December 1998, just outside the village of Thornwood Hollow, New Hampshire. I was driving home from a late shift at the diner when the fog rolled in so thick I had to pull over. That's when I saw the old iron bell hanging from a branch over the frozen river. Everyone in town knew the story—the bride who drowned on her wedding night, the bell that tolls for those who've lost their way. But no one told me what happens if you answer it. That night, I learned why the old-timers never drive that road after dark, and why my grandmother always kept a pocketful of salt in her coat. A quiet, haunting tale about what we carry, what we leave behind, and the toll that can never be paid in full.

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