The Well. *Trigger Warning: Description of death.*

The Well

It’s a devil of a thing, to buy a house. Travelling here and there and everywhere, in search of a home that would best fit. I’m a single man and for a long time have been. I’d spent a good many years working a well-paying job and had now accrued enough money to buy a house in a countryside town. I looked forward to spending my days enjoying the many perks of living in the country; perhaps working part-time, reading, and essentially doing what I fancy. I’d imagine I might meet someone, too. It happened that I found the most perfect home in a small town called Arkholme. 

It was the drive up to the house that most captured my heart. A stone archway and a black steel gate greeted you at the entrance of the short curved lane. The gardens on either side were dotted with delicate maple and soft lime trees, and towering above the gate stood a sturdy beech as if watching over the grounds. Large bushes like laurels and hydrangeas slumbered in the tall woodland grass. Behind the house, peaking over the terracotta roof, stood a cedar tree. Its bushy branches formed horizontal cloud-like platforms, turquoise green above and shaded below, obscuring its light brown trunk.

I arrived on a cold morning in late October, myself driving a car stuffed full and slightly encumbered by my belongings. The lane was dappled orange and yellow. The house itself was a stalwart stone building; two stories with an accompanying garage to the right. Ivy climbed the front left corner, adorning the two left-most white frame windows with emerald bunting. Thankfully, the house was furnished - although I was not at all enthused by how the furniture was arranged. With a keen eye for quality furniture having worked in antiques, I knew it was of a high standard. Likely, it was designed and constructed in Arkholme by a foregone carpenter who I’m sure is either very old or not old anymore. I would spend many nights arranging and rearranging the house and unpacking my belongings.

To my surprise and innate diligence, I inquired about any vacancies at the grocer when I was there shopping, and within days of arriving at my new home, I had acquired a job. For a few hours each day, I would mind the register. It was not the money that I cared about, but rather the ability to meet and socialise with the town’s people, as well as take refuge from the house.

One day, a lady approached the register whose look and manner immediately reminded me of an old acquaintance or colleague, though I do not know who. Her blonde hair drew a luxuriant crown around her head and face, and she was wearing a mustard-yellow dress with a fine black floral pattern reminiscent of the season. Her name was Sarah. We spoke for some time, and she smiled earnestly throughout our conversation. That was until her husband crept up behind her. This man, too, had a familiar face. Unusually for me, however, I was stricken with contempt when he approached - and that was before he opened his mouth.

‘Flirting with my wife?’ He said, threatening me in tone and posture, his shoulders wide in his workman’s jacket.

‘No, I was just-’ I stuttered.

‘Yeah, yeah.’

I stiffened in my apron.

‘Sir, I was merely chatting with her about the town. I’m new here, and-’ 

‘Listen mate,’ he squared. Sarah feeble under his shadow. ‘If I catch you flirting with her again, I’ll throttle you.’

They left shortly after. A word spoken by neither of us. Sarah was almost tearing up but was able to wear a smile as she left. It wasn’t until the end of my shift that my heart stopped racing. 

Since moving to a new house and this town, in particular, was a stressful affair, I went to visit the local cathedral to study its architecture and walk the grounds. Something that I often do to relax. I put on a thick beige jumper and my usual green velvet overcoat. The grass was wet with dew that morning and so I put on my leather walking boots, comfy but heavier on my feet than my usual shoes. There was still some dried mud in the tread, which I banged out on the stone patio before leaving. 

There is something about religious buildings that emanates peace and tranquillity, regardless of whether one is religious or not. Upon arriving, I found the building to be locked but the gate to the graveyard was open. There was a man there who appeared to be occupied at the grounds. He was a stout man, wearing a green fleece on top of a red jumper; a farmers cap atop his head. Although friendly in appearance, I did not want to disturb him about the cathedral and decided to walk the graveyard, instead.

Amongst the many gravestones, whose epitaphs spoke of love or time, there was a dug well that caught my eye. It was an overcast morning and a passing cloud shrouded the well in darkness. It was constructed of blue slate, irregular in profile and cladded in white lichen. It did not have the luxury of a roof and I was not near enough to tell if it had been sealed. Most peculiar was a human skull embedded in the centre of the slate facing the cathedral. It had yellowed deeply and reeked of age, although it was surprisingly intact.

I was apprehensive about approaching this well. I stared at it for some time, mesmerised. It began to lure me in. As if it was a sinkhole, draining the world of all vibrancy and myself of merriment the longer I stared at it. I imagined in my mind that it would suck me down into the ground below, where the demons are drinking tea and dancing an insidiously ghoulish dance. My fortitude did not allow me to be lured, and so I remained a passing visitor.

‘Oh, don’t mind that thing.’ A man said, punching through the sheet of ice that had formed around my mind.

I gasped. Turning around to find that it was the man I’d seen when I arrived. His jovial sight calmed me, and I relaxed into conversation.

‘Very strange.’ I said.

‘Aye, a lot o’ death here. The Romans. The Normans. The Roses. And that well doesn’t do itself any favours.’

We both stood looking at the well and its grassy surroundings. A bird chirped from its perch nearby, and the air was still and earthy. It did not carry our misty breath, but let it fall by its own weight to its demise.

‘Haven’t seen you around here before?’ The man said.

‘No. I just moved here from Manchester.’

‘Oh, how nice. I’m John. I mind the yard around here.’

He held out a strong, calloused hand which I took in mine.

‘Matthew.’ I said.

It appeared he had much to say about the town. I was intrigued by how matter-of-factly he spoke about death as if the affair were all too familiar to him. In such a way that he had seen and felt the feelings enough to have come to terms with them. It seemed that there were many things that he was familiar with. Not someone who could sit you down and teach you, but someone who, if you were to walk around with him going about his day, could reveal profound truths about the world in passing. 

An opportunity arose.

‘You don’t happen to know anything about Hillcroft Cottage, do you? Just at the entrance of the town.’ I asked as he walked with me towards the gate to leave.

The man had a look as if you’d chopped off his toe.

‘Nope.’ He clammed.

Odd, I thought. I reviewed my options and decided to continue reproachfully.

‘Really, because that was a queer look you gave when I asked. Almost the same as the one the estate agent gave me.’

I’d guessed right: that he was a man not easily provoked. He stopped me short of the gate, placing a laboured hand on my shoulder and with his soft blue eyes caught glances of mine. Unfortunately, he did not give me the answer that I’d hoped.

‘Oh, you won't get me talking about that house, lad.’

I would have little opportunity to investigate the matter after that.

That evening, having relaxed for most of the day, I decided to cook. I’d been eating at the town's many diners since arriving; unpacking my things and arranging the furniture is strenuous on the body and mind, so the inclination to cook wanes throughout the day. Tonight, however, I had the desire. Having previously been to the market to buy my usual pantry essentials, I had everything at hand to make a chicken and potato casserole. Most peculiar was that I knew almost instinctively how to make the meal, even though my idea was merely prototypical. I boiled the chicken beforehand, and fried the onion, garlic and carrots before adding a glug of white wine. Then a slug of cream and a hint of mustard, and mixed it all together in a casserole dish with all the other odds and ends. My hands were working almost independently of my mind, and before I knew it the dish had been topped with sliced potato, baked in the oven, and plated. I sat at the dining table as if served by a ghost. I cracked a punch of black pepper and sprinkled a little salt, and enjoyed the most reviving meal of my life. 

During the night, however, I lay restlessly in bed. The wind was howling and the rain slapped rhythmically against my window. To my relief, there was no thunder or lightning, even if it appeared as if there should be. My eyes adjusted to the darkness the longer they remained open, staring at the ceiling of my bedroom. The wooden beams were old, rough, and dark; lacking polish. In some superficial cracks, here and there, was lacquer or tar that I’m sure saturated the wood throughout. It glistened in the moonlight coming through my window. There were very many spiders lurking in the dark corners of the room. I sank deeper into my bed, time passing imperceptibly. It had been so long staring at the ceiling that I had become unconscious of the world outside my room. It must have been the meal that had given me an uneasy night, for now, the wind and the rain outside my window seem to pervade into my room as whispers and shouts - an incantation or siren call, the notes written on sheets of rainwater:

The well

The well

The well

Sarah - Do I know Sarah?

The husband The meal

The town This house…

The well

The well

THE WELL!

As if what severed them 

will now put them in place 

once more!

Remember the well!

The well, I whispered.

I remember the well.

I awoke the next morning, having suffered a dreadful night's sleep. I was sure it was the meal I prepared. Perhaps there was too much garlic or my fondness for black pepper was catching up to me. In my dreams, the storm surged wildly, and like a dam bursting, my window caved and the room filled with water. My bed began to float, and wobble, and before I knew it I was gasping for breath, trying helplessly to keep my head above the viscous, silty water. It rose and rose and rose, crushing me against the rough ceiling until I drowned in its murky depths. I experienced my spirit leaving my body, levitating above the now shallow waters of my room. I looked down at my corpse lying in the undulating water, sodden and anaemic. My eyes, vacant. I looked younger, perhaps due to my face relaxing ultimately in death. It is as much to say that I did not sleep again after waking in shock.

I prepared some pancakes in the morning, topped with my favourite: salted butter and sugar. I figured a good breakfast and some light tea would settle me and my stomach. And it did, for a short while until I opened the front door. Taking a step outside, I was struck immobile and neurotic, as if I’d suddenly developed a phobia of the outside world. My mind spasming, flashing images of the past week. Of Sarah, of her husband, the house and town - and that well. The well. Now, as if teleporting through time and space, I lay at the bottom of that well, staring up into the pinhole sky. I felt much younger. I felt I was ten years old. And high up in that pinhole sky was Sarah's husband, looking down at me with a look of panic holding his face together. Forming and reforming, from fear and sadness - confusion - to pain and now anger. Anger squeezing his face tight, a jigsaw puzzle glued together.

But no longer could he or the well conceal me. My tomb had turned to dust.

It was clear now what must be done.

I waited until the evening, watching the sun paint the sky orange and gold. I wanted it to be dark. It was raining too, which distorted the sound of my approach. The raindrops tickled and tapped my hooded black poncho. As if searching through mystical clairvoyance, I made my way like black mist to Sarah and her husband’s house. My misgiven hard luck of the week now gave way to the good, as I saw Sarah’s husband approach the door of the house, stumbling and inebriated. His shadow cascading down the steps from the porch light. I took a few short breaths and listened to the rain. The man was fumbling with his keys and murmuring to himself. I waited until the moment the door was unlocked before leaping out of the shadows and charging towards the drunken figure. I tackled him through the door and attempted to restrain him. Sarah was standing midway down the stairs, and she screamed. I must have appeared to her like a demon, my poncho its pervading shadow. Roaring and grunting from my gaping abyssal mouth.

‘Stop! Stop!’ She cried. ‘What are you doing to my husband!?’

‘Get off me!’ The man thundered as I wrestled him on the ground.

He was strong and well built, but as weak as his weakness could make him. I managed to hold him down on his belly with my body and held his arms uncomfortably behind his back. His voice and breathing laboured. Water trickled heavily down the window of the front door, casting shadows on the tile floor.

‘Do you remember me!? Do you remember!?’ I cried.

‘No! I have no idea who you are!’ He answered.

‘This time, this date, twenty-five years ago. The boy you pushed down the well!’

‘I don’t know what you mean!’

I pulled his hair up, deep from within his skull, and screamed in his ear.

‘Tell her! Tell her what you did!’

‘Alright! Alright!’ He cried, the weight of all those years flowing out of him in blood, tears and spit. ‘I’m the one who...’

He stopped short, hearing that Sarah had begun to sob. In the light coming through the window, she must have seen my face as young as it was back then.

‘Matthew?’ She said. She held her hands over her mouth and nose as she teared up. ‘My god, is it really you? We… we tried to find you...’

‘It’s ok, Sarah. It’s ok.’ I said.

‘I’m sorry…’

'There's no need to say sorry. What has been done is done.'

Her husband relaxed onto the floor and I sat beside him quietly as Sarah continued to sob, tears like the rain outside.

I did not stay long in Arkholme after that. I moved to another town to live as the man I had created myself. Still, I’d stop by from time to time, to watch Sarah from afar. Her husband fled that very night, to avoid the aftermath of his exposure. However, Sarah did not seek prosecution. I think she was glad to see me after all those years, and it's nice to watch over her, as she lives in the sun once more.