The small silver bell made a dainty, lighthearted noise, but it was loud enough for my mom to hear it. It had probably been my grandmother's. It was about five inches tall, the bell and chime part made of silver, and it had a wooden handle. Its home was on the mantle in the den.
My mom was in bed, tossing and turning, in that half-dreaming, half-awakened state. Reading something hadn’t helped, nor had taking her sleeping pill. She hadn’t expected the bell to ring.
The sound came from the den. My mom called out my dad’s name. “Chuck? Are you there?” She was tired and just wanted a good night’s rest. She had always been a light and restless sleeper, and she was still getting used to going to sleep alone in the house. Her calling out my dad’s name met with silence. She thought it had rung almost nightly in the month since his passing. Sometimes she heard it—or so she thought. Sometimes she called out, but there was always silence in response.
Before he died, my father would ring the bell in the middle of the night when he needed something. In his last months, he was unable to use a regular bed and slept in a recliner in the den. My mom got into the habit of lightly dozing until my father rang the bell.
She called out again, “Chuck? Are you there?” But though she might have dreamed of the ringing, eventually falling asleep.
The bell rang again the following night, slightly more insistent, louder. My mom was half asleep when she thought she heard it.
She called out my dad’s name again. Silence. Then a quick burst of ringing. “CHUCK?” She almost hollered in the direction of the den, then silence. She was hesitant to get up. It would just wake her up more and make it more difficult to fall asleep.
The following night, my mother couldn’t sleep at all. Her sleeping pill hadn’t kicked in and she sat in her bed with the bedside table light on. She was wide awake.
At the usual time, the bell started ringing loudly. There was a strong sense of urgency about the ringing. Like she always had, she called out my dad’s name. This time, instead of silence, the bell kept ringing. She called out again. “Chuck? Are you there?” and the bell rang louder.
She was nervous and a little scared. What if someone had broken into the house and was hiding in the den, waiting to attack her? The bell kept on ringing.
Finally, she got out of bed and walked into the den. The room was dark–dark enough that she couldn’t see the bell ringing–but could hear it. Insistent. Loud. She turned on the lights.
The bell was on the mantel, where she had put it after his death. She put her hands on her hips. “Chuck! We are fine. Kim and I are going to be alright. Go back to sleep.”
My mom waited a few minutes, but nothing happened. She turned and went back to bed.
She never heard the bell ring again.