Chapter 6 The Screaming Bell

The old church on St. Bernard Street had not rung its bell in over twenty years.

Father Renoux made certain of that.

The bell tower was sealed after the fire, after the scandal, after the girl and her family were declared "devil-kin." It was his voice that led the final sermon, his hands that poured the oil, his words that condemned the Bellerose name.

He never flinched. Never doubted.

And now, he was going deaf.

It began two nights ago-an eerie pitch, deep in his ears, like the hum of a tuning fork buried in his brain. Doctors found nothing wrong. "Stress," they said. "Sinuses," one offered.

But Renoux knew better.

He hadn't slept in days. Each time his eyes closed, he stood again before the pyre-except now it was his own flesh catching fire. And through the blaze, she came. Isadora. Wearing a crown of ash, eyes glistening with black tears.

He awoke with bleeding gums. He awoke screaming.

The priests began to avoid him.

Candles would not stay lit in his chapel.

And the altar bled during mass.

The pigeons had abandoned the bell tower, and the ivy that grew up the side had turned the color of dried blood. Every morning, a new black feather would appear on his pillow, though no birds ever entered his chambers.

And then, the bell rang.

A single note.

Thunderous. Deep.

It cracked every window in the chapel.

Renoux collapsed, clawing at his ears. Blood ran freely now. The other priests gathered but dared not touch him. He screamed at them to exorcise the building, to fetch holy oil, to call the archbishop.

But no one moved.

They heard it too, now-the laughter.

Low. Feminine.

And wrong.

---

That night, Isadora walked into the church barefoot.

No one stopped her.

The doors opened on their own. The stained glass glowed, but there was no light. The walls pulsed with heartbeat rhythms. The air reeked of sulfur and rosewater.

Father Renoux stood before the altar, swaying, eyes hollow, hands clutching a crucifix that had melted into tar.

She ascended the aisle slowly, like a bride coming to collect her groom.

"Have you come to confess?" he croaked.

"No," she whispered. "I've come to collect."

He raised the crucifix-but it broke in two with a hiss.

The ground split beneath him, and from it crawled a congregation of ash-bodied figures: women in scorched gowns, children with coal-black mouths, men who had burned with his blessing.

The victims.

Isadora raised her hand.

And the bell rang again-without wind, without touch.

Its sound did not stop.

It stretched like sinew, shrieking into octaves no living thing should hear. The sound tore flesh from the faces of the statues. It shattered pews. It bent the floorboards like waves.

Renoux fell to his knees.

The ash-figures encircled him, placing their hands on his face, his chest, his throat. They whispered prayers in reverse. They sang lullabies backward.

And he began to unravel.

Not die.

Unravel.

Piece by piece, sinew by sinew, like a tapestry ripped from reality.

His soul howled as it was pulled apart and sewn into the fabric of the chapel walls.

A warning.

A curse.

A record.

The bell stopped.

And Isadora wept-not out of grief, but satisfaction.

One more mark scratched from her list.

---

At Harrow House, the mirrors warped with new agony.

Victor's reflection clawed the glass beside Madame Velline's. Renoux's was not visible-only a bleeding shape, kneeling, forever praying, its mouth stitched shut with rosary beads.

The Ghede Na Rouje stirred beneath the floorboards. Its voice crawled up her spine.

"The harvest ripens."

She nodded.

"But not yet full."

The house hissed in approval.

But something else moved that night.

Far across the city, in the hidden quarters of the bayou, an old woman opened her eyes.

Maman Chantelle.

The real voodoo queen of the swamp.

She had felt the shift. The Ghede, once bound to the earth, was waking. Not by natural means. But by vengeance and blood.

And that meant only one thing.

Isadora Bellerose had broken the pact.

Maman Chantelle lit three candles-one white, one red, one black-and began to chant in the lost tongue of the Tchamba spirits. Her bones cracked with every word. Her shadow twisted into a serpent.

She had to act.

Because if Isadora continued, New Orleans would not survive.

Not the way it was.

Not in any way it could be.

---

Back at Harrow House, Isadora felt a presence.

Not fear.

But pressure.

Someone had noticed.

Someone powerful.

And watching.

She smiled.

Let them come.