The Thirteenth Bell
When the long-silent bell of a forgotten cathedral rings thirteen times, a man is drawn into a midnight ritual and a secret that rewrites his reality—one reflection at a time.
At exactly 1:00 a.m., the cathedral bell rang thirteen times.
No one else seemed to hear it.
I live across from St. Elric’s—the oldest church in the city, abandoned for decades. The bell hasn’t worked since before I was born. But last night, it tolled thirteen times, slow and deliberate. I counted.
I asked the old security guard the next morning. He didn’t blink. Just said, “If it ever rings again, leave this city.” I thought he was crazy.
But the next night, it rang again. Same hour. Same number. My apartment lights flickered. My clocks reset to 00:13. I couldn’t sleep. I stared out the window, and for the first time, I saw lights flickering deep inside the cathedral. Moving.
The third night, I went in.
The main doors were unlocked. Inside, candles flickered on ancient stone columns. Fresh footprints in the dust. Symbols etched into the pews—circles within circles, a handprint pressed in what looked like rust. The air smelled like ash and roses.
Down the nave, I saw them. Hooded figures in a circle around the altar, whispering in a language I didn’t know. One raised his head. I couldn’t see his face, but he nodded—like he’d been waiting.
The others parted.
In the center of the altar was a mirror. Old. Cracked. I stepped forward, drawn in. My reflection blinked before I did.
Then it smiled.
Now, every clock I see shows 1:13, no matter the time. The bell rings even when I’m miles away. And wherever I go, I catch glimpses of those symbols etched into walls, doors, even my own skin.
I think I answered something that night. And I think it’s still listening.
No one else seemed to hear it.
I live across from St. Elric’s—the oldest church in the city, abandoned for decades. The bell hasn’t worked since before I was born. But last night, it tolled thirteen times, slow and deliberate. I counted.
I asked the old security guard the next morning. He didn’t blink. Just said, “If it ever rings again, leave this city.” I thought he was crazy.
But the next night, it rang again. Same hour. Same number. My apartment lights flickered. My clocks reset to 00:13. I couldn’t sleep. I stared out the window, and for the first time, I saw lights flickering deep inside the cathedral. Moving.
The third night, I went in.
The main doors were unlocked. Inside, candles flickered on ancient stone columns. Fresh footprints in the dust. Symbols etched into the pews—circles within circles, a handprint pressed in what looked like rust. The air smelled like ash and roses.
Down the nave, I saw them. Hooded figures in a circle around the altar, whispering in a language I didn’t know. One raised his head. I couldn’t see his face, but he nodded—like he’d been waiting.
The others parted.
In the center of the altar was a mirror. Old. Cracked. I stepped forward, drawn in. My reflection blinked before I did.
Then it smiled.
Now, every clock I see shows 1:13, no matter the time. The bell rings even when I’m miles away. And wherever I go, I catch glimpses of those symbols etched into walls, doors, even my own skin.
I think I answered something that night. And I think it’s still listening.
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