"The Well" by Llrâc Nôdbé

The Well

by Llrâc Nôdbé

Billy’s body wanted to shake with fear as the bucket he’d been bundled into jerked violently over the well, but he was too busy trying not to fall in. His eyes strained to see the bottom but, apart from the occasional glint of torchlight reflecting on the obsidian water, there was no way of really telling how deep it was.

Knuckles white and knees clamped against the bucket’s side, Billy’s eyes now sought out the gang’s leader, but his pleading eyes had the wrong effect.

‘He’s shitting himself,’ said Geraint, his mouth tugged back into a huge grin displaying an inch wide line of gum above his top teeth. ‘We all have to die, sometime.’

Strange comment, thought Billy and, weirdly, the other reprobates didn’t react to it. In fact, they never seemed to react to Geraint’s comments and, in some respects, they seemed to respond more to Mikey’s directions. Did they just follow Geraint blindly? Billy knew that begging to Geraint’s good nature would achieve nothing, although, at this precise moment — swaying over what seemed like a bottomless hole — Billy was more worried that their puny arms would lose control of the rope and he’d drown; if the fall didn’t kill him first.

As if on cue, the bucket plummeted several seconds, then jolted to an abrupt halt. Billy screamed. He couldn’t help it. He acted the same on fairground rides, too; the falling sensation petrified him, especially if he didn’t feel safe, and this was definitely an unsafe moment.

When the bucket’s swaying slowed and the rope’s creaking became hypnotic, Billy looked up, but all he could see were four head and shoulder shadows dissecting the bright, white circle above him. He braved a glance over the bucket’s edge and guessed he was roughly half-way down, although he couldn’t be certain.

The bucket plummeted before stopping abruptly once more, causing vomit to surge up his oesophagus. As the last few chunks of his dinner disappeared over the side, Billy closed his eyes and focused on the sound. Two seconds passed before he heard faint plopping sounds as his spew met the water’s surface.

It’s at least a twenty metre drop from here.

‘More like fifty.’

The whisper slid into his ear with such clear ferocity that he instinctively jumped away from the voice, his body slipping unceremoniously over the bucket’s edge before he realised what was happening.

The two seconds it took to hit the cold, well water felt like a lifetime to Billy, and in some ways it was. No life story flashed before his eyes, though, but this was it; this was the end.

Despite numerous lessons by his father, Billy couldn’t swim, couldn’t float, and couldn’t remember to hold his breath before slamming head first into the freezing, filthy water. It felt like crashing through a sheet of black glass, yet, weirdly, he could see clearly underwater, although he wished he couldn’t — there were skeletons everywhere.

With lungs screaming for air, Billy burst through the rancid, cold water’s surface, but something clamped onto his right leg, pulling him back under. He still hadn’t drawn breath and his chest heaved and convulsed spasmodically as the last bubbles of air jettisoned from his gaping mouth. But he wasn’t done, yet. His arms and legs flailed, fingers desperately grasping for something, anything, to hold onto.

Then, finally, his fingers clamped around something near the surface. Something solid. Whatever it was, it seemed to grip him back. It pulled him until his head broke through the surface and air finally forced its way into his waterlogged lungs. Coughing and spluttering, Billy was hauled, face down, arse up, inside the bucket, which was now bobbing up and down at the bottom of the well.

‘T-T-Thank y-you,’ said Billy, shivering, as he turned to face his saviour.

The eyes staring back at Billy were clearly cold and dead, the rotting flesh around them flaking and sloughing away from the bony sockets, but the head they were in was still very much animated, as was the body it was attached to, albeit slightly stiff and creaking with every movement. What terrified Billy the most was that he recognised the decaying boy that was clinging to the wall beside him.

It was Geraint.

Through chattering teeth, Billy said, ‘A-A-Are y-you … d-d-d—’

‘Dead?’ whispered the zombified Geraint, cutting him off. ‘Absolutely. Six months at least.’ His words hissed from his throat like the final remnants of an echo, as though his insides were completely hollow.

How is Geraint dead?

Billy, eyes wide and jaw sagging despite his violent shivering, looked up at the bright circle of light, like a full-moon on a dark Winter’s night, but the boys had gone.

The rotting, bone crunching Geraint beside him, that dripped with black slime, followed his gaze, his face slowly morphing into a hideous smirk.

As if reading Billy’s mind, Geraint whispered, ‘Oh, him. He’s not real. That’s just my soul. It’s trapped in hell until I’m replaced … And here you are!’

Billy began to scream, while his cold, pruney fingers slapped at the wet, slimy wall searching for purchase, but Geraint’s cold, brittle finger bones gripped his shoulders and yanked him backwards.

***

When Mikey and the other boys returned to the well with several local men that were laden down with ropes and tools, Billy was sat on the edge of the well’s surrounding wall, legs swaying over the opening. Despite this, the frantic rescue attempt to save him continued unabated.

Billy spun his legs back over the well wall and jumped down onto the grass out of the men’s way, while Mikey and the rest of the gang stood nervously on the sidelines, terrified that Billy might still be alive.

Billy walked straight through three rescuers and two of the boys before standing in front of Mikey and touching his arm.

‘Tag, you’re it,’ he said, as his body materialised in front of a wide-eyed Mikey.