The House Bell

Somewhere along the way, I have apparently started assembling an old-world home security system. I didn’t plan this. Nobody sat me down and said, “You know what this house needs? More medieval protection devices.” It just happened. First came the witch bottle, which I loved because the whole idea made perfect sense to me: put some protection, prayer and intention into a bottle, set the boundary and leave it alone.

Then I found out about house bells.

Now, bells obviously aren’t unusual. We’ve been ringing the things forever. Churches ring them, ships used them, farms had them, schoolteachers terrorized children with them, and every hotel desk still keeps one sitting there despite centuries of evidence proving humans cannot be trusted around an unattended bell.

But bells also have a long history connected with protection. Across different religious and folk traditions, they’ve been rung to bless spaces, ward off unwanted influences and announce that whatever unpleasant thing might be hanging around was no longer particularly welcome. In parts of Europe, church bells were even rung when dangerous storms approached, which means at some point an enormous black cloud rolled toward the village and instead of everyone hiding under the bed, somebody apparently said, “Quick, Harold. Get up in the tower and piss it off.”

And Harold went.

This is exactly the kind of historical information that makes me want to keep reading.

Smaller bells also found their way around homes, doors, hearths and livestock, and the more I read about them, the more I started thinking this might be one of the easiest old practices to bring into a modern house. No urine required, which already gives it an advantage over the historical witch bottle. No ingredients to gather. No burying anything in the yard. You need a bell.

But not just any bell.

If I’m doing this, I want a proper old brass house bell mounted beside the front door. Something with a little weight to it and a good clear ring. Preferably tarnished. Maybe slightly battered. Basically, I want a bell that looks like it has already seen some shit and knows exactly what it’s doing.

The front door seems like the perfect place for it because entrances have always been important in protective traditions. Honestly, they still are. Think about the ridiculous amount of stuff we put around our doors: locks, cameras, wreaths, crosses, horseshoes, welcome signs, doormats and those little stickers informing burglars that ADT may or may not be involved. The front door is basically where we announce our terms and conditions to the world.

So that’s where my bell goes.

I’d probably bless it when I hung it because if we’re giving an old brass bell a job, we might as well complete the onboarding process. Nothing complicated. I’d put my hand on it and ask God to bless and protect the house and everyone in it, to let peace, love and good things cross this threshold freely, and to stop anything harmful right there at the door.

Then I’d give it one good ring.

There. You work here now.

At which point Jack would inevitably come around the corner, notice the new piece of hardware beside the door and ask, “What’s the bell?”

“House protection.”

He’d look at me, look at the bell, notice the witch bottle somewhere nearby and realize that things have apparently progressed since breakfast.

And this is where the house bell really starts earning its keep because, unlike the witch bottle quietly sitting there doing mysterious bottle business, you get to ring the damn thing.

Imagine somebody comes over for coffee carrying enough drama to require two trips from the car. For the next hour you hear about the neighbor, the sister-in-law, the doctor’s office, the idiot at the grocery store, the cousin nobody speaks to anymore and something her husband did in 1997 that remains inexplicably active litigation.

Eventually she feels much better. Naturally. She’s unloaded the whole damn truck in your kitchen.

You hug goodbye, tell her to drive safely, watch her pull away and close the door. Then you stand there for a second and realize that while she may be halfway down the street feeling twenty pounds lighter, apparently she left the twenty pounds with you.

Perfect time for the bell.

Open the door, say your prayer and give that old brass bell one good ring. Nothing dramatic. We’re not alerting the village that the Vikings have landed. Just one clear sound at the threshold that says, Whatever came through this door that doesn’t belong here can go right back out.

Close the door.

Go make another cup of coffee.

I can think of all kinds of occasions when that bell might suddenly become very useful. After an argument when everybody has technically moved on but the house clearly hasn’t. After a weird phone call that leaves you feeling unsettled. After you’ve spent too much time watching the news and now civilization appears to have approximately forty-five minutes remaining. Or after one of those days when you come through the door carrying half the outside world with you and realize you really don’t want to drag it any farther into the house.

You don’t need to march through every room ringing the thing like the town crier. That’s the beauty of having it mounted at the entrance. The threshold is its post. Ring it there, say your prayer, leave whatever needs leaving at the door and get on with your life.

There would, however, need to be one very important household rule.

The bell cannot be weaponized.

Because sooner or later Jack is going to be standing near the front door explaining something for the fourth time, and I’m going to find myself looking past him at that bell.

He’ll notice.

“Don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re looking at the bell.”

“I just feel like the entryway could use a little clearing.”

This is exactly how ancient spiritual practices end up banned in modern marriages.

And absolutely no ringing it while guests are still inside. I don’t care how badly somebody deserves it. You cannot wait until your mother-in-law starts explaining what’s wrong with your house, your hair and your potato salad and casually reach over and give the bell a tremendous DING.

When she asks why you did that, there is no answer that saves Thanksgiving.

So some restraint will be required.

But I really do like this one. There’s something about a bell at the entrance that feels right. The sound interrupts whatever was there a second ago. It marks the boundary between outside and in. Maybe that’s part of the reason humans have used bells for everything from worship and weddings to warnings and protection for so long.

Maybe it’s simply sound. Maybe it’s prayer and intention. Maybe the old belief that bells disturbed unwanted things has something to it. I’m perfectly happy leaving some mystery in the world without demanding that our ancestors submit a peer-reviewed study explaining why they kept ringing the damn things.

What I do know is that I’m getting a house bell.

The witch bottle can quietly handle whatever it handles. The locks and cameras can cover the boring modern stuff. The dog can continue conducting unauthorized surveillance of squirrels.

And the bell will stay right beside the door, waiting for those special occasions when somebody comes into my house, dumps an entire wheelbarrow of bullshit in the kitchen and leaves feeling fabulous.

I’ll smile. I’ll wave. I’ll wait until their car turns the corner.

Then I’ll ring the damn bell.

And shut the door.