The Bell Ritual at Hollow Hill

Florence Frightengale

Good evening, listeners, and welcome back to The Frightengale Files—the only place for tales that tickle the spine and numb the soul.

Unknown Speaker

Charming as always, Florence. I’m sure the listeners feel appropriately spooked already. For those tuning in for the first time, you’ve stumbled upon an archive of the eerie, the inexplicable, and, frankly, the downright unsettling. I’m Elijah Blackwood—a surgeon by necessity, a skeptic by inclination.

Florence Frightengale

He's also our resident grumbler, for those taking notes.

Unknown Speaker

And you’re Florence Frightengale, whose idea of bedside manner is convincing her patients they’re being haunted.

Florence Frightengale

Not convincing, Elijah. Just observing. Spirits rarely care about bedside manners.

Unknown Speaker

Rarely? From what I’ve seen, they’re downright rude. Doors slamming, windows shattering—

Florence Frightengale

Don’t forget the whispering voices. You’re fond of those.

Unknown Speaker

Yes, well. A warm welcome to our familiar faces—and to any brave new souls joining us tonight, I would recommend keeping a light on. Just in case.

Florence Frightengale

Or turn it off, if you’re feeling adventurous. The darkness has its own stories to share. Now, shall we—?

Unknown Speaker

Yes, before the spirits lose their patience.

Florence Frightengale

Speaking of spirits with little regard for patience, the fire at Hollow Hill began with ether and gunpowder—a disastrous combination. The west corridor was engulfed in minutes, trapping four soldiers on the supply wing's far side.

Unknown Speaker

Ether, highly flammable. Gunpowder, volatile at the best of times. Whoever left them together was courting calamity.

Florence Frightengale

And calamity answered. Those men had no chance. By the time we could reach them... their bodies were beyond recognition. Skin and limbs fused, their dog tags melted into bone. Four lives, robbed of their faces, their names.

Unknown Speaker

Unclaimed casualties of the fire. That’s what they became. One coffin, a scribbled label, and silence. The kind of silence that lingers. Suffocates.

Florence Frightengale

It’s why the ritual mattered. The tolling of four bells to honor the dead. One for the body, one for the breath, one for the name, and one for their final release. It wasn’t superstition—it was mercy. A guide, you might say, for their disoriented souls.

Unknown Speaker

Florence, you’d appreciate this. During the Crimean War, there was a burial. They called it a “nameless trench.” Hundreds of men, hastily interred. Nurses tried to reconcile the loss, but... over the following weeks, many couldn’t sleep. They swore they could hear footsteps pacing the halls at all hours.

Florence Frightengale

Let me guess. Violent dreams? Feverish spinning in their bunks?

Unknown Speaker

Exactly. One nurse reported a figure standing at her bedside, its uniform charred beyond recognition. She quit nursing the very next day. It’s funny, isn’t it? How the body can adapt to war, but the mind falters when confronted with the unseen.

Florence Frightengale

It’s not the unseen that haunts. It’s what’s unfinished. Names unspoken. Rituals left undone. And at Hollow Hill, the bell ritual was what kept the dead at peace.

Unknown Speaker

And it all unraveled with one omission. Just one.

Florence Frightengale

Sister Lamenta stood in the chapel that night, the bell trembling in her grasp. All eyes were on her, the weight of what had been left undone pressing heavy in the room. The four solemn tolls awaited her, the only thread left to guide the restless dead.

Unknown Speaker

Four deaths. Four tolls. A simple rhythm, if you will. But she only—

Florence Frightengale

Rang it once.

Unknown Speaker

Yes. Once. That single, lonely chime. And then... she locked herself away. Locked the chapel, shut the doors, and vanished from sight.

Florence Frightengale

It was as if finishing the ritual would... unleash something. Or perhaps she thought she already had. Either way, the silence left behind—it wasn’t peaceful. It was electric. Like the air before a storm.

Unknown Speaker

And what followed wasn’t subtle. Ghostly echoes of boots in the hallways, windows fogged by handprints scorched into the glass—three stories up where no one could have reached.

Florence Frightengale

And the patients. Do you remember what they said?

Unknown Speaker

Unfortunately, yes. They claimed shadowy visitors lingered by their beds. The descriptions were oddly consistent. Silent figures standing at attention, staring—but without mouths. And one patient—

Florence Frightengale

Tearing out his IVs and running barefoot through the ward. He said they were trying to speak. To scream. But nothing came out.

Unknown Speaker

It was madness. The mind turns the unexplained into monsters. Hallucinations bred from grief, fear, exhaustion.

Florence Frightengale

Madness explains many things. Not shadows in locked halls. Not handprints where no hand can reach. And certainly not the sound of bells when no one is there to ring them.

Unknown Speaker

Bells? Wait. Are you saying—

Florence Frightengale

I heard it once. Not in the chapel, but in the west wing, near where the fire started. A single toll, echoing through the night. It was... wrong. Hollow. Like it shouldn’t have been heard by the living.

Unknown Speaker

Florence, you—I mean, really, what did you—

Florence Frightengale

Feel? Dread. It wasn’t fear. Fear is sharp. Instinctual. No, this was something... deeper. Heavier. I felt it in my bones, like the sound was... pulling the marrow from them. That toll wasn’t for me, but it needed me to know it had been rung.

Unknown Speaker

And you think the dead are... what? Listening, waiting, unfinished because of her refusal?

Florence Frightengale

Not listening. Searching. Searching for what was taken from them: their breath. Their names. Their release. Without it, how could they go anywhere?

Unknown Speaker

If they can’t go anywhere... then they remain. Trapped. Restless.

Florence Frightengale

And hungry for remembrance.

Unknown Speaker

The chapel floor couldn’t hold their weight. Cracks began spreading like veins, the same path the fire had taken. At first, we thought it was structural damage, something mundane, but then… the whispers started. Low, persistent, and coming from beneath the stones.

Florence Frightengale

The coffin split. Split from within.

Unknown Speaker

Yes. And inside... well. Let’s just say it defied the boundaries of natural decay. The remains were... rearranged. Limbs moved. Parts missing. Burnt flesh, torn and shifted in ways that—I I hesitate to even call it human anymore.

Florence Frightengale

Something—or someone—had disturbed them. It wasn’t random. I mean, you could almost see... intent in the way they’d been repositioned.

Unknown Speaker

Intent, or malice? If the body is just... what remains of the physical, then why would fragments of restless souls—

Florence Frightengale

Need them? That’s the question, isn’t it?

Unknown Speaker

I believe the answer lies in the ritual. The incomplete tolling of the bells. One chime... it’s barely acknowledgment, let alone a farewell. It left them fragmented—caught between, searching for... something. And without their names tied to their remains, how do they even know who they are?

Florence Frightengale

A name anchors us. In life and in death. Without it, you’re unmoored. Lost. Forgotten. Perhaps that’s the worst of it. You’re here, but you’re no one.

Unknown Speaker

But does it matter to the dead? They’re gone,. I mean—

Florence Frightengale

Are they? We’re speaking of fragments, not ghosts. Pieces of a soul, broken apart and wandering, listening for a toll that refuses to come. Do you remember what Sister Lamenta said? “The body is here. The name is not.”

Unknown Speaker

So without the name, there’s no... resolution? They can’t move on?

Florence Frightengale

Exactly. Hospitals, they’re full of unfinished stories. Lives cut short, promises unfulfilled, words left unsaid. Is it any surprise they echo like this?

Unknown Speaker

It’s more than echoes we’re dealing with here. The physicality of what happened in that coffin—it... it suggests a thirst for something. A hunger for completion, maybe. Perhaps even vengeance.

Florence Frightengale

Or just a craving to be remembered.

Unknown Speaker

And in their unrest lies a warning. For us, for anyone who forgets. Names matter. Rituals matter. Because when they’re unfinished—

Florence Frightengale

—The dead don’t rest.

Florence Frightengale

And if the dead don’t rest, what does that say about the living? About the weight of the names we carry and the unfinished tolling of our own stories? It’s a lesson etched in every echo we've heard tonight—a haunting reminder of remembrance, resonance, and the bells that demand to be answered.

Unknown Speaker

Remember, in the delicate balance of life and death, it seems names and rituals hold more weight than we’d ever imagine. Who knew the living could forget so easily, while the dead... refuse to let go?

Florence Frightengale

Perhaps it’s a reminder to all of us. To say the names. To honor the lives. After all, you never know who's listening in the shadows.

Unknown Speaker

Yes, let’s not invite restless visitors into our lives, shall we?

Florence Frightengale

Oh, come now, a little mystery never hurt anyone... much.

Unknown Speaker

Speak for yourself. I prefer my mysteries to remain... hypothetical. For all our sakes.

Florence Frightengale

Fair enough. Now, a small housekeeping note for our devoted listeners. If tonight’s story kept you on the edge of your seat, there’s more waiting for you in the pages of The Frightengale Files: The Grimoire of Hollow Hill. Written by yours truly, with the wonderfully begrudging assistance of Liv Kancz. Find it where the shadows meet the shelves, or, well, online.

Unknown Speaker

And if a page isn’t quite enough to quench your curiosity, you can step even deeper into the shadows by visiting patreon.com/FlorenceFrightengale. Exclusive content, lost chapters, the whole spectral shebang. Worth every penny—

Florence Frightengale

Says the man who scoffs at superstition but never skips dessert. Charming hypocrisy.

Unknown Speaker

It’s not hypocrisy, Florence—it’s pragmatism. The unexplained should stay unexplained, but dessert can always be indulged.

Florence Frightengale

Listeners, you heard it here first. Supernatural truths overruled by pudding.

Unknown Speaker

And on that note, we’ll bid you good night. Until next time, keep your candles lit and your bells unwrung.

Florence Frightengale

Or, if you’re feeling brave, put them both away. Who knows what might decide to pay you a visit once the light and sound fade?

Unknown Speaker

Truly a comfort, Florence. Thank you.

Florence Frightengale

It’s my pleasure. Good night, dear listeners. And sweet dreams.