Amelia used to play a lot in the meadow that stretched across her family’s land. She loved running in the tall grass, enjoying how the wind played with her clothes and hair. She engaged not only in games like ball, tag, and hide-and-seek but also liked spending time with the animals.
Whenever she went to the horses, she would always walk to the old well at the edge of the field. The well, made of stone, was no longer in use. Moss and ivy had long claimed its surface, while the wooden structure slowly decayed. Amelia loved looking at it. She often sat there, creating stories about it. Sometimes she drew it, other times she shouted into it while standing at the edge. She never saw the bottom, but she enjoyed hearing her voice echoing in the depth.
Amelia lived with her mother, stepfather, and two stepbrothers. None of them liked it when the girl played around the old well. Her mother said she feared she might fall in one day. Others in the nearby village whispered that the well was cursed. Nevertheless, Amelia loved going there and never experienced anything strange around it.
She couldn’t remember her biological father. She was always told that he died when she was around four. Since her stepfather didn’t want any memory of him around, there was just one picture of him in the house, and Amelia saved it from being thrown away. She kept it under her pillow, looking at it with her flashlight every night. She carefully memorized the man’s strong features, short-cut hair, brown eyes, and black-framed glasses.
One evening, when Amelia was twenty-two, she decided to take a walk in the meadow. A storm was coming that night, and she wanted to make sure everything was alright outside. As she left the house, she looked at her mother, who was chopping firewood next to the wall. The woman’s movements were heavy, strong, and steady. Her face showed that she hardly thought about what she was doing. She always chopped the wood into exactly four pieces.
Amelia waved at her and left.
Outside, it was getting dark early because of the impending storm. Patches of fog descended on the field. The air became humid and warm.
Amelia’s head throbbed from the weather as she herded the horses into the stable. After locking them up, she picked up the knife lying next to the gate. Her stepbrothers liked to throw it at targets, and the mess annoyed the woman. They always lost something.
Humming, Amelia started back toward the house. Although she already saw signs of rain in the distance and heard the thunder, she wasn’t afraid. She thought she would make it home before the storm hit.
As she traversed the meadow through the tall grass, she heard someone calling her name. The voice was familiar, yet she couldn’t figure out whose it was. She furrowed her brow, the knife tightly gripped in her hand, as she turned around in the fog. In the semi-darkness, every bush and tree took on strange shapes.
Amelia shook her head and kept walking, but after only two steps, she heard the sound again. Someone was calling her, desperate and hoarse, as if they needed help.
The woman hesitated for a moment before deciding to check who it was. Everyone in the nearby village knew her, and if someone genuinely needed help, she didn’t want to leave them behind.
Slowly, she walked toward the source of the sound, knife tightly in hand. Her stepfather had taught her a few defensive moves, and she could run fast. She wasn’t afraid of danger.
Amelia’s eyes widened, and a shiver ran down her spine as she reached the origin of the sound. It came from the depths of the old well. She heard her name echoing on the moss-covered stone walls.
Someone was down there.
Amelia took her flashlight from her belt and shone it into the well. She saw a figure lying in the deep. She heard her name again, the voice echoing into the depth.
Someone was down there.
Amelia took the rope that belonged to the well and lowered it carefully, securing it tightly. Regardless of the strange feelings creeping in, the one calling seemed to need her, and she couldn’t leave them there.
The figure’s hands groped for the rope and grabbed it. A moment later, it started pulling itself up.
As Amelia held the flashlight, squinting to see exactly what she was looking at, the light shone into a pair of empty, white eyes. Then it illuminated two withered, grayish-brown hands gripping the rope. The figure’s mouth opened, and, with missing teeth, it called for her again.
Amelia’s eyes widened.
The figure only pulled up its two arms and upper body. The rest of its body remained down there in the well.
In her horror, Amelia cut the rope. A muffled thud was echoing on the stone walls, and a soft crack was heard as the figure fell onto the black-framed glasses lying at the bottom of the well.
Amelia ran home. She couldn’t see or hear anything; she just ran across the meadow and didn’t look back. She rushed into their house, up to her room, and pulled the blanket over her head.
Outside, next to the wall, her mother continued to chop wood.
She neatly cut it into four pieces, as she always did.
Stella Watson
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Stella Watson author/író 