Skip to content

The Bell and the Biscotti

The third time the client’s daughter-in-law “accidentally” knocked over the display of honey-balsamic biscotti, I rang the handbell. Not the fakey silver one from the Dollar Tree by the register, but the real one—brass, dented, warm from sitting in my apron pocket. The kind that makes a sound like a cough in a library.

It was supposed to be a simple catering gig: six trays of appetizers for a storage unit association’s “Heritage Night.” Who knew people who rent steel boxes for their junk had heritage? But the money was cash-upfront, so I didn’t ask questions. Just set up the folding table between Unit 12 and Unit 14, where the air smells like mildew and someone’s half-finished model train set.

Inventory of what went wrong:

  1. The Biscotti: Gluten-free, as requested. Still got knocked over. Three times. Each time, the daughter-in-law’s manicured hand “slipped” as she reached for olives. Her pearl earrings trembled like they were judging me too.

  2. The Handbell: Found it in the reception desk drawer when I signed for the storage unit key. Label said For Emergencies Only. Figured it was for calling the manager if someone’s U-Haul caught fire. But the client—Mrs. Carmichael—mentioned “the ritual” when I asked where to plug in the warming tray. “Just ring the bell when you’re ready,” she said. “It’s tradition.”

  3. The Crowd: Twelve people in folding chairs, staring. Not at the charcuterie, but at me. Like I was part of the entertainment. Mrs. Carmichael’s son kept adjusting his tie in the reflection of the biscotti tray. His wife, the one with the pearls, whispered something about “authenticity.”

When I rang the bell the first time, the lights flickered. The second time, the man in Unit 15’s doorway dropped his toolbox. Third time, the daughter-in-law screamed. Not a “surprised” scream, but a guttural thing, like she’d seen a ghost made of wasps.

Turns out, the bell didn’t call the manager. It called them.

The storage unit doors began to open on their own. Not the ones with padlocks, but the ones that had been sealed for years. Out came the smell of old paper and wet dog. Out came the things people store because they can’t bear to touch them: a prom dress in a plastic bag, a child’s bike with flat tires, a box labeled Ashes (Maybe).

Mrs. Carmichael clapped her hands. “It’s working!” she hissed. “The ancestors are here!”

The crowd stood, chairs screeching. They walked into the units, into the dark, as if pulled by strings. The daughter-in-law didn’t scream again. She smiled, wide and toothy, and followed.

I did what any reasonable person would do. I packed up the biscotti.

But the bell was still warm in my pocket.

Inventory of what I keep:

  1. The Bell: Mrs. Carmichael offered me $500 for it. I said no. Not because it’s “cursed” or whatever, but because it’s mine now. Found it, used it, survived it.

  2. The Biscotti: One tray left. I ate it in my van, watching the storage units. The doors stayed open all night.

  3. The Clients: They’re still in there. Or not. Hard to say. The association’s Facebook page just says “Heritage Night was a success!” with a photo of empty chairs.

I tell myself it’s just some weird cult thing. People get into weird stuff. But sometimes, when I’m setting up for a normal gig—weddings, birthdays, the usual—I’ll hear a sound like a cough in a library. And I’ll feel it, that warmth in my pocket, even though the bell’s at home in a drawer.

I don’t ring it.

Not ever again.

But I don’t throw it away either.

Some things, once rung, can’t be unrung.

The biscotti’s good, though. I’ll give them that.

gen:3bde368