Episode 4 — No One Leaves

The morning after the bell tolls was always the same.

Another funeral.

Sasha stood at the chapel gate, watching as Mr. and Mrs. Ellis were lowered into the ground. Then Jonah who was buried with his camcorder. Michael was the one who suggested this.

But they weren’t the only ones, twenty other bodies were buried that day. No one cried. No one spoke above a whisper. No dramatic speeches of any kind. In Whitegrove, grief was quiet and scheduled, the only difference was how long it will take for you to experience it. (write it better). The bells rang every five years, in that particular year, it would vary between how long it would last. Some times they would come weekly, some daily.

Yesterday was the new years eve, the final day of torment. You would the town would rejoice but, it was more a clock, telling them that they have five more years before it all started again.

She tilted her head back, staring at the pale sun overhead.

“I thought we’d have more time,” she murmured.

Tania stood beside her, arms crossed, sunglasses hiding her eyes. “You know how it goes. Bell rings. Body gets buried. End of story.”

Sasha’s face twisted. “It feels …fast. Like, shouldn’t we give them a real ceremony, celebrate their life. Not this… assembly-line burial.”

Tania shrugs. “Well, that’s how it’s done, Sasha. Nothing we can do about it.”

Sasha didn’t say anything. She knew it was true what Tania was saying. After all, she was too young to remember the last time the bell rang. In fact, she wasn’t even allowed to attend the funeral by her father.

They walked down the hill together, the funeral behind them like the tail end of a nightmare. The air should have felt lighter now, but it didn’t. Not really. Not ever.

“I heard it wasn’t all for nothing,” Tania said after a while. “Jonah — you remember him? — he caught one of them on film. Before he, y’know… “

“You mean died?” Sasha finished, her voice bitter.

Tania looks away. “I guess.”

“…Was it real?”

“The footage?” Tania shrugs again. “They say it was corrupted. But there was one frame… a little girl. Holding a doll. Looked kind of creepy, honestly.”

Sasha exhaled slowly, shaking her head. “Well… I guess Jonah got what he wanted. He finally saw them. I wonder how his last moment felt. Was he satisfied or…just terrified in the end?”

Before Tania could reply, Michael came crashing into them out of nowhere, full of noise and swagger.

“Wow, you losers haven’t gone home yet?” he grinned. “I can walk you there, if you like. For the price of one kiss.”

“Not on your life,” Tania says, laughing as she shoved him.

“Whatever,” he grumbled. He pointed at Sasha dramatically. “Happy birthday, idiot!”

Then he jogged off toward the main road, whistling away.

“He’s getting more desperate,” Tania said with a snort.

“Huh?” Sasha raised an eyebrow.

“You know he likes you, right? It’s so obvious. Everyone else in class knows.”

“Shut up, Tania. Who would like a brute like him?”

“Oh? Then why’s your face all red?”

“It’s from the book he hit me with… and I also have allergies.”

“Sure. Allergies.” Tania laughed again. “Anyway, what are you doing for your birthday?”

Sasha stiffened. “Nothing. “

“Come on! You’re turning eighteen. You should throw a party or something.”

“With everything going on?” Sasha sighs. “I can’t even think about it. I hate having my birthday after the tolls, you know, it doesn’t feel right.”

Tania went quiet for a second. Then:

“Well… it can’t be helped. Not like we can leave this forsaken town anyway. Better get used to it.”

“…Yeah.”

“I always envy the tourists when they visit,” Tania muttered. “They come here thinking it’s all charming and rustic, but they have no fucking clue. I would give anything to leave. Even for a little while.”

They reached Sasha’s house—or rather, her home above the chapel.

Pastor Mathers was giving a short sermon downstairs, a rite they held after every funeral. He smiled at Sasha as she passed but she barely noticed. Her legs felt too heavy. Her head too full.

She had her own room at the very top, tucked beneath the old belfry. The stairs creaked like guilty thoughts every time she climbed them. Funny enough, there was a bell there too, suspended, thick with dust and dread above her bed.

She collapsed onto her bed, face-first, then rolled onto her back to stare at the ceiling.

The church bell.

Long ago, it used to signal when mass started. It hadn’t been rang in a long time, ever since she mistakenly rang it when she was twelve. Like a conditioned response, the town went crazy thinking death was at their doors. Pastor Mathers had to calm the entire town down which thought she was being malicious. He sat her down and explained the history of their town to her. She still remembered her father’s face as he spoke to her, weirdly calm, one would think he was telling a fairytale.

In Whitegrove, survival was a subject taught like math or history.

If your parents didn’t teach you, your teachers did.

School drills started the same way every year:

“If the bell rings—” and every child knew what followed:

Find a shadowed corner.

Stay silent.

Don’t look at the suits.

Don’t run unless they see you.

There were kids like her who’d never known a world without the Bells. Kids who thought monsters in suits were as common as thunderstorms.

One elementary teacher, Miss Clary, kept a suit's severed glove in a glass case above her blackboard—trophied proof that they could be hurt, even if barely. But no one had been able to replicate her success story.

Houses had been redesigned to include safe rooms and false walls. Families kept blood bags in fridges—decoys to confuse the suits' senses. There were whispers of underground networks, hunters who sought to find and destroy the doll at any cost, but nothing ever came of them. The suits always came back.

The church was the only building in Whitegrove left untouched by the suits. Not just standing—untouched. The front doors, though open nightly to dozens of desperate souls, remained free of bloodstains. Its cross never fell. The suits never approached it.

Some believed Pastor Mathers had been spared by God. That maybe what he taught about confession was true.

Others weren’t so sure.

Some believed that he had been spared by the girl. That perhaps he’d helped her long ago.

Whatever the truth was… when the bells rang and everyone ran for the church.

Sasha hardly slept last night.

Most people never did.

Whenever the bell rang, she would get visions. Hear voices that weren’t there. Pastor Mathers called them simply nightmares, said they were common for kids who’d lived through the tolls. After all, so many had lost their parents and siblings. Some who got overwhelmed would resort to killing themselves. And it wasn’t just the kids. Everyone in Whitegrove had their scars.

Eventually, exhaustion dragged Sasha under.

For five hours.

More than she usually got after a bell night.

She woke at 1:05 PM to the buzzing of her phone on the nightstand.

Buzz. Buzz.

One new message. Unknown number.

Happy birthday. Come play.

Frowning, she typed a reply but there was no signal.

“Ugh… Thought I had enough credits.”

She tossed the phone onto her bed.

Then…

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Like someone was knocking.

Her heart stalled. Slowly, she turned her head toward the window.

That should be possible. Two stories up,

Nobody could reach it.

But still… the tapping continued.

“That’s… weird.”

She stood, moved toward the glass, and pulled back the curtain.

“I should’ve known.”