. They will reap what they have sown.”

“What of forgiveness?” asked Emmett.

“Sin,” said Orshank. His voice was the sepulchral tolling of a bell. “Sin knows sin. Sin owns sin. Sin must pay for sin.”

When Emmett awoke, he swore he could hear the faint, fading tones of a bell somewhere in the distance. By the time he sat up in bed, it was silent.

His clock said that it was an hour past dawn, but the dim grey light trickling in through the windows swore it was still night. Emmett peeked outside and found the sky shrouded in thick black clouds, an oppressive blanket crushing the town under its weight. The air was heavy with electricity and the promise of rain. Thunder grumbled quietly overhead.

“Well, a little rain never hurt anyone,” Emmett said to himself. Then he pictured the burned spire atop his church, open to the elements and letting the rain run down inside the walls. Surely the people had sealed it off with a tarp or something, at least? They might have sealed off the church, but they wouldn’t want it falling down in the middle of town.

The belltower door was newer and made of a different material than the rest of the church. It was a pre-hung door that had been fitted into the wall, frame and all. It was unlocked and opened easily, swinging out to reveal a small landing and a tall, narrow staircase.

The wall had been replastered on the inside, but not repainted. The wooden stairs were bent and splintered at strange intervals, as if a heavy weight had been dropped on some of them at random. The area was chilly and damp, but it did not smell of mold. Up at the top, Emmett could see a thick blue tarp struggling to get free.

The bar where the bell should have hung was empty. A frayed and severed rope lay at the bottom of the stairwell. The bell was nowhere to be seen. The snapping of the tarp was a poor substitute for a summons to church.

Surprisingly, though, the people came. When Emmett opened the doors, a small group was already waiting, huddled against the wall to avoid the grasping wind. They muttered greetings as they filed inside, taking up positions in the pews and avoiding eye contact with Emmett as much as possible. They whispered to each other, their dark murmurings sounding like imprecations. Try though he might, Emmett could not make out the words beyond the occasional “pastor” and “storm.” Those came up a lot.

Over the next half-hour, the crowd continued to trickle in until the pews were full. Emmett was fairly certain that the entire town was there. He was impressed and a little awed. Clearly, Pastor Orshank’s death had left a hole in this community. He would have quite the task to fill it.

Ron was the last to arrive. Emmett noted how every head turned toward him as he walked in. Running the general store clearly gave him some weight in this community. He saw Ron glance toward the bell tower door and shake his head. The congregation relaxed slightly at that. Emmett wondered what the significance was.

The hushed conversations ceased as Emmett stepped up before the congregation. All eyes were on him, and although the faces mainly wore various shades of hostility, at least they were here and listening. He could work with that.

“I’m pleased to see so many of you here today,” Emmett began. “I’m glad you’ve all braved the coming storm to come welcome me to Culling.”

“Ha!” someone laughed. It was a bitter sound. “As—”

Ron cut the speaker off. “He don’t know, Aldous.”

“Doesn’t he?” Aldous called back. “The board says ‘rain or shine.’ Bit of a strange thing to put on there, not knowing!”

“I just thought it was appropriate, given the clouds,” said Emmett. “If it means anything else—”

Ron slashed his hand in a sideways gesture, silencing Emmett. “It’s a common thing people say, Aldous. It don’t mean nothing. I have the bell. Let the boy speak.”

“If you’re so sure, how come you’re here, Ron?”

A general muttering from the crowd suggested that this was a good point. Emmett was totally lost.

Ron was unfazed. “I’m here to keep you folks from panicking. Now sit down, and let’s hear the good word. He’s no Orshank.”

“I understand that Pastor Orshank was important to this community,” said Emmett, “but I’m sure that I can live up to his memory.”

“The less you think about Orshank, the better. Don’t you worry about how we are or what we do. Sermonize us.”

Ron leaned back and folded his arms. Emmett felt like a pet being commanded to do a trick. As no other option was presenting itself, though, he sighed and began the service.

“I’d like to begin with a prayer of gratitude. If you’ll all please join me?”

A flash of lightning lit up the windows, followed by a peal of thunder that made everyone jump. Rain began to beat on the roof. Emmett cleared his throat and began.

The words should have been second nature. Emmett had said them a thousand times. Today, though, it seemed as though a second voice spoke along with him, stressing the sentences in the wrong places and substituting different, darker words. This voice demanded gratitude for merely living, for being allowed another day before final judgment was passed, for not being cast aside. It was almost the same but twisted. Darkened. Evil.

The problem persisted throughout the service. Everything Emmett said was undercut by that second voice. The congregation could feel it, too. He saw them shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

It was the storm, he thought. As the rain on the roof grew louder, the voice increased with it. Every flash of lightning cast ugly shadows across the congregation, making them huddle closer together. Every thunderclap carried the dull ring of a funereal bell.

Emmett found himself nearly shouting to be heard over the accumulated sounds.

“We need not worry about what’s in our minds!” he said.

What sin our minds, the second voice echoed. Lightning flashed, and thunder roared in the same instant. The storm curled over the church, drumming its claws on the roof.

“We will be guided by what’s in our hearts!” Emmett declared.

“What sin our hearts,” said the second voice, and it was no longer an echo but a full-fledged snarl. It was deep and resonant and angry. It spoke directly in Emmett’s ear, but the gasp from the congregation made it clear that they had all heard it as well.

And seen it. Standing exactly where Emmett stood, his ghostly form overlapping Emmett’s body, was Pastor Orshank. He looked just as he had in Emmett’s dream, flattened and battered. His robes dripped with liquid, and in the bright lights of the church, it was clear that they were soaked in blood.

“Sin,” intoned Pastor Orshank. “It has infected us all. It must be as it has always been. From before the town was named, those who lived here knew: for the strong to survive, the weak must be cut down. There is not room for those who take and do not give. There must be a culling.”

A bell tolled as he said the final word, the howl of the storm and the voice of the missing church bell all in one cacophonous sound. A man in the pews suddenly collapsed into the aisle, eyes staring at nothing. The people around him shrieked, but it was lost in the next clap of thunder, the next terrible toll of the phantom bell.

Another person fell. The congregation stampeded in terror. Some were running for the exit, some were on their knees praying, and many ran with no clear goal at all. Emmett felt he should be doing something, but he had no idea what.

“Please don’t panic!” he cried. “God will protect us!”

It might have been his imagination, but he thought he heard Orshank’s voice lessen as he spoke. Was it the plea for calm? The invocation of divinity? Whatever had caused it, it was worth trying again.

“A prayer for salvation,” he said quietly, almost to himself. Orshank spoke with the voice of the storm. There was no point in trying to drown him out. Better to be a counterpoint. “Though we may be lost, we are not alone. Though our struggles overwhelm us, there will always be hope.”

“An error in creation,” said Orshank, talking over Emmett. “Man was born lost and will die alone. Struggles will overwhelm even the strongest hope.”

His voice was ever so slightly weaker as he wrestled with Emmett’s words of hope. He was far from silenced, though, and still the bell tolled. With every stroke, another member of the congregation died. The aisle was littered with trampled corpses and groaning figures. Emmett could see more bodies stretching out into the street, struck down as they fled.

Ron was among those still in the church, his eyes tightly shut and his lips moving as he prayed.

“We have to stop the bell, Ron,” Emmett called. “You said you have it. Where is it?”

“We dragged it away!” Ron cried. “We let it do its final culling, and we dragged it away!”

“To where?”

“Sin,” said Orshank. He was back to full volume now that Emmett’s prayer had ceased. “The bell of Culling was a tool of piety until they perverted it with sin. I, the ordained, chose when to ring it. I, the anointed, chose who would fall. Your petty sabotage was a cheat of all that was intended, and a mockery of God’s wrath. Rain or shine, the will of God will come through. In life or in death, it cannot be stopped.”

“The town cheered when we heard that bell fall!” Ron was on his feet now, striding toward the ghost of Orshank. “Not one among us shed a tear over your corpse. You died alone and for nothing.”

“And so shall we all,” said Orshank. Lightning ripped across the sky. Thunder crashed with the iron sound of a bell.

Ron locked eyes with Emmett and gasped out, “Storeroom.” It was his final word as he collapsed.

An idea struck Emmett. If Orshank had grown weaker when Emmett was speaking words of hope over him, perhaps the summoned remnant of the bell could be stopped by the voice of the original. It felt true. Ron must have thought it as well. With his dying breath, he had told Emmett where to find the bell.

Emmett raced from the church, the poisonous sermon of Pastor Orshank booming behind him. He leapt over the bodies and skidded through the muddy street. The rain blinded him. The thunder disoriented him. The sound was a physical shock.

He fought through it all and kicked in the door of Ron’s store. The door to the back was locked. Emmett seized one of the hammers Ron had refused to sell him earlier and sent the knob flying.

A canvas-wrapped shape standing half as tall as Emmett took up the majority of the room. The ropes wrapping it had loops for handholds, but Emmett could tell from a single quick tug that he would never be able to lift it. He could drag it, though, and drag it he did, inch by painful inch.

It took long minutes to reach the front door. Thunder rolled a dozen times, and Emmett knew that every clap was another death. He gritted his teeth, strained his muscles, and pulled for all he was worth.

It was slightly easier going in the street. The slick mud helped the bell to move, though it also caused Emmett to slip. He switched from pulling to shoving, slamming his shoulder into the bell to keep it moving.

“Help!” he screamed over the storm, and by some miracle help appeared. A family of five showed up at his side, pushing and guiding the bell along with him. They made good progress all the way to the steps of the church, which towered above them like an impassable cliff.

“We can do it,” said the eldest daughter, just as the phantom bell tolled. The final syllable died on her lips as she collapsed to the ground. Her siblings shrieked.

“Get the bell up the steps!” Emmett shouted. “I can fight Orshank. I can stop him from ringing that bell. You have to get this one back into the tower!”

The parents nodded and redoubled their efforts. They dragged the bell past their fallen daughter and up toward the church, one sodden step at a time.

Emmett sprinted back inside. Orshank was delivering a speech about eternal suffering to the scattered corpses before him. Emmett stepped into the ghostly figure and resumed his position, ignoring the carnage before him and focusing all of his faith and belief on the inherent goodness of the universe as he prayed.

It worked. He could feel Orshank lessening, his voice softening as he fought Emmett’s will. The storm weakened along with him. The phantom bell’s terrible thunder slowed, its peals coming less and less frequently.

The true bell had made it into the church. Emmett tried not to watch its slow progress. Orshank was fighting back, inserting his own poisonous ideas into Emmett’s words. He twisted and tore at them, trying to break them into hateful shards. Every sentence was a new attack. Every prayer had hidden barbs. No matter how pure a sentiment Emmett expressed, Orshank found a way to rot it from the inside.

With all of his focus on Emmett, though, he could not maintain the storm. The rain stopped. The bell was silent. If nothing else, Emmett knew he had saved lives. The thought filled him with pride.

Orshank was there, seizing on his misstep. He burst through Emmett’s pride like a pustulent eruption. There was no purity in mankind, no good deeds without the desire of a reward. All justice was hollow. All mercy was fake. Humanity deserved no redemption, no salvation. All that awaited anyone was the endless pit.

The thoughts assailed Emmett from all directions, a screaming mob in his mind. He could not organize his ideas to fight back. He curled into a corner of his own mind to hide from the psychic assault.

Suddenly, a bell tolled, a clear and cleansing sound. It spoke of endings, of finality. At the far end of the church, the family, now of only four, struggled with a thick rope. The heavy bell hung somewhere in the air above them, sounding its true call for the first time since Orshank’s death.

“Did it work?” asked the father. “Is it done?”

Orshank opened Emmett’s eyes and smiled.

“The Culling Bell is restored. Rain or shine, my will will come through.”