What’s in the well?
I had never really paid much attention to the well in my backyard until the bumping started.
The well was old, standing solitary underneath the blue country skies. The cobbled walls were mossy and damp, and tiny white flowers grew in lazy spirals on it’s sides. It had a thick metal plate nailed around the opening.
I had always figured that it had been there to keep people from falling in. At least, that’s what my grandpa always told me when I asked, spending my summer days reading on it’s warm, furnace-like top. I was older now, though, being a respectable age of eighteen, a college girl, and had much better things to do than hang around an ancient relic.
At least so I thought.
I stood outside now, watching the well’s cover rattle up and down.
It had been happening for a few days, I hadn’t told anyone, though. Mostly because I did’t believe that it was that big of a deal.
I supposed a raccoon or something was stuck in the well. How did it get in there in the first place? I was still trying to work that part out.
Went the metal, the nails jiggling.
I knocked loudly on the lid, yelling; “Hello!” In a joking sort of way.
I nearly peed when something hissed a response.
“So long…” It said, the well vibrating with the force of the word, and the bumping coming to a sudden stop.
I was defiantly not dealing with a raccoon.
Of course, I did the sensible thing and hightailed back into my house, slamming the back door and watching cautiously through the window.
It was a talking raccoon.
It couldn’t be anything else. That wouldn’t be possible.
The rattling began again.
I leaned against the door, breathing hard. Maybe this was from a lack of sleep. That would make sense, considering the amount of homework I had, and the inability to stop watching Parks and Rec.
I put on my headphones, sitting down at the kitchen table and flipping open a Home and Living magazine. I hated those, but my books were upstairs, and to be honest, I was kind of scared of going upstairs right now.
I wasn’t used to being scared.
When I was little, it was microscopes and books about the human body for Christmas, and I would scoff at anyone who told scary stories. Ghosts? Illusions of the light. The Loch Ness Monster? A water snake. But now, now was different. I actually had proof of something, and my motto was: I don’t believe it until I see it.
Or hear it, in my case.
I looked up every now and then, watching whatever was in the well struggle to get out. That was a scary thought. Whatever was in the Well. This made me think of the beginning of every horror movie; the innocent girl stupidly investigates the strange noises in her house, only to be killed by some kind of vengeful spirit.
“I’ll show them.” I muttered, deciding not to play the role of every ditzy blonde in the movies.
A loud knock came at the front door.
“Nobody’s home!” I yelled, too scared to get up.
“I can hear you!” A voice yelled back, clearly one of a boy’s.
“No, you can’t!” I called, flipping the magazine’s page.
“You’ve got a package!”
This sparked my attention, since Christmas wasn’t too far away, and if it was a present for me, I would like to know.
I yanked out my headphones, gathering my courage and throwing open the front door.
A boy a few years older than me stood on the stoop, his hands empty of anything resembling a package.
“You don’t have a present!” I accused, not used to being lied to.
“Very good observational skills.” The boy pushed his way past me into my house. Behind him I could see some kind of van parked in my driveway, huge satellite dishes sticking up in every which way on the roof.
“Ha ha,” I laughed sarcastically. “Now please get in your weird car and go away. I’m quite busy.”
“Mmm,” The boy said, not listening. He pulled a gold rimmed microscope out of his pocket, peering through it at the floor. “Quite busy with your well?”
I blanched.
“Just a possum, I’m sure,” I said, trying not to look shaken. “Now get out of my house.”
“Ooo, hostile,” The boy inspected me through his magnifying glass. “Traces of spiritual residue,” He murmured. “You didn’t touch the well, did you?”
“Um…I guess,” I muttered, glancing at my self in the foyer mirror. I looked the same as always. “But I’m pretty sure I don’t have any ‘spiritual residue’ on me. Whatever that is.”
The boy ignored me, closing the front door decisively and making his way to the back of the kitchen, looking out at the well.
The lid kept shaking in wild spasms.
He whipped open the back door, striding purposefully over to stand in front of the well.
“Who are you, even?” I asked, appalled at this stranger’s behaviors. The boy stuck out his scrawny hand.
“Oh, forgive me,” He said. “I’m Turner.” I gave his hand a firm shake, a little taken aback. Turner examined the well through the magnifying glasses’s lens.
“Hmmm,” He mused. “Very interesting.” Turner rapped his knuckles on the metal, calling;
“Hello, there! How long have you been sleeping?”
“Are you insane?” I hissed, staring incredulously.
“Shhh!” Turner put a finger to his lips.
The stone walls of the well began to vibrate, flowers falling off.
“So long…” The thing in the well wheezed. “I’ve been asleep so long…”
I shrieked.
Turner rolled his eyes at me.
“What are you?” He directed his question at the well.
“So long…” The thing whispered. “I’ve been asleep so long…”
“Got it!” Turner cried, stuffing his magnifying glass in his coat pocket.
“Got what?” I asked, staring at his coat, which I really hadn’t noticed until now. It was covered with pockets, all kinds of them; sewn on scraps, built in cotton fabric. It was atrocious.
“Got what it is, of course,” Turner said with gusto, ignoring my stares. “It’s a type A ghost. Probably imprisoned in the well a long time ago, put to sleep in the well’s warmth. They can’t stay awake when they’re hot. I don’t know why it woke up… but it’s been down there so long it will just fizzle away if we let it out.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
Turner reached around in one of his pockets, which was made of yellow polka-dotted fabric.
“There it is!” He said, face like an excited puppy. I could almost see his tail wagging.
He produced a plastic water gun, one barely the size of my finger.
“What’re you gonna do with that?” I laughed.
“Don’t mock,” He contradicted. “It’s rude. Turner pointed the squirt gun at the well, closing one eye with the concentration of a professional marksman, and pulled the trigger.
A tiny stream of green liquid squeezed out, fizzing on the surface of the rusted metal lid. It spread, the metal melting away, dripping into little specks of bronze water on the grass.
“Where did you even get that?” I breathed.
“Made the acid out of Arcadian Bullfrog spit,” Turner said proudly, leaning over the well’s surface. “Our friend should be coming out any minute now…”
He didn’t speak too soon.
Turner was thrown back in an explosion of grey mist, sticky tendrils flying everywhere like confetti. The mist folded into itself, moaning.
“So long…” It cried mournfully, dissolving with a final flash of light.
My mouth hung open.
“Close your mouth,” Turner scolded, staring up at me from his seat of grass. “You look like a drunken pixie.”
“A drunken pixie…” I muttered, closing my mouth so hard that my teeth clattered.
“Well, my work here is done,” Turner said, brushing off his coat. “That was wonderful. Enjoy your afternoon!”
“So you’re just going to leave?” I asked, following Turner to his van.
“Yup! See you!” He rubbed his chin. “Except I probably won’t see you, so…”
“Do you even want to know my name?” I asked.
“Oh!” He cried excitedly, opening the van’s driver-side door. “Let me guess, I’m good at this,” He paused, looking me over. “Okay…Harper?”
He took the opportunity to drive away while I was still speechless.

Keep Reading

Chapter 2

Turner Supernatural Investigations

Create an account

Create an account to get started. It’s free!

Sign up

or sign in with email below