The Bell

Doctor Holtz was not always so old, nor was he always quite so mad. I knew him when I was just a young boy, and matured under his steady guidance. Science was his passion, and he often dove deep within the books and research papers that flooded his flat. As I came of age, he even took me under his wing as an apprentice of sorts, much to the chagrin of my elders. "What would a scientist have to do with a street-sweeper anyway?" they would ask, but help I did. Those were the happiest days of my life, not to mention the occasional pound note that came my way.

As so often happens, though, the days grew darker. Doctor Holtz seemed to be locked up within his private laboratory daily, rarely even appearing for supper. The tasks for me kept coming, but these requests became stranger with each passing week. Raw butcher's meat fresh from the market, dead fowl after a heavy rainstorm, a stray animal starved in the streets - and all the while I struggled with what seemed to be Doctor Holtz's failing grip on reality. Still, I assured outsiders that we were in the midst of an important breakthrough for science.

Late one Sunday evening a telegram arrived at my residence, informing me that Doctor Holtz required my immediate assistance. I arrived within the hour, prepared for another fool's errand. I found, however, that the Doctor had already completed his errand. Flat across the dining table was a youngish woman of milky skin and vacant eyes, but not a stitch of clothing to cover her body. A corpse, he explained, procured through bribery and secret arrangements. I could hardly utter a word, now faced with this visual evidence that the man I had considered employer and friend was now truly drowning in dementia.

Further, he laid bare his plans for this woman, with theories and reasoning that were beyond my comprehension. What was clear was that he had ghastly intentions that I considered unthinkable. From me, he asked only one last favor, to which I reluctantly agreed. The blustery March winds carried me home then, as I shouldered the burden that soon I would have to report my longtime friend to the authorities for being at best a ghoul, and at worst a murderer.

The following evening I received a grim notice - Doctor William F. Holtz had passed away sometime that afternoon. The services were held shortly thereafter, per his request. Despite his curious behavior of recent years, I witnessed many of his friends and family in attendance. My emotions were mixed between sadness and relief, particularly during the procession. Fittingly, it was a dreary grey afternoon, with spots of rain during our trek to the cemetery. He was finally laid to rest in Dallington Cemetery on Harlstone Road, just two kilometers north of his home. The gathering attendees cleared soon after, and I was left alone to enjoy the early evening air and the stillness of the cemetery.

As the minutes dragged on, I could feel the dread beginning to build within, even more in breathless anticipation. Before too long, however, the tiny coffin bell began to ring beside the headstone. The small twinkling belied what it truly signaled. I hesitated, but only for a moment. I knelt down in the soft ground, removed the scissors from my jacket pocket, and snipped the white string connected six feet below. Closing my eyes then, I whispered an apology to Doctor Holtz, my one-time friend and colleague, and said goodbye. Quickly, I rose to my feet and briskly walked towards the gates exiting Dallington Cemetery, never to return again.