Every night, strange bells played melodies inside the walls of the house my family moved into. Until I found out why.

My daughter Ezra pointed it out when we were sitting in the living room. I was watching a Christmas special air on the television while she was busy entertaining herself with her Rubik?s cube and several other complicated puzzles that she enjoyed. The white specks rapidly descended outside, as promised by the weather forecasters earlier that day, so the best place to be was indoors where it was nice and toasty.
?Dad, the walls are singing!?
My attention briefly shifted towards her, but I was still focused on the ongoing special. ?What was that again, honey??
?The walls are singing!?
?They are?? I questioned, grabbing the remote on the table.
I lowered the volume and strained my ears to listen. Sure enough, I could hear the faintest tune of a song I could not recognize, emanating from within the wall directly next to Ezra.
The abrupt sounds resembled someone softly playing handbells, each ring a gentle jingle that passed through the wall.
I stood up and ordered Ezra to back away from the wall, worried that there might be a person behind it. One could never tell these days.
I alerted my wife, who immediately came into the room from the kitchen. I pointed towards the wall and asked her to listen.
She was just as confused as I was.
?Hold onto Ezra,? I told her as I went to go grab the toolbox in my garage.
I came back clutching a hammer, the knuckles on my fingers turning white and brimming with sweat. I neared the wall as the music got louder, the ringing altering in progression.
I stopped for a second before placing one of my ears on the smooth surface. My skin made contact with the cold paint, but it suddenly felt a wave of warmth once it was directly on top of the music. I could feel the tremors from the bells, unique ripples that scattered like drops of water.
I then backed away and swung my hammer into the partition with full force multiple times. Moments later, several white fragments were scattered on the carpet as I stared into the gaping hole that I had created. The melody had stopped from my intrusion and once I peered into the cramped space, my eyes were met with the inner fortifications that kept the wall itself up and a whole shower of dust and debris.
I was relieved I did not stumble upon a person for that matter. I searched for hours after that and was not able to find any bells to speak of. An angry glare from my wife later forced me to call it quits. I had not only a driveway to clean up from the snowfall that next morning, but also an obvious void in my living room to tend to.
However, the music did not end there. The bells continued to ring in the walls every night after that day. Each time, it was at a different location in the house and it always began at midnight. Whenever I checked inside the wall, I could not find anything that seemed to be causing the noise.
I tried referring to the internet for a solution to this unusual phenomenon and ended up returning empty-handed. I was also reluctant to question neighbors due to the fear of sounding crazy and the reality of them not believing me at all. After all, we had moved in a couple of months ago and I did not want to start off on the wrong foot.
Honestly, the bells themselves were not as big of a disturbance as I first thought they would be. The songs were quite serene, embodying the slowness of a lullaby and lasting for short periods of time. They seemed to produce an aura of wonder and imagination; I felt myself slipping into an enchantment in certain instances, picturing many lifelike memories that came to my mind unconsciously.
Except, they weren?t my memories.
I briefly saw myself standing in what appeared to be a small, well-lit, shop. The vivid aroma of cinnamon hit me first before the sweet smells of hard candy and steaming hot chocolate. I saw the pointy green tree in the wooden corner, lined with multi-tinted ornaments, red and blue canes, and a colored star that cast wisps of light that danced on the ceiling. Toys of all shapes and sizes lined the walls on long shelves facing towards me on either side.
What caught my eye next were the rows of bells situated above the toys. And each one of them looked unique with distinct patterns etched into them. They all rung in unison, playing the same familiar songs on repeat.
I had experienced these mirages enough times for the images to be ingrained in my head and I could not tell if that was a good thing. I noticed that Ezra had become acclimated to the bells as well, memorizing different tunes and humming them before she went to sleep. The bells soon became a routine part of our lives even though our countless questions remained unanswered and our curiosity still lingered.
Until about a week later.
While asleep in my bedroom, I was awoken to the sound of a sharp thud in the middle of the night. It was soon followed by footsteps and shuffles from downstairs. I assumed it was my wife since she occasionally goes down to get a glass of water but when I felt her sleeping next to me, my heart began to race.
The footsteps had reached somewhere near the bottom of the stairwell when I started to get out of bed. I knew it could not have been Ezra since she always came into our room when she needed to go downstairs. Someone else was in our house.
I woke my wife up just as I heard squeaks echo up the stairs. I told her to dial 911 as I frantically looked around for an object to use as a weapon. My hands shaking, I grasped a metal ruler lying on the desk in our room and prepared to exit into the hallway.
Before the adrenaline could push me past the door, the ringing from the bells started.
I was expecting the same old faint jingle from beforehand. It was nothing like that. The bells blared throughout the entire house, the noise resounding from all directions. I was shoved back into the room from the rapid velocity of the uproar; the very foundations of the home quivered under its intensity. It was the roar of a stadium combined with the swarm of a rock concert. I felt as if I was trapped underneath the largest bell in the world, such as the ones you can see on top of towering cathedrals.
The door to Ezra?s room opened and she darted towards us as the noise began to subside, streams pouring from her eyes. I hugged her close and gave her to my wife. I needed to see if the intruder was still there.
My eardrums reverberating and my body still trembling, I went out into the hallway holding the ruler. I turned on the lights and checked every other door. I then slowly descended the stairwell and stood on the landing. Peering into the living room, I noticed that the door was cracked open and several other household items were turned over in a frenzied mess.
I thankfully saw no one that night. Officers arrived minutes later, and we recounted the entire situation to them, leaving out the part about the bells of course. After a thorough investigation was conducted, they stationed patrols in the neighborhood and told us to board up the damage as best as we could.
We never heard the bells again in the ensuing nights. Silence had taken its place.
Two weeks later, they arrested the intruder. The criminal had committed a homicide where two innocent victims were violently murdered during an attempted apartment robbery. I wondered how that night would have played out for my family if the bells were not there to scare him off. I always shuddered at the thought.
As the dates passed, Ezra kept asking why the walls were not singing.
?I miss them, dad.? Her tiny lips were wrapped up in a frown.
I told her I didn?t know. And frankly, that was the cold truth. I tried to make an excuse, though she simply would not buy it.
?Do you miss them?? She finally looked up at me, her brown eyes on the verge of tears.
I nodded. As much as I tried to deny it, I missed them too.
Then came one particular morning. I had received a knock at the front door, and upon opening it, I was greeted to the sight of a young man standing on the porch, holding a stack of cards in his hands.
?Hello, I?m Mark.? He handed me one of the cards. ?This is an invitation to our annual gathering for Mr. Grant?s memorial. It will take place at the end of the week. All the info is on the card.?
?Mr. Grant?? I inquired, studying the card. There was a photo of an older gentleman printed on the front side. He wore circular glasses, a soft smile, and a neatly trimmed gray beard.
?You must be new around here, huh??
?Yeah,? I answered. ?My family?s from upstate and we bought this house only a couple of months ago.?
?Ah, I see.? Mark kicked off the snow from his boots. ?That makes sense.?
He pointed his finger at the picture. ?To answer your question, that?s Mr. Grant. Best person I?ve ever met in my entire life. Practically everyone in this town knows him. Growing up, I used to go to his little shop every day with all the other kids. He loved children. His shop had everything you could dream of: toys, candy, and decorations for each holiday. If there wasn?t something you liked, he could make it for you. Mr. Grant could do anything. That man made us believe in ourselves.?
?Where is this shop at??
?That shop used to be here, where your house is right now. I?m pretty sure the builder?s association took up the property and reallocated it for residential homes. There was even a whole riot about it.? He sighed. ?I just wish I could visit it one more time, just to hear the bells.?
My ears perked up. ?Wait, what bells??
?Mr. Grant?s bells. He had them lined up all around his shop. They played these cool tunes that no one else could figure out. I?d like to think he made the songs up himself, to keep us always guessing. It was my favorite part of the shop.?
My mouth slightly hung open. I couldn?t believe it. ?What?what happened to Mr. Grant??
Mark paused. ?Sadly, old age got the better of him. His heart gave out while he was asleep.?
?I?m so sorry about that.?
?No need to be sorry.? He acknowledged. ?It's been many years. But, none of us could ever forget what happened during the week he passed away.?
?What happened??
?Some of the townspeople claimed they could hear bells ringing the very night that followed Mr. Grant?s funeral. No one could pinpoint the source of the harmonious music since it seemed to be echoing all around the block. But one thing was clear.?
He leaned in, whispering.
?The bells were playing Mr. Grant?s favorite tunes, the same beautiful melodies we used to hear in his little toy shop."


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