The wind howled through the darkened corridors of Dellhey University, rustling papers and carrying an eerie chill that Johnny couldn't shake off as he wandered aimlessly, searching for answers. His footsteps echoed, the sound unnervingly loud in the empty halls. Every corner seemed darker, every shadow longer than it should have been. Something wasn't right. The air was thick, suffocating. With every step, Johnny's heart hammered in his chest, his stomach turning into knots.
Finally, after what felt like hours, a security guard led him to a room – a morgue. "She's in there," the man said, his voice low, avoiding Johnny's gaze. His words hit Johnny like a slap. His throat went dry, and for a moment, he couldn't breathe. Shellie was dead? The mischievous girl who'd tormented him for years? The one who rang his doorbell every day without fail? It couldn't be true. It felt like some terrible dream, but when Johnny stepped inside and saw her lying there, pale and lifeless, reality hit him with cruel clarity.
Her body lay still on the cold metal slab, eerily calm, a macabre contrast to the chaos she'd always stirred in life. Her once bright, mischievous eyes were closed, her face serene in a way Johnny had never seen. She looked peaceful, but it was a peace born of death. His hands trembled as he noticed a piece of paper clutched in her hand. With shaky fingers, he took it from her grip.
The note was hastily scrawled, almost like it had been written in panic. It read:
"Hey Johnny... It was me who killed our dad. I needed a little blood of him to perform a demonic ritual that my classmates taught me. I wasn't aware how wrong it would turn, and it seems like I may not be able to irritate you ever again. I'm sorry for everything, Johnny. I'm sorry. Please don't tell Mom."
The paper slipped from Johnny's fingers, floating gently to the floor, but the weight of the words crashed over him like a tidal wave. Shellie? His sister? The one who had laughed and played pranks, who had annoyed him endlessly with her childish tricks, had murdered their father? It didn't make sense. How could she? Why would she? But the words were there, etched in her handwriting, sealing her fate.
A low groan escaped Johnny's throat as the world around him spun. His knees buckled, and he collapsed next to her lifeless body, staring blankly at the wall. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks—his sister, the only person who had connected with him in her own chaotic way, was gone. And she had taken their father with her, for reasons that twisted into something dark and unholy.
He sat there for hours, maybe longer. Time blurred as his mind spiraled into places he couldn't control. The words in the letter echoed endlessly in his head, repeating over and over, tormenting him: "It was me… I needed blood for a demonic ritual…"
The days after Shellie's death were a haze. The funeral passed like a fever dream, with Jennifer standing silent and numb, eyes glazed over, unable to process the loss of yet another family member. Johnny couldn't bear to look at her. The guilt weighed too heavily on his chest. He should've known. He should've stopped Shellie before it went too far. Now she was gone, and the knowledge of what she'd done was eating him alive.
Johnny locked himself in his room again. He couldn't face the outside world. Every creak in the house, every sound in the hallway, reminded him of Shellie. His mind began to play tricks on him. At first, it was subtle—the flicker of a shadow at the corner of his vision, the sound of soft laughter just beyond the walls. But then it became something more.
One evening, as Johnny lay curled up on his bed, staring at the ceiling, he heard it. Ding-Dong! The doorbell.
His heart stopped.
He sat up in bed, his breath caught in his throat. For a moment, he didn't move. He was sure he had imagined it. But then it came again, louder this time. Ding-Dong!
Shellie. It had to be Shellie. She was outside, laughing, waiting to annoy him like she always did. Without thinking, Johnny bolted out of bed and rushed to the door. He flung it open, expecting to see her standing there, her mischievous grin plastered across her face. But no one was there. The hallway was empty. His pulse raced as his eyes darted from side to side, searching for something, anything that made sense of what he had heard. Nothing.
He slammed the door shut, heart pounding in his chest. Maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him. Maybe he was so used to her ringing the bell every day that he was hearing it out of habit. But deep down, a creeping fear began to take root in his mind.
The next night, it happened again. Ding-Dong!
This time, Johnny didn't rush to the door. He sat frozen in his bed, staring at the door, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He waited, heart hammering, for something—anything—to happen. But there was only silence.
Ding-Dong!
The bell rang again, and Johnny felt his stomach drop. Slowly, almost mechanically, he got up and walked to the door. He opened it. The hallway was as empty as before. No Shellie. No one. Just the oppressive silence of the house closing in around him.
Over the following days, the ringing became more frequent, more insistent. Every time it happened, Johnny would rush to the door, but no one was ever there. The sound echoed in his mind, driving him to the brink of madness. It wasn't just the doorbell anymore—he started hearing Shellie's voice too, playful and taunting, calling out to him.
"Johnny... Come on, Johnny... Open the door... Let me in..."
Her voice was everywhere—in his dreams, in the dark corners of his room, whispering in his ears as he lay in bed, unable to sleep. Johnny began to unravel. He couldn't eat. He couldn't think. He couldn't escape the sound of that bell. Every time he heard it, he jumped, heart racing, convinced that if he opened the door just one more time, he'd find her there. But she was never there.
The hallucinations became more vivid. He started to see Shellie standing at the foot of his bed at night, her face pale and gaunt, her eyes hollow. She would smile at him, but her smile was twisted, wrong, filled with something dark and sinister.
"Johnny... you didn't stop me... You didn't save me..."
He screamed at her to leave him alone, but she wouldn't. She was always there, waiting. Always ringing the bell. Johnny's mind slipped further and further into the abyss. He became obsessed with the sound of doorbells, the relentless ringing that echoed in his skull. He couldn't stand the sound anymore. It followed him everywhere, like a sick melody that he couldn't escape.
One night, he snapped. The ringing had driven him to the edge of sanity, and he couldn't take it anymore. He tore open his door and ran outside, barefoot and frantic, stumbling through the empty streets. He went from house to house, ringing every doorbell he could find, desperate for someone—anyone—to open the door and tell him that he wasn't crazy.
Ding-Dong! Ding-Dong!
At every house, he rang the bell and waited. "Did you ring my doorbell?" he asked, breathless, wild-eyed. "Did you hear it? Did you hear her?" But no one understood. The people who answered the door looked at him with confusion, some with pity, others with fear.
As the night wore on, Johnny's desperation grew. He rang doorbell after doorbell, asking the same frantic question. "Did you ring it? Did you hear her?"
Finally, exhausted and broken, Johnny returned home. His mind was shattered, his soul hollow. He collapsed on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, unable to escape the relentless sound of the bell.
That night, the bell rang one last time.
Ding-Dong!
Johnny didn't move. He lay there, broken and defeated, knowing that no matter how many times he opened the door, Shellie would never be there. But she would never leave him either. She was part of him now, forever haunting him with her twisted games, her demonic ritual that had torn their family apart.
As the night deepened, Johnny lay in the darkness, listening to the doorbell echo in his mind, knowing that it would never stop.
It would never stop.