My sister vanished seven years ago, and last night she knocked on our front door again… but she didn’t come alone. The most terrifying part wasn’t seeing her alive, but hearing her say that we never should have opened the well in the backyard.
My mom still had her hand clamped over her mouth, taking short, ragged breaths. She stared at the boy as if his features might physically rearrange themselves if she just looked hard enough.
But they didn’t. The longer she stared, the more my dad bled through his face: the bridge of his nose, the slight droop of his left eyelid, that dead-serious expression that just looked entirely wrong on a kid—like he had borrowed it from an old man.
Chloe reacted first. She dropped to her knees in front of him and grabbed his face with both hands.
“I told you never to talk about her,” she hissed.
The boy didn’t flinch. He just kept hugging that faded backpack tight to his chest. “She found us,” he replied deadpan.
The way he said it made my eyes dart toward the backyard against my will. The curtains were drawn, but I could still feel it—that creeping sensation of someone standing just on the other side of the glass, watching our kitchen with endless patience.
Mom stumbled back a step. “What does he mean by ‘other mommy’?” she asked, her voice sounding frail and ancient. “Chloe… what the hell did you do?”
Chloe shot up so fast her chair clattered to the linoleum. “I didn’t do anything! I tried to get out.”
“Get out of where?” I demanded.
Her eyes darted to the backyard window. Then to the ceiling. Then to the hallway door. Like she was doing the math on exactly how much time we had left before whatever was out there decided to invite itself in.
“I can’t explain it all up here,” she panted. “The well comes first.”
Mom started shaking her head, faster and faster. “No. No, absolutely not. Your father capped that thing for a reason. We already opened it once that night and it was a mistake. We prayed, we brought the priest out here, we poured quicklime down there, we already—”
“Because she wasn’t alone down there!” Chloe interrupted.
Those words sucked all the air out of the room. Even the rattling ceiling fan seemed to stall out. I felt a sickening drop in my gut.
“Who wasn’t alone?”
Chloe looked at me like I was walking into the middle of a movie. “I wasn’t.”
A faint noise scraped from the backyard. It wasn’t a knock. It was a wet squeal, like waterlogged fingers dragging across solid concrete.
Mom let out a whimper and hurriedly crossed herself. “Don’t touch that curtain,” she pleaded.
I hadn’t planned on it, but my body was running on terrifying autopilot. I took a step. Then another. I pinched the fabric with two trembling fingers and pulled it back just an inch.
I didn’t see anything out there. Just our pitch-black Salem yard, the rusted clothesline, and way in the back, the pale gray circle of the well under its cracked concrete slab.
But there was something else in the reflection of the glass. A silhouette standing right behind me in the kitchen. A woman.
For a split second, I thought it was Chloe—until I realized Chloe was still over by the dining table. The figure in the glass was taller. Her hair was plastered flat against her skull like she had just been dragged from a lake, and she was clutching something small in her hand. A little doll.
I spun around. Nothing. Just the dim kitchen, my terrified mother, Chloe holding her breath, and the boy—who hadn’t moved an inch, totally unfazed by the phantom in the room.
“She’s here,” the boy stated flatly.
Chloe squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, I saw a raw, primal desperation in them I hadn’t seen since we were kids. “I need a sledgehammer. A heavy shovel. Whatever we’ve got in the garage.”
“To smash the concrete cap?” I asked. “Yes.”
Mom let out a cracked, hysterical little laugh. “And then what? What are you hoping to fish out of there? Your own bones? Another lie? Because that’s all you brought home, isn’t it? Seven years MIA, and you walk in with a strange kid and ghost stories.”
Chloe went rigid. She didn’t snap back right away. Her eyes flared with a mix of fury, crushing guilt, and absolute exhaustion.
“Mom, I was nineteen when I left,” she said, her voice dropping dangerously low. “You don’t have to believe a word I say. But I swear to God, if we don’t bust that well open tonight, by tomorrow morning she won’t know the difference between me and him.”
The boy slowly looked up. “Or you.”
Nobody breathed.
I went out to the side shed to grab the gardening spade and my dad’s old masonry sledgehammer. When I picked them up, I almost dropped them. The heavy iron tools were soaking wet. Not just damp—dripping. Like someone had held them underwater just seconds before I walked in.
I carried them back to the kitchen in dead silence.
Chloe grabbed the sledgehammer. Her hands were shaking so violently I thought she’d drop it on her foot. “You’re staying here,” she ordered the boy. “No, I’m not,” he said. “Yes, you are.”
He looked at her with an unbearable, adult emptiness. “If you leave me inside alone, she’ll start whispering to me again.”
Mom choked back a sob and grabbed the edge of the counter to keep from collapsing. I honestly didn’t know what terrified me more: the pitch-black yard, the insane things Chloe was saying, or the chillingly casual way the kid was talking about it.
All four of us went out.
I pushed the back door open, and the night air hit us. It smelled heavily of swampy, wet earth, even though it hadn’t rained in weeks. The yard was freezing—way colder than Salem should be this time of year. The chill seeped right through the rubber soles of my Converse and crawled up my shins.
The well was right where it had always been. A stone circle capped with the sloppy, uneven concrete pad my dad had poured years ago. The weeds growing around its base were completely white, drained of color like they’d never seen the sun.
Chloe didn’t march right up to it. She scanned the perimeter: the wooden fence, the roofline, the shed, the kitchen window.
“If she speaks to you, ignore her,” Chloe whispered. “Who?” I asked.
She didn’t answer. She jammed the spade into a hairline fracture in the concrete and shoved her weight onto the handle. It didn’t budge. I grabbed on to help her. Straining together, we barely managed to pry up a jagged chunk of cement.
There wasn’t dirt underneath. There was a second layer. Wood. Heavy, black timber, swollen and rotting from moisture.
“Who the hell put wood under the cement?” I panted.
Mom spoke up from a few feet away, wrapping her arms around herself. “Your father.”
I turned to her. “Dad actually climbed down there?” Mom couldn’t make herself answer. But the boy, Caleb, did. “He went down twice.”
The silence in the yard was so absolute I could hear the faint hum of a streetlamp two blocks away.
Chloe adjusted her grip on the sledgehammer and brought it down hard on the rotting wood. Crack. She swung again. Crack. On the third strike, something pounded back. From underneath.
It wasn’t an echo. It was a knock. An answer.
Mom shrieked and covered her ears. I stumbled backward into the wet grass. Caleb just stood there.
“Keep going,” he said. It wasn’t a request. It was an order.
Chloe hoisted the hammer and smashed it down one last time. The wood splintered and caved in. The stench hit us instantly. It wasn’t just old mildew. It was the smell of decades-old stagnant water, black mold, rotting lilies, and a sickly-sweet metallic odor that coated the back of my throat like I was tasting it.
The mouth of the well was exposed. Wide open. Unnaturally black.
I remembered it being a narrow, decorative thing from before the city laid plumbing. But the hole gaping in front of us looked way too massive to exist in our backyard. The inner walls were stacked fieldstone, and on the rocks near the top, I could clearly see deep, vertical gouges—like someone had frantically dragged bare fingernails all the way up.
Chloe dropped to her knees at the edge and yelled down into the dark: “I came for him!”
Nothing answered. Just the wet, hollow echo of her own voice fading into the abyss.
Mom grabbed my arm, digging her nails in. “We never should have opened it,” she sobbed. “Look at the bricks.”
I looked where she was pointing. On the back wall of our house, directly facing the well, water was bleeding through the mortar. Thick, dark streams were trickling down the side of the siding. Then more. It looked like there was an entire flooded lake trapped just behind our drywall, pushing to get out.
Caleb dropped his faded backpack onto the mud. “We have to pull the bag out first.”
I spun around. “What bag?” He pointed down into the pitch black. I leaned over.
Snagged on a jagged rock about ten feet down was a heavy-duty black contractor bag. It was bloated, bobbing slightly in the dark, oily water.
I gagged. “Hell no,” I backed away. “I am absolutely not touching that.” Chloe looked up at me. For the first time all night, the tough shell vanished. She sounded exactly like the big sister I grew up with. “Please.”
That somehow made it so much worse.
I ran to the shed and grabbed a nylon tow rope and a metal hook. Together, Chloe and I snagged the plastic and hauled it up. It was obscenely heavy, dead weight. Every time it caught on a rock, I prayed the plastic wouldn’t tear. It was coated in a vile, grayish slime that glinted under the porch light.
When we finally dragged it over the edge and dropped it onto the wet grass, mom collapsed into an old lawn chair and started frantically whispering the Hail Mary.
None of us wanted to untie the knot. But Caleb was already crouching beside it.
“No, Caleb,” Chloe warned. “Don’t touch it.” He looked up at her with eyes that were thousands of years old. “It’s always my turn.”
He dug his small, mud-caked fingers into the knot and ripped the plastic wide open.
It wasn’t a body. It was clothes. A tangled, sopping wet pile of women’s clothes: a pair of Levi’s, a floral summer blouse, a bra, socks, and a heavy beige cardigan. They were filthy, covered in dark, rusted stains. Tangled up in the fabric was a plastic hairbrush, a set of house keys, and a silver chain holding a tiny, heart-shaped locket.
Mom stopped praying mid-sentence. She stood up like a sleepwalker, took two steps, and dropped to her knees in the mud. Her shaking hands reached into the muck and pulled out the locket.
“This is mine.”
The yard was dead quiet. She raised her head, and her face was completely hollowed out.
“I lost this out here… the night we went looking for you,” she whispered to Chloe. Chloe didn’t blink. “No, you didn’t.” Mom gripped the silver heart so hard her knuckles turned white. “I did.”
The temperature plummeted. A low, wet murmur started echoing up from the depths of the well. It wasn’t one voice. It was dozens of them—wet, sloshing whispers grinding against each other.
I backed up. “Mom… what the hell are you talking about?”
When my mother finally spoke, it sounded like every single word was physically tearing her throat apart.
“Your father didn’t want the police snooping around. He said it would ruin our reputation. He told everyone you probably ran off with some punk and you’d come crawling back when you needed cash. But I knew. I knew my girl would never leave without her favorite cardigan. Without her St. Jude medal in her bag. Without saying goodbye to her little sister.”
Chloe looked like she had stopped breathing entirely.
“That night,” Mom choked out, “I heard you crying out here in the yard.”
The pressure in my ears felt like I was deep underwater. I didn’t want to hear the rest. But I was paralyzed.
“I grabbed a flashlight and came outside,” she sobbed. “You were sitting right there on the edge of the stones. Weeping. I was so relieved, I ran over to hug you… but when I grabbed your shoulder and spun you around… it wasn’t you.”
Caleb pressed his lips together. He already knew this chapter by heart.
“It was wearing your face,” Mom cried, rocking back and forth. “But the eyes were wrong. You smelled like the bottom of a swamp. Like dead water. You looked at me and said, ‘Don’t leave me down there anymore.’ I started screaming bloody murder. Your dad ran out with a baseball bat. He grabbed her by the hair… and that’s when… that’s when you walked out from behind the shed.”
The sledgehammer slipped out of Chloe’s grip and thudded into the mud. I felt the blood drain from my head.
“No,” I gasped.
“There were two of you,” Mom wept silently. “Identical. Both soaking wet. Both screaming. Your dad panicked. He started yelling it was a demon, a skinwalker, that one of you was dead and the other was trying to steal your life. We tried to pull you apart… and one of you bit my arm to the bone.”
She rubbed her left forearm, staring at the invisible scar like she could still feel the teeth sinking in.
“I tripped. My necklace tore off. Your dad grabbed a cinderblock. Everything happened so fast. There was so much screaming, I didn’t know which one of you was begging for your life. And when the splashing stopped… there was only one of you left standing on the grass.”
Caleb spoke up, his voice barely a breeze. “And they kept the wrong one.”
No one argued with him. Suddenly, a woman’s laughter bubbled up from the well. A long, gargling, drowning sound.
My entire body broke out in a cold sweat.
Chloe was ghostly white. She stared down at our mother like she was looking at a monster.
“So you knew,” Chloe rasped. “You actually knew.” “I couldn’t tell which one was my baby!” Mom wailed into her hands. “So you dumped her in a hole and capped it?!” “He said he was going to fix it! He swore he’d come back in the morning with the priest, with ropes… but around 3 A.M., something started pounding on the back door. It was crying in your exact voice, begging me to let her inside. Your dad lost his mind. He mixed the cement in the dark and capped it right then and there. He made me swear on the Bible we would take it to our graves.”
Chloe started laughing. It wasn’t funny. It was a dry, jagged sound that kept getting louder until it turned into a sickening, agonizing wail.
“Seven years,” Chloe screamed at the sky. “Seven years trapped down there in the dark, listening to that thing mimic my voice! Watching it learn how to be me. Stealing my entire life!”
Caleb calmly picked up his backpack. “She’s out.”
I whipped my head toward the well. The black, oily water had silently surged all the way up to the brim. And right beneath the surface, something was floating.
Hair. Masses of dark hair fanning out like an ink spill. Then a pale forehead. Two wide-open eyes. And a massive grin.
It was Chloe. Not the bruised, exhausted Chloe crying in the grass. The other one. Dripping wet. Her skin bloated, corpse-white, and stretched painfully tight over her cheekbones.
She hovered up out of the water without using her arms, like the current was just presenting her to us. First her head, then her shoulders, then her torso, wrapped in a filthy, tattered white dress I had never seen in her closet. You couldn’t see her legs. They were still submerged, as if she were standing on a mountain of things beneath the surface.
Mom let out a bloodcurdling shriek. The thing slowly pivoted its neck toward her. “Now you recognize me, Ma,” it purred, in the exact pitch and tone of nineteen-year-old Chloe.
The real Chloe stumbled back, crashing into my shoulder. I was losing my mind. They were carbon copies. Not like twins. Identical like a cursed mirror reflection.
There was only one horrifying difference: the thing from the water never blinked.
Caleb marched forward, placing his tiny body between us and the well. He unzipped his backpack. There were no comic books or toys inside. Just rocks. Dozens of smooth, wet river stones, every single one marked with a date written in black Sharpie.
He grabbed one and held it up like a weapon. “Don’t you ever call me your son again,” he told the creature.
Her grin stretched so wide her skin looked like it might tear. “But sweetheart, you’re the one who left the door open for me.”
And right then, it clicked. He wasn’t just a traumatized kid. He was a tether. A human doorway they had spent years prying open to drag this thing to the surface.
Chloe realized it at the exact same second, screaming his name for the first time all night: “Caleb, don’t listen to her!”
Too late. The creature casually raised one dripping hand. Caleb went rigid. He took a slow, robotic step toward the well. Then another.
I lunged and grabbed the hood of his sweatshirt, but he twisted his head to look at me. His eyes were entirely vacant. Hypnotized. “My other mommy says there’s still one missing,” he droned.
The black water finally breached the rim, spilling over the stones and oozing across the grass like a spreading oil slick. Wherever the water touched, the concrete frosted over and cracked.
Mom scrambled backward into the mud, frantically babbling prayers. The other Chloe completely ignored her. She ignored the boy. She locked her unblinking eyes entirely on me.
And what I saw in her dead gaze was infinitely worse than hatred. It was recognition. Like she had been waiting for me to show up to the party this whole time.
“You’re the only one left to be opened,” she whispered.
Our house groaned violently behind us. The kitchen window spontaneously shattered inward onto the linoleum. And beneath the rushing water, beneath Mom’s hysterical prayers, I heard something else echoing up from the dark.
Not just one thing. Dozens. Hundreds of wet, pale hands were violently slapping and scratching at the masonry from the inside of the well, fighting each other for their turn to climb to the surface.
Part 3:
Maybe it was Chloe shaking uncontrollably next to me. Maybe it was Mom, sitting in the freezing mud, speed-mumbling prayers so fast they blurred into static. Or maybe it was just me, paralyzed, feeling like my lungs had already filled with swamp water.
The hands kept clawing their way up. They weren’t illusions or ghosts. They were physical, rotting meat. Waterlogged, bloated fingers—some tiny like children’s, others massive and deformed—all of them smashing against the slick masonry, desperately grabbing for the edge. They had been waiting decades for someone to finally pop the lid off.
The freezing black water was already washing over the laces of our shoes.
Caleb was still locked in a trance, dead-center in front of the creature, gripping the Sharpie-dated rock. He stared at her with the tragic, brainwashed loyalty of a victim. The thing from the well—identical to my sister but deeply, fundamentally wrong—kept smiling that unblinking smile. Her wet hair clung to her skull, her white dress rippling in the unnatural current pushing up from below, her grin stretched so violently it looked like her jaw might unhinge.
“You’re the only one left to be opened,” she repeated, staring right through my soul.
I tried to backpedal, but the sludge sucked at my shoes. Chloe grabbed my jacket. “Do not answer her.” “What the hell is she?!” I croaked, my voice cracking. Chloe shook her head, hyperventilating. “I don’t have a name for her. But it adapts. Down there in the dark, it learned how to wear us.”
The creature tilted her head, looking mildly amused. “Oh, I learned to do a lot more than just talk.”
She twitched a finger. Caleb immediately marched toward her. Mom screamed his name and scrambled to grab him, but slipped in the muddy water and slammed her chin into the grass. I threw myself forward on pure adrenaline, grabbing the straps of the kid’s backpack, yanking backward with everything I had. Caleb jerked to a halt like he was caught in a tug-of-war between two invisible trucks. He slowly turned his head to look at me. His eyes were completely pitch-black. Not dilated—filled to the brim with dark water.
“Let go of me,” he commanded in a heavy, distorted voice that definitely didn’t belong to a seven-year-old. “My mommy is calling me.” “Your real mom is right there!” I screamed in his face, pointing at the terrified, shivering Chloe.
The creature just laughed. It was a soft, pitying chuckle, like a teacher correcting a slow student. “Moms make mistakes, too,” she purred.
Suddenly, something slammed against the inside of the well so hard a brick shattered. One of the hands finally breached the top: grayish-black, emaciated, with jagged, torn fingernails packed with sludge. It clamped onto the rim and started violently hoisting a shoulder out of the water.
My mom let out a primal shriek that rattled my teeth.
That snapped Chloe out of it. She lunged at Caleb, ripped the dated rock out of his fist, and slammed it down onto the concrete pad with all her strength. The stone cracked in half.
Caleb collapsed like his puppet strings had been snipped. He didn’t pass out—he just woke up. He blinked hard, looked around in terror, and started crying like a normal, terrified little boy.
The smile instantly vanished from the creature’s face.
It was a tiny shift—just a millimeter drop of her lip—but the atmospheric pressure in the yard plummeted. The surging water paused. The clawing hands below froze. The creature glared at the broken stone, looking genuinely irritated for the first time.
“I told you to leave those in your room,” she hissed at Caleb.
He scrambled backward, clinging to Chloe’s leg. “I didn’t want to open the door for you anymore,” he bawled.
My sister wrapped her arms around him, refusing to take her eyes off her doppelgänger. “What are the rocks?” I demanded. Chloe swallowed hard. “They’re dates.” “Dates of what?” She couldn’t say it. Mom did, sobbing from the mud.
“The days I heard her,” Mom wept. “Every single day that thing whispered from the yard using your sister’s voice. First it was just at midnight. Then during the day. Then… it started whispering to the baby as soon as he was brought home.”
My stomach did a violent flip. “What baby?” No one answered. But the math clicked in my head. I looked at Caleb. Then at Chloe. Then at the wet, smiling abomination hovering above the well.
Suddenly, seven years of silence made horrifying sense. I understood why the kid looked so exhausted. I understood why my mom was searching his face for Dad’s features. Caleb wasn’t just weird because he heard voices. He was weird because that thing had helped raise him through the floorboards.
“No,” I gasped, backing away. “Don’t tell me…”
Chloe squeezed her eyes shut. “I was pregnant the night I ran.” Mom let out a devastated wail. “I didn’t know you were carrying a child,” she wept.
“Neither did I!” Chloe barked, her voice thick with venom. “I thought if I drove far enough, it would lose the scent! But the second he was born, he started calling me exactly what she did. He called me ‘the other mommy’ before he could even form a sentence. I’d find him sleepwalking, standing at storm drains, staring into swimming pools. And every year, on the anniversary she called out, a river rock would just appear in his bag.”
The creature’s smile returned. “Because they belong to me,” she said. “Every date chipped the door open a little wider.”
The water began churning violently. The hands in the well went absolutely berserk. A face crested the surface. Then another. They weren’t full heads—just bloated cheeks, foreheads, and gasping mouths, like a dozen drowned victims trapped under ice, fighting for the same breathing hole.
“We have to cap it again!” I yelled over the noise. Mom let out a hollow, insane laugh. “With what?! More cement?! We buried her alive once and look what it got us!”
“Because you buried the wrong one,” the creature taunted, her eyes darting between us, soaking up the terror. “And because I was never the only one hungry down here.”
The foundation of our house groaned loudly. The cracks in the cement spider-webbed straight to the back porch. The water gushing from our siding wasn’t just a leak anymore—the house was hemorrhaging. From inside the dark kitchen, something glass smashed on the floor. Then, a voice called out.
My voice. “Mom…?” the voice whimpered from the hallway.
I froze. My vocal cords hadn’t moved. The voice drifting out of our house was crystal clear, terrified, and sounded exactly like me.
Mom clamped both hands over her ears. “It’s starting again,” she shrieked.
The creature looked at me with an expression of pure, toxic maternal affection. “You learn so fast down there in the dark.” Then, she opened her mouth and spoke with my dead father’s voice: “Come here, Pumpkin.”
I hadn’t heard that nickname in eight years. My knees literally buckled. It was just a microsecond of weakness, but it was enough. The creature’s eyes lit up like floodlights. It found the nerve.
“No!” Chloe screamed, violently shaking my shoulder. “Don’t give her an inch!” “What are you talking about?!” “Don’t give her a memory! Don’t acknowledge the name! If you react, she latches on!”
Too late. I had already felt the gut-punch of my dad’s voice. And the things in the well felt it too. The thrashing intensified. One of the rotting arms lunged completely out of the hole. Another grabbed the hem of the creature’s wet dress. The floodwaters surged to our ankles.
Caleb started hyperventilating. “She’s furious.” “Who?!” I screamed, tired of the riddles. Caleb pointed a shaking finger straight down into the abyss. “The one at the very bottom.”
Suddenly, the water violently bulged upward, like a dam had just ruptured beneath us. The black water cleared for one horrifying second, and I saw the true depth of the well. It wasn’t just a hole in a Salem backyard. It was a massive, ancient, bottomless cylinder plunging straight into hell. The stone walls were littered with rusted meat hooks, rotting rags, clumps of hair, and bones. And on every single jutting rock, there were faces. Hundreds of human faces, fused into the masonry like the stone had melted over them.
The creature flinched and backed away from the edge. For the first time, she looked genuinely panicked. “No,” she hissed into the water. “It’s not time yet.”
The hands hesitated, half-obeying her. She wasn’t the boss of this nightmare. She was just the lucky scout that figured out how to unlock the door.
Caleb started convulsing, clutching his stomach. He grabbed my jacket. “She says it’s Grandma Eleanor’s turn!” Mom screamed, “No, God please, no!”
A new voice drifted out of the shattered kitchen window. It was Grandma Eleanor, who died of a stroke eleven years ago. “Girls,” she called out, sweet and warm, exactly how she sounded when she baked cookies. “Come inside, you’ll catch a cold.”
My mom stood up like a zombie. Her eyes completely glazed over, she started taking slow, shuffling steps toward the back door, trudging through the freezing floodwater like she was in a trance. I tackled her arm before she reached the porch. “Mom, stop!”
She blinked, looking at me like I was a total stranger. “That was your grandmother,” she whispered. “She’s in the kitchen.” “That is not her!”
The creature sneered at me. “Let her go. I’ve been calling her name for a decade.”
Chloe snapped. I don’t know where the adrenaline came from, but she planted her boots in the mud, shoving herself between the creature and our mother. Her fear was completely gone. Only pure, homicidal rage was left. “You are not taking my family!” Chloe roared.
The creature gave her a tired, condescending smile. “Do you really think you’re still in charge?” She casually pointed a wet finger at Caleb.
The kid’s back arched, and he let out a horrible, gagging scream. He dropped to all fours and started violently vomiting. But it wasn’t food. It was thick, black swamp water, packed with sludge and dead leaves. Mom shrieked. I dropped down to hold his shoulders, and heard a heavy thud as something solid hit the grass.
A rock. Then another. And another. Smooth, wet river stones, all marked with Sharpie dates. The backpack had never been holding them. They were inside him the whole time.
Chloe dropped into the mud, frantically sweeping the filth out of his mouth, sobbing hysterically, screaming his name. The creature watched the horror show with utter boredom, like waiting for a microwave to beep. “Once he pukes up the last one,” she said plainly, “he belongs to me.”
A wave of pure, white-hot rage blinded me. I grabbed the heavy masonry sledgehammer out of the mud. “Aim low,” Chloe grunted, not looking up from Caleb. “Don’t hit the head.” I didn’t know if she meant the monster or the well, but I didn’t care.
I charged. The creature barely turned her head as I swung the sledgehammer like a baseball bat. I didn’t aim for her ribs. I aimed straight for the cracked concrete rim she was standing on.
CRACK.
The stone shattered into dust. The footing gave way, and the creature lost her balance, teetering backward over the hole. Her arrogant smile vanished.
“You stupid bitch,” she gurgled, her voice suddenly sounding like three old women drowning at once. She flailed her arms to grab my jacket, but she was too late. The hands in the dark found her. One clamped around her ankle. Another dug into her wrist. Three more tangled in her white dress. They yanked hard.
She shrieked. It wasn’t Chloe’s voice anymore. It was a chorus of damned souls. “Do not pull me back!” she roared into the pit.
The faces fused into the well’s walls strained upward, starving for her. One opened its eyes—they were milk-white. Another had its lips stitched shut with fishing line. A third turned to look at me, and for a split second, I saw my own face smiling back.
The creature fought with demonic strength, tearing her own fingernails off on the stonework. One of her flailing hands blindly grabbed Caleb’s ankle. The kid screamed. Chloe tackled him backward into the mud. I hoisted the sledgehammer and brought it down square on the creature’s wrist. The bones crushed. Her grip released. The things at the bottom capitalized, violently dragging her down.
She fell backward into the abyss. Her legs, her torso, her neck vanished into the dark. Her face was the last thing I saw, glaring up at me with an ancient, apocalyptic hatred. “You woke the mother,” she spat. Then, she was swallowed by the black water.
Everything went off like a bomb. The water exploded upward like a geyser, blasting us backward into the mud. The rotting hands thrashed wildly at the air. The brick wall of our house cracked down the middle with a deafening boom. From the kitchen, the refrigerator crashed completely through the floorboards. Caleb heaved up the final rock and passed out cold in Chloe’s arms.
And then, from the bottom of the well, a new voice echoed up. It wasn’t mimicking anyone. It wasn’t male or female. It was a deep, tectonic rumble that vibrated in my teeth, like the earth itself was speaking.
“The first one is missing.”
Mom stopped praying. She sat up in the mud, her jaw hanging open. “The first what?” she whimpered.
The entity answered, using my exact voice: “The firstborn daughter.”
Nobody needed to explain who it meant. Me.
Instantly, the floodwaters reversed. The water didn’t drain back into the hole—it violently rushed toward the house, ripping the back door off its hinges, like the well was hunting me. The yard was left coated in foul mud, river stones, and deep gouges from human fingernails.
Chloe staggered to her feet, hauling the unconscious kid over her shoulder. “We have to run. Now.”
“Run where?!” I screamed. “We’re just leaving this open?!”
Mom didn’t move. She was staring at the muddy rim of the well. “Mom, get up!” I yelled.
She slowly raised a trembling finger, pointing at the sludge near the broken edge. Half-buried in the muck, right where the creature had been standing, was a silver necklace. It wasn’t her heart locket. It was a tiny, rusted chain with a small teddy bear charm.
My lungs completely locked up. I had that exact same necklace. I lost it when I was six years old. The night I fell down the old abandoned well two streets over, playing hide-and-seek. The night everyone swore my dad pulled me out just in time. The night I have absolutely zero memory of.
The primordial voice echoed from the well one last time. It was using my voice again. But it was the high-pitched, innocent voice of a terrified six-year-old girl.
“You took a really long time to come back.”
