The village of Blackthorn lay smothered in fog, its thatched roofs hunched like old beggars beneath a pale, sickly moon. The church stood at its heart, a squat stone relic with a single bell tower that loomed above the cottages like a watching eye.

No one dared enter the churchyard after dark—not since the incident.

It began with the old bell ringer, Thomas Gray. He had tended the tower for thirty years, climbing its narrow, spiraling steps each dusk and dawn. The villagers called him devout, but others whispered that he stayed too long in the belfry, speaking to shadows that clung to the walls.

One winter’s night, the bell tolled twelve times—though the hour was only ten. The sound was wrong, hollow and sharp, as if the bell itself were cracked. The villagers hurried to the square, torches in hand, but found the church doors barred.

When morning came, they forced the doors open and climbed the tower. At the top, they found Thomas hanging from the bell rope, his body swaying gently in the drafts. His eyes were wide and staring, lips curled in an awful grin. The rope, stained dark, wrapped around his neck like a noose.

They buried him in the churchyard. But the next night, the bell rang again—twelve times.

No one dared climb the tower. They bolted the doors and waited for morning. When light returned, the church was empty, save for muddy footprints leading from Thomas’s grave to the belfry stairs.

The villagers fled Blackthorn one by one, leaving the church to rot. Yet travelers who pass by on moonlit nights claim they still hear the bell tolling—twelve times, long after midnight. And if they dare to look, they glimpse a shadow swaying high in the tower, its grin gleaming white in the dark.