Whispers of Bellmire: A Cinenwood Mystery
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The first thing Jace remembered about the morning was how strangely quiet the city felt when she stepped onto the sidewalk. An ethereal hush clung to the old, narrow streets of Cinenwood, the sea mist curling around lampposts and obscuring the faded brickwork. The silence felt out of step with her life, which was usually soundtracked with pounding bass and neon chatter.
Her club—The Siren’s Grin—sat drowsily two blocks down, a violet awning stretched over the door, a faint buzz of last night’s music still lingering in the air. Jace unlocked the battered entrance and slipped inside. She crossed the sticky parquet to the bar to check inventory, lingering over the spot where a photograph of her sister had once hung, back when they had run the place together.
She made a note to order more bitters and limoncello, checked the e-mail from her DJ, and filled the dishwasher with a clatter. Her mind wandered, inevitably, to the reason she wasn’t simply another night owl lost in bar routines. Ciela. The vanished.
At noon she paused for coffee and a sandwich from her own kitchen, then shrugged on her battered leather jacket. She locked the club and headed toward the public library, where she would meet Professor Canter—urban historian, keeper of musty records and strange gossip.
Professor Canter resembled the type of man who belonged in films about dusty estates and hidden vaults: heavy spectacles, a woolen scarf even in the summer, eyes like silver coins. He greeted her with a warm handshake and an observation about how the fog seemed “thicker than rumors this year.”
She smiled politely. “You know why I’m here.”
“Stories, always stories,” Canter said, leading her toward the reading room. Their conversation meandered through the city’s folklore: the howling tunnels beneath Temple Hill, the vagrant in the bell tower, the white chapel that was said to show you your heart’s deepest loss if you entered alone.
“And the Siren’s Grin?” Jace asked, drumming her fingers absently. “People say strange things happen there. Like...messages in the mirrors. Or voices in the sound system.”
Canter gave a thin smile. “Venues on the edge of old town often shoulder the legends of the past. But your club sits on the old foothold of Saint Eldric’s Chapel, does it not?”
Her heart clenched, just once.
“That’s why I started looking into all this. My sister, Ciela, she—”
“Vanished,” Canter finished, eyes sympathetic. “Yes. You believe it’s connected.”
Jace nodded. “It’s been two years. The police came, but there were no clues. She left me a note—just a name I’d never heard before. ‘Bellmire.’ And her favorite necklace, left on the chapel’s door.”
She waited, hoping he’d reveal some secret he’d pulled from the archives. Instead, he offered her only a thread: “Bellmire. There was once a cleric named Bellmire in the mid-1800s. He vanished as well, after claiming to have seen a miracle in the chapel.”
Goosebumps fled up her arms.
“Do you know the path up the hill?” Canter asked.
“Of course,” she said, voice steady. “I go every year. Today is the day...”
They parted ways, and Jace set off toward Temple Hill. The climb was relentless, cobblestones damp and slippery, wild tangles of climbing roses snared in the graveyard’s iron fence. The city’s pulse faded behind her. Some locals refused to visit; others whispered that you could hear lost voices at twilight. Jace never did—she heard nothing but her own ragged breathing.
The whitewashed chapel perches at the summit, watching over Cinenwood with blank, blind windows. She entered slowly, closing the door behind her, the air scented with ancient wax. Candles flickered in the alcove to the left, the statue of Saint Eldric haloed in shadow. She knelt, lit a votive, and pressed the matchbox from her pocket.
“Ciela, wherever you are,” she whispered, “I miss you. I’m still searching.”
A chill slipped over her neck. She swore she saw a gleam from the altar, a gold glint like her sister’s locket, just for a second. She got up, pressed her hand to the cool stone rail, and the faintest echo—Bellmire—drifted behind her eyes.
She left the chapel as the first dusk crept over the hill, the bells silent, the grass silvered in dew. The walk back into town felt longer.
By the time she returned to The Siren’s Grin, the night had thrown on its wild mask. Music thundered, the line at the door coiled past the pharmacy, and the air inside was heavy with perfume and spilled gin. She ducked behind the bar, exchanging grins and shoulder nudges with her usuals. Bottles clinked. Her hands found their rhythm in the whirl of orders: Pink Gin Fizz, vodka lime, two shots of absinthe.
She kept one eye on the mirrored wall behind the bar. She always did, since the night she thought she glimpsed Ciela standing at the edge of the crowd, her black hair braided and eyes bright with secrets.
At half past eleven, the club was throbbing, a hundred bodies welded to the beat. Then Maribel, the new waitress, sidled up, looking nervous under her silver eyeshadow.
“Jace?” she hissed, leaning close over the bar. “There’s a man at table nine. Says he’s looking for you. Didn’t give a name—just something about stories... And, uh, he has a really old book. Like, weird old.”
Jace’s heart ticked faster. Her eyes slid to table nine.
A man sat alone, dressed in a charcoal suit, a faded leather-bound tome beside his glass. His hands were clasped together, fingers long and ink-stained. There was something unnervingly familiar about his gaze.
Jace drew a deep breath, wiped her hands on her apron.
“Thanks, Mari,” she said. “I’ll take it from here.”
With her pulse in her throat, Jace stepped out from behind the bar, crossing a minefield of bodies and spilled drinks. The dancefloor lights washed over her, slicing the club into brief, fevered fragments of strobe and shadow.
As she approached table nine, the man looked up. The fog from earlier seemed to coalesce in the blue of his eyes.
He smiled, one side of his mouth quirking upward. “Ms. Thornley? I was hoping you’d come. My name is Bellmire, and I believe you’ve been searching for me.”
The club’s music faded around them, leaving only the pounding of Jace’s heart in her ears. The mysteries of Cinenwood—the legends, the chapel, and the memory of her sister—suddenly felt nearer than ever.
And as she sat down to hear his story, Jace realized the night was only just beginning.
This story was generated by user velavel90 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Write a very long story about a young club owner who met a local historian during the day and talked to him about urban legends. Describe what her day was like and describe how after meeting the historian she went up the hill and went to the chapel to leave a candle in memory of her sister who disappeared 2 years ago without a trace. The disappearance was connected to the legends of the city, which is why the young club owner met with historians and researchers of supernatural phenomena. When she returned from the chapel to the club, the party was already in full swing and the club was filled with customers. She went to the bar and began serving customers when suddenly one of the waitresses told her that a man had been asking about her.
Response: The first thing Jace remembered about the morning was how strangely quiet the city felt when she stepped onto the sidewalk. An ethereal hush clung to the old, narrow streets of Cinenwood, the sea mist curling around lampposts and obscuring the faded brickwork. The silence felt out of step with her life, which was usually soundtracked with pounding bass and neon chatter. Her club—The Siren’s Grin—sat drowsily two blocks down, a violet awning stretched over the door, a faint buzz of last night’s music still lingering in the air. Jace unlocked the battered entrance and slipped inside. She crossed the sticky parquet to the bar to check inventory, lingering over the spot where a photograph of her sister had once hung, back when they had run the place together. She made a note to order more bitters and limoncello, checked the e-mail from her DJ, and filled the dishwasher with a clatter. Her mind wandered, inevitably, to the reason she wasn’t simply another night owl lost in bar routines. Ciela. The vanished. At noon she paused for coffee and a sandwich from her own kitchen, then shrugged on her battered leather jacket. She locked the club and headed toward the public library, where she would meet Professor Canter—urban historian, keeper of musty records and strange gossip. Professor Canter resembled the type of man who belonged in films about dusty estates and hidden vaults: heavy spectacles, a woolen scarf even in the summer, eyes like silver coins. He greeted her with a warm handshake and an observation about how the fog seemed “thicker than rumors this year.” She smiled politely. “You know why I’m here.” “Stories, always stories,” Canter said, leading her toward the reading room. Their conversation meandered through the city’s folklore: the howling tunnels beneath Temple Hill, the vagrant in the bell tower, the white chapel that was said to show you your heart’s deepest loss if you entered alone. “And the Siren’s Grin?” Jace asked, drumming her fingers absently. “People say strange things happen there. Like...messages in the mirrors. Or voices in the sound system.” Canter gave a thin smile. “Venues on the edge of old town often shoulder the legends of the past. But your club sits on the old foothold of Saint Eldric’s Chapel, does it not?” Her heart clenched, just once. “That’s why I started looking into all this. My sister, Ciela, she—” “Vanished,” Canter finished, eyes sympathetic. “Yes. You believe it’s connected.” Jace nodded. “It’s been two years. The police came, but there were no clues. She left me a note—just a name I’d never heard before. ‘Bellmire.’ And her favorite necklace, left on the chapel’s door.” She waited, hoping he’d reveal some secret he’d pulled from the archives. Instead, he offered her only a thread: “Bellmire. There was once a cleric named Bellmire in the mid-1800s. He vanished as well, after claiming to have seen a miracle in the chapel.” Goosebumps fled up her arms. “Do you know the path up the hill?” Canter asked. “Of course,” she said, voice steady. “I go every year. Today is the day...” They parted ways, and Jace set off toward Temple Hill. The climb was relentless, cobblestones damp and slippery, wild tangles of climbing roses snared in the graveyard’s iron fence. The city’s pulse faded behind her. Some locals refused to visit; others whispered that you could hear lost voices at twilight. Jace never did—she heard nothing but her own ragged breathing. The whitewashed chapel perches at the summit, watching over Cinenwood with blank, blind windows. She entered slowly, closing the door behind her, the air scented with ancient wax. Candles flickered in the alcove to the left, the statue of Saint Eldric haloed in shadow. She knelt, lit a votive, and pressed the matchbox from her pocket. “Ciela, wherever you are,” she whispered, “I miss you. I’m still searching.” A chill slipped over her neck. She swore she saw a gleam from the altar, a gold glint like her sister’s locket, just for a second. She got up, pressed her hand to the cool stone rail, and the faintest echo—Bellmire—drifted behind her eyes. She left the chapel as the first dusk crept over the hill, the bells silent, the grass silvered in dew. The walk back into town felt longer. By the time she returned to The Siren’s Grin, the night had thrown on its wild mask. Music thundered, the line at the door coiled past the pharmacy, and the air inside was heavy with perfume and spilled gin. She ducked behind the bar, exchanging grins and shoulder nudges with her usuals. Bottles clinked. Her hands found their rhythm in the whirl of orders: Pink Gin Fizz, vodka lime, two shots of absinthe. She kept one eye on the mirrored wall behind the bar. She always did, since the night she thought she glimpsed Ciela standing at the edge of the crowd, her black hair braided and eyes bright with secrets. At half past eleven, the club was throbbing, a hundred bodies welded to the beat. Then Maribel, the new waitress, sidled up, looking nervous under her silver eyeshadow. “Jace?” she hissed, leaning close over the bar. “There’s a man at table nine. Says he’s looking for you. Didn’t give a name—just something about stories... And, uh, he has a really old book. Like, weird old.” Jace’s heart ticked faster. Her eyes slid to table nine. A man sat alone, dressed in a charcoal suit, a faded leather-bound tome beside his glass. His hands were clasped together, fingers long and ink-stained. There was something unnervingly familiar about his gaze. Jace drew a deep breath, wiped her hands on her apron. “Thanks, Mari,” she said. “I’ll take it from here.” With her pulse in her throat, Jace stepped out from behind the bar, crossing a minefield of bodies and spilled drinks. The dancefloor lights washed over her, slicing the club into brief, fevered fragments of strobe and shadow. As she approached table nine, the man looked up. The fog from earlier seemed to coalesce in the blue of his eyes. He smiled, one side of his mouth quirking upward. “Ms. Thornley? I was hoping you’d come. My name is Bellmire, and I believe you’ve been searching for me.” The club’s music faded around them, leaving only the pounding of Jace’s heart in her ears. The mysteries of Cinenwood—the legends, the chapel, and the memory of her sister—suddenly felt nearer than ever. And as she sat down to hear his story, Jace realized the night was only just beginning.
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