14 Sep The Wishing Well

The sun was setting, casting long shadows through the trees on Harold’s rural property. It was an evening like any other, the kind Harold had grown accustomed to since his wife, Henrietta, passed away twelve years ago. These walks had become a routine, a way to fill the silence that now defined his life.

The air was cool, the woods quiet. Too quiet, Harold thought. The birds had stopped singing, and even the wind seemed to have died down, leaving an eerie stillness in its wake. He shook off the unease creeping into his thoughts and pressed on, following the familiar path that wound deeper into the forest.

That’s when the fog rolled in.

It came fast, thick and white, swallowing the trees and the path in a matter of moments. Harold stopped, squinting into the haze. He had never seen fog like this before—not here, not anywhere. It was so dense that he couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead. A cold knot of unease settled in his gut, but he brushed it aside. Fog was just fog, after all.

He kept walking, slower now, his steps more cautious. But as quickly as it had appeared, the fog began to lift. Harold blinked, disoriented. The path was still there, the trees still looming overhead, but something was different. A clearing had appeared where there hadn’t been one before, and in the center of that clearing stood a well.

Harold stopped in his tracks. The well was old, made of crumbling bricks, with a rusty pulley system and a frayed rope hanging down into the darkness below. He knew this forest like the back of his hand, and he was certain there had never been a well here. It didn’t make any sense.

He approached it cautiously, his instincts screaming at him to turn back, but his curiosity got the better of him. Peering over the edge, he saw nothing but blackness. There was no water, no bottom, just an empty void. The air around the well was cool, almost cold, and Harold felt a shiver run down his spine.

Something about the well felt… wrong.

But instead of leaving, he found himself reaching for the rope. The fibers were rough against his skin, and the pulley squealed loudly as he began to lower the bucket. The sound grated on his nerves, but he kept going until he heard the bucket hit the bottom with a dull thud. It was dry; no splash of water, no echo from the depths.

Harold frowned. He began pulling the bucket back up, expecting to find it empty. Instead, there was a scrap of paper inside, along with a small, worn-down pencil. He unfolded the paper, his hands shaking slightly, and read the single line scrawled across it in jagged, uneven handwriting:

“What do you want most in the world?”

Harold stared at the words, his mind racing. Was this some kind of joke? It had to be, but who would play a joke like this, out here in the middle of nowhere? He glanced around, but there was no one—just the trees, the fading light, and the well.

His heart ached as he thought of Henrietta. It had been twelve years, but the pain of losing her hadn’t dulled. If anything, it had only grown sharper with time. He missed her more than words could express. Without really thinking about it, Harold flipped the paper over and wrote his answer on the back:

“I want to see my wife again.”

The pencil felt heavy in his hand, the words even more so. What was he doing? This was ridiculous. And yet, there was a part of him—a small, desperate part—that clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, something would happen.

He put the note back in the bucket and lowered it into the well. The rope slipped through his fingers, and halfway down, the bucket dropped suddenly, the rope going slack. Harold’s heart skipped a beat. Had he broken it? But then the tension returned, and he pulled the bucket back up.

When it emerged from the darkness, Harold’s breath caught in his throat. Next to his own words, a single response had been added, hastily scrawled in the same jagged script:

“Tonight.”

He stared at the note, his mind struggling to process what it meant. Tonight? Was this some kind of sick joke? But who could have done this? And how?

A cold fear began to creep over him. The woods, once so familiar, now felt foreign, even hostile. The air seemed colder, the shadows darker. Harold’s hand shook as he folded the note and shoved it into his pocket. He didn’t know what he had done, but he knew it was something he shouldn’t have.

The walk back to his house felt longer than usual, the trees pressing in on him from all sides. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching him, following him through the woods. When he finally reached his front door, he was nearly out of breath, though he hadn’t been walking any faster than usual.

Inside, the house was as quiet as ever. He lit a fire in the fireplace, trying to chase away the chill that had settled into his bones. But he couldn’t get warm no matter how close he sat to the flames. He kept thinking about the note, the word “tonight” echoing in his mind.

Harold sat in his favorite chair, a photo of Henrietta on the table beside him. He stared at it, his heart heavy with longing and fear. What had he done? What was going to happen tonight?

As the hours ticked by, the fire burned down to embers, and Harold’s eyelids grew heavy. He fought to stay awake, but exhaustion finally claimed him, and he drifted off to sleep, the note still clutched in his hand.

It was the knocking that woke him, sharp and insistent. Harold jerked awake, disoriented, the fire nearly out. The room was cold, the only light coming from the dying embers and the faint glow of the moon through the window.

He frowned, trying to shake off the lingering fog of sleep. Who would be knocking at this hour? He checked the clock—3 a.m. The knocking came again, louder this time, and Harold’s heart began to race. He stood up slowly, his joints protesting, and moved toward the door.

As he approached, he saw a shadow through the frosted glass, a figure standing just outside. A figure that matched Henrietta’s height. Harold froze, his breath catching in his throat. He looked down and saw, through the gap under the door, a pair of shoes. Henrietta’s shoes. The ones she had been buried in.

Panic surged through him. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t natural. The knocking grew more insistent, and then he heard a voice—a voice that was unmistakably Henrietta’s, but wrong somehow. The words were short, stilted, forced through what sounded like cracked, dry lips.

“Harold… open… the door…”

Harold’s blood ran cold. He backed away from the door, his mind racing. He had wanted to see her again, but not like this. Not like this.

He had to get out. Now.

Moving as quickly as his old legs would allow, Harold made his way to the back of the house, through the kitchen and down into the cellar. His hands trembled as he fumbled with the latch on the cellar door, finally forcing it open and stepping out into the cold night air.

From the shadows, he could see the front of the house, the figure still standing at the door. His heart pounded in his chest as he tried to get a better look, but what he saw filled him with horror.

It was Henrietta, or what was left of her. Her skin was pale and stiff, with the unmistakable sheen of embalming fluid. Her movements were jerky, unnatural, as if she were a puppet being pulled by invisible strings. Her eyes—those beautiful eyes he had loved so much—were gone, replaced by dark, hollow sockets.

Harold’s stomach turned. This wasn’t his wife. It was something else, something that had taken her place, using her body like a grotesque mask.

He needed to get away. But as he turned to flee, his foot caught on a coil of rope left lying on the ground, and he fell hard, pain shooting up his leg as his ankle twisted beneath him. He bit back a cry of pain, but it was too late. The figure had heard him. It turned, its head jerking unnaturally in his direction, and began to move toward him, its stiff limbs creaking with every step.

“Harold… why… are you… running…?”

The voice was closer now, and the panic that had been simmering in Harold’s chest finally boiled over. He scrambled to his feet, pain be damned, and hobbled as fast as he could toward his truck. But when he reached it, he realized with a sinking feeling that his keys were still inside the house—right where the thing that used to be his wife was now standing.

His breath came in short, panicked gasps as he backed away from the truck, knowing he had no choice but to run. The figure—Henrietta’s corpse—was moving faster now, a low, guttural cry escaping its throat. Harold turned and fled into the woods, his twisted ankle throbbing with every step.

He didn’t know where he was going, only that he needed to get away. And as he limped through the darkened forest, the well’s presence loomed in his mind. It had caused this. Maybe it could stop it, too.

* * * * * *

Harold pushed through the underbrush, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Every step sent a sharp pain shooting up from his twisted ankle, but he didn’t dare slow down. The woods, once familiar and comforting, now felt alien, the shadows deeper and more menacing. Behind him, he could hear the relentless pursuit—Henrietta, or what was left of her, rustling through the trees, her stiff, jerky movements growing louder as she closed the distance between them.

He needed to reach the well. It was the only thing that might offer a way out of this nightmare. The idea of returning to that cursed well filled him with dread, but desperation fueled his steps. If the well had brought Henrietta back, maybe it could undo the horror he had unleashed.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Harold stumbled into the clearing. The well stood there, ancient and foreboding, its dark mouth gaping open like an entrance to the underworld. Harold’s breath came in panicked gasps as he approached, his body trembling with fear and exhaustion.

The bucket was already on its way up, the rope moving as if pulled by unseen hands. Harold’s heart pounded in his chest as he grabbed the rope, helping it along, though his hands were slick with sweat. When the bucket emerged from the darkness, Harold’s stomach churned with dread. Inside was another note, rolled tightly like a scroll, with a small match tied to it.

His hands shook as he took the note and unrolled it. The words inside were simple, but they sent a chill down his spine: “Are you satisfied?”

Harold’s mind raced. Satisfied? With what? The abomination that had once been his beloved wife? The grotesque parody of life that now stalked him through the woods? His heart clenched with regret as he thought of how much he missed Henrietta, and how much he wished he had never answered that first note. This was not what he wanted. This was a nightmare.

He flipped the note over and, with the worn-down pencil stub still in the bucket, scribbled a frantic reply: “No, stop it.”

He placed the note back in the bucket and lowered it into the well, the pulley squealing as it descended. The sound of Henrietta’s movements in the woods grew louder, closer. Harold’s heart raced. The bucket hit the bottom of the well, and for a moment, there was only silence. Then, slowly, the rope began to move again, the bucket climbing back up toward him.

When it reached the top, Harold pulled it up with trembling hands. He grabbed the note, his pulse pounding in his ears, and unrolled it. His breath caught in his throat as he read the single word written there:

“No.”

Panic surged through him. No? The well was refusing to do what he asked? He looked around, the darkness pressing in on him, the rustling in the trees growing louder as Henrietta drew nearer. He was out of time.

In desperation, Harold scribbled one final plea on the back of the note: “Please, stop it.” But as he moved to place the note back in the bucket, the pulley suddenly snapped with a loud crack. The bucket tumbled into the well, disappearing into the darkness below with a final, echoing crash.

Harold stared in horror at the frayed rope, his last hope unraveling before his eyes. The well was broken, the bucket gone. He couldn’t send the note back, couldn’t plead for mercy. He was trapped, with the thing that had once been his wife closing in.

Harold leaned over the edge of the well and, unsure of what else to do, dropped the note into the abyss. He watched as it fluttered down, disappearing into the darkness. Harold’s heart pounded in his chest as he strained to listen, hoping, praying that something would happen.

But instead of silence, Harold heard something else—a sound that chilled him to the bone. Something was climbing up the walls of the well, its claws scraping against the bricks. The noise was wet and sickening, like nails on a chalkboard mixed with the sound of tearing flesh.

Harold stumbled back from the edge, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. His mind screamed at him to run, but his body was frozen in place, paralyzed by the sheer terror of what he knew was coming.

Then, slowly, a gnarled, clawed hand reached over the edge of the well. It was covered in blood, the skin ragged and torn. A second hand followed, gripping the stones with sickening strength. Harold’s mouth went dry as he watched, too horrified to move.

The hands held a piece of paper, caked in flecks of dried blood, the edges torn and frayed. Shaking, Harold reached out and took the note, his fingers trembling so badly he could barely unroll it. When he finally did, his eyes widened in terror.

The message was written in blood, not lead, and it was clear, direct, and final:

“Join me.”

Harold’s knees buckled, and he nearly collapsed under the weight of the words. His eyes flicked back to the well, but the hands were gone, leaving nothing but the cold, dark void.

A sound behind him made his blood run cold. The rustling had stopped, replaced by the slow, deliberate footsteps of his wife’s corpse as it drew closer. Harold’s heart pounded in his chest, the word “join” echoing in his mind like a death sentence.

He looked at the well, at the note still clutched in his hand. The only way to escape the horror that was approaching, to stop the nightmare, was to follow the well’s command. But how could he? How could he willingly throw himself into that abyss, knowing it would be the end?

But then again, what choice did he have? Henrietta was nearly upon him, reeking of decay, her empty eye sockets fixed on him as if she could still see. Harold could feel the cold, dead breath of his wife on his neck, hear the creak of her joints as she reached out for him.

Out of options, Harold climbed up onto the edge of the well, his body trembling with fear and pain. The cold stone bit into his hands as he balanced precariously, legs dangling over the edge, looking down into the darkness below. He didn’t want to die, but he didn’t want to face whatever was coming for him, either.

His mind raced, searching for any other solution, any way out. But there was nothing. Nothing but the well, the darkness, and the hands that had written those final, damning words.

As Henrietta’s corpse reached for him, her stiff, cold fingers brushing against his skin, Harold made his decision. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let go.

For a brief moment, he felt weightless, the wind rushing past him as he fell into the abyss. But then the impact came, hard and fast, his body slamming into the sides of the well as he tumbled down. He felt bones break, skin tear, and then the cold, hard bottom met him with a final, sickening crunch. Pain exploded through his body, his limbs twisting at awkward angles as he landed on the shattered remains of the bucket. Pieces of wood embedded themselves in his flesh, and for a moment, he was sure he was dead.

But it wasn’t over. Not yet.

Harold found himself still conscious, breathing with great difficulty, lying in the cramped, cold space at the bottom of the well. He tried to move, but every part of his body screamed in protest. He was alive, but barely.

Before his eyes could adjust to the darkness, he heard it—a soft rustling, like paper brushing against the brick walls as it descended into the well. The sound grew louder, closer, until a rolled-up note struck him gently on the shoulder and fell beside him. Tied to it was a single match.

Harold’s hand shook as he reached for the match, striking it against the rough stone. The tiny flame flared to life, casting flickering shadows on the cold, damp walls. With trembling fingers, he unrolled the note and squinted at the words written there.

On one side, in the same jagged script as before, was the question that had started this nightmare: “What do you want most in the world?”

For a brief moment, hope flickered in Harold’s chest. Was this another chance? One last opportunity to change his wish, to alter his fate? He looked around frantically, searching for something to write with, but the well offered nothing. No pencil, no lead, nothing at all.

He scrambled at the bottom of the well, his hands searching desperately for the nub of the pencil he had used before, but came up empty. Panic welled up inside him as he realized he couldn’t change his wish. He was trapped.

As the match burned lower, threatening to scorch his fingertips, Harold’s eyes caught sight of something written on the opposite side of the note, in a handwriting he knew all too well.

It was Henrietta’s, the loops and swirls unmistakable, though the letters were jagged, almost illegible, as if penned by stiff, numb fingers. She had written a single word in response to the question of what she wanted most in the world.

“Harold.”

Just then, what little remained of his match burned out, plunging him back into darkness, and a wave of primal terror washed over him as he heard the sound he had dreaded most—the slow, deliberate scraping of another body clambering down the walls of the well, stiff and doll-like in its movements. Henrietta…was coming for him.

The sound grew louder, closer, as if the very walls of the well were closing in on him. Harold’s heart pounded in his chest, his mind screaming at him to escape, but there was nowhere to go. The darkness pressed in from all sides, suffocating him as he heard his wife’s stiff, cold limbs scraping closer.

Harold could do nothing but listen to the relentless approach of Henrietta’s corpse, her movements slow but deliberate. “Harold,” she rasped one final time, her voice a twisted mockery of the woman he had loved.

Then, with one final, sickening thud, everything went still.

For a moment, in spite of his pain, Harold sat in silence, paralyzed with fear. After what felt like an eternity had passed, and just as he mustered the courage to so much as draw another breath, a bony hand shot out of the darkness, wrapping itself around his neck. And Harold screamed, and screamed.

Above, the fog began to rise once more, thick and impenetrable. When it later faded, as quickly and as naturally as it had arrived, the well had vanished with it. The only indication that the chasm or Harold had ever been there was a single scrap of paper lying discarded, carried lazily about by a passing breeze. As it tossed and turned in the gentle wind, a single line of jagged, uneven handwriting at times became visible, posing what appeared to be a harmless question:

“What do you want most in the world?”