What Happened to Dorothy Bell?

Welcome friends.

Grab your comfiest blanket and get cozy

because I have a wonderful story for you.

It's about a little old lady with a big old mouth.

Join me on this read aloud.

It goes like this.

- Ozzie, why you sitting so close to the TV?

What do you think of my mask?

Can I hold the camera?

- No, every time I let you hold the camera,

you end up dropping it.

These things are too expensive.

I won't drop it this time.

Please, dad. - No, I'm sorry.

It's time for bed, anyway.

Go brush your teeth.

Ah, this is dumb.

Where's mommy?

She'll be home later.

She's taking care of some things.

I want Grandma.

- Grandma's not here either, baby,

but I'm here with you, okay?

Call (indistinct)

- Hello? - Hey.

- Where are you? - Still at the station.

I'll probably be here a while longer.

- They find your mom? - Not yet.

They're still searching.

Okay.

I hate this.

Yeah, me too.

I'll keep you updated.

Tell Ozzie I say good night and I love her.

- I'll let her know. I love you, Vic.

I love you too. Darren.

10, 9, 8,

7, 6, 5, 4,

3, 2, 1.

Ready or not, here I come.

Come on. Help us back up.

Ah, come on.

- Every day, thousands of people call, write,

or visit the library.

True.

a bad habit of (indistinct).

I can hear you, grandma.

I know you're in there.

Can you come out?

Found you, Grandma.

Hey, that's my mask. Give it back.

Can you please take off the mask, Grandma?

I don't like it when you wear it.

Okay, it's your turn to find me.

Are covered with worms.

We grow accustomed to the dark.

When the light is put away,

as when the neighbor holds the lamp

to witness her goodbye.

A moment.

We uncertain step, for newness of the night.

Then, fit our vision to the dark

and meet the road, erect,

and so of larger darknesses.

Those evenings of the brain.

When not a moon disclose a sign,

or star, come out, within,

the bravest, grope a little,

and sometimes hit a tree directly in the forehead.

But as they learn to see either the darkness alters

or something in the sight adjusts itself to midnight.

And life steps almost straight.

- The courage to push through hardship. I like it.

Yeah, I feel like Emily Dickinson speaks

to me on such a deep level.

The power that art can have.

Yeah. Thank you for sharing, Ozzie.

Yeah, of course.

- So how about journaling? Have you gave it a go?

- Yeah. I actually started these kind of like video diaries.

I feel that seeing

and hearing myself express my own thoughts is helpful.

I also think it's important to put my story somewhere.

I have a record of the truth of who I am.

Absolutely.

I'm just so glad that you are taking these steps.

I admire your bravery.

It's a long road, but you are on the right path.

- There's still a lot to learn about myself

and my own history.

I need to fill in those blanks.

Books speak to us.

They have the power

to take us on journeys outside of our own.

They can teach us how to live, how to take care of ourselves

and the world around us.

Inside every book is a soul,

a voice wanting to be heard.

My grandma, she said she used to hear some of them,

loud and clear.

She meant that literally.

She claimed that they told her to do things, bad things.

And she did them.

Can we talk about what happened tonight?

Yes?

A clergyman we spoke to,

he told us that he saw you hanging

behind the church before the fire.

Did you happen to see what or who started it?

No.

There wasn't a slow progression

of mental illness.

It was an overnight thing

and I don't know what changed.

But that wasn't the grandma I remembered.

Dorothy Bell was a gentle soul.

The heart of our family, the town's favorite librarian.

Shes where I got my love for reading.

and most of the memories I have of her are faint.

I don't know which ones are real or which ones I dreamt.

Mine has this defense mechanism.

It could suppress traumatic memories.

They aren't removed,

they're just locked in a compartment

and the keys thrown out into the world

to one day be discovered again.

Growing up, I used to believe

that it was the car accident that left me scarred.

That's what my parents had told me.

I first came across the story on a paranormal blog titled

"Urban Legends of Spellbound," my hometown,

where it all happened.

Dorothy Bell, a witch librarian of Edwards Library,

said to still roam the halls.

They say if you shout her name

and listen closely, sometimes you can hear it whisper back.

There's this picture being shared online.

They claimed it captured her ghost.