We reach the open church door in the nick of time. Water hammers down on the innocent heads of the snowbells outside.
“Did you know twenty people were shot dead here once?” Walter says, wringing out his hair.
“One day their souls will rise up and announce their vengeance with tolling bells.” He chuckles. “Unfortunately for them, the church bells were stolen and molten down in 1982.”
I peel my soaked sleeve from my arm. “Come on inside. Weather’s not getting better any time soon.”
A soft tinkling comes from the direction of the flowerbed. Then the door slams shut.