Part 8: Silver (Hell's) Bells

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Previously in the Vines inquiry— Frank relived the terrible memory of his and Dick’s 16th birthday; with a pond that wouldn’t freeze and socks that stayed dry.

The vice broke and Frank sucked in a gulping breath. Back then and now. He couldn’t feel his heartbeat. He put a numb hand to his chest to make sure it was still there as he pressed his back into the wall of the staircase. Frank stamped his feet, squashing the memory away. He was here. Alive, older, in the manor.

Da-dum. Da-dum.

Frank’s heart sounded out into the still night, percussion for the wood winds outside. A few breaths passed until it quickened, rising. Da-da-dum, Da-da-dum. The beat repeated on itself. Took up a new rhythm. Da-da-dum, Da-da-dum, Da-da-dum, Da-da-dum…. It rose within him; a bass, matte version of a song in bells he remembered. It wasn’t a Christmas carol, but held the same crystalline chill and potential for melancholy. Had he heard it in the kitchen while his mother made coffee? No, somewhere cloudier. A different woman. 

Frank looked to the front door, the snow falling through and listened as each flake let out a bell’s chime.

Da-da-dum, Da-da-dum, Da-da-dum, Da-da-dum.

The song rushed through the front door. It behaved as helium, swelling to fill the space. The whole foyer rang in time. Was it coming from outside? Whistling through the trees? No, the parlor. 

“It’s here,” said Richard. He turned up the record player. “I hear.” Frank nodded along to the beat, soothed. 

“Get the butcher knife,” said Rosalind.

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