Halloween horror in Indiana

“The Bells of Lost Valley” It was supposed to be a dare. Just a dumb Halloween dare. Mara and Jesse had snuck into the Lost Valley Cemetery after midnight, flashlights flickering, breath fogging in the cold October air. The graveyard sat on the edge of the woods, where the town’s streetlights gave up and the trees leaned in like eavesdroppers. Everyone in Lost Valley knew the stories—about the bells. Back in the 1800s, they said, people were so afraid of being buried alive they installed bells above graves, with strings tied to the corpses’ fingers. If someone woke up underground, they could ring for help. But the bells hadn’t rung in over a century. Until tonight. They were halfway through the overgrown rows when Jesse stopped. “Did you hear that?” Mara froze. A soft ting-ting-ting echoed through the mist. Faint. Metallic. Rhythmic. “Wind,” she whispered, though the air was still. They followed the sound, weaving between leaning headstones and sunken plots. The bell was louder now. Clearer. It was coming from a grave marked Elias Granger, 1874. The bell above it was swaying gently, though no breeze stirred the trees. “Okay, joke’s over,” Jesse said, backing away. “Someone’s messing with us.” Then the bell stopped. And the ground shifted. Mara screamed as a pale hand burst through the soil, fingers curled around a frayed string. Jesse grabbed her arm, but the earth beneath him gave way. He vanished with a choked cry, pulled down into the grave like a rag doll. Mara ran. She didn’t look back. Not when the other bells began to ring. Not when the fog thickened and the names on the stones began to change—Mara Lynn Carter, 2007–2025 etched in fresh granite. She never made it out. The next morning, the sheriff found the cemetery gates wide open. Two flashlights lay just inside. And from somewhere deep among the graves, a single bell rang. Once. Twice. Then silence. Welcome to Lost Valley. Don’t stay past midnight. The dead are light sleepers.