Chapter 3: The Well That Hungers

“Ahhhhhh! Murder! There’s been a murder!”

The scream cut through the room like a knife. I jumped to my feet, heart pounding. The air felt electric, like a storm was about to break.

It echoed off the marble, bouncing around the room until it felt like the walls themselves were crying. I felt my skin crawl.

I jumped up. A girl about my age, in a nightgown with her hair all over the place, came running down the stairs. Her face was pale, eyes bloodshot and wild.

She looked like she hadn’t slept in days—cheeks hollow, lips trembling. Her bare feet slapped against the steps, leaving faint prints on the marble.

Before I could react, several members of the staff rushed in and restrained her.

They moved fast, practiced—like this wasn’t the first time. The girl fought them, but she was no match for the two burly men. Her cries echoed in my ears.

The man’s face darkened.

He clenched his jaw, eyes cold. "What are you doing? You can’t even keep an eye on one person? Get her back to her room. Let her rest!"

His voice cracked like a whip, and the staff scrambled to obey.

“Yes, sir.”

They quickly led the girl up the stairs. She didn’t scream again, just stared at the floor. The nightgown dragged behind her, dirty at the hem. I watched her go, feeling a strange sense of dread.

Strangely, when she saw me, she stopped screaming and struggling. Instead, she gave me a cold, flat stare that made my skin crawl.

Her eyes were sharp, almost accusing. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the drafty house. She was watching me, really watching.

This girl was trouble. She was definitely more than she seemed.

I made a mental note to keep my distance. There was something about her that set my nerves on edge. I didn’t want to get mixed up in whatever her story was.

“Your daughter…?” I started. Normally, I wouldn’t pry into someone else’s family business, but this house was too strange—I had to ask.

I tried to keep my tone gentle, but the question hung heavy in the air. The silence stretched between us.

The man let out a heavy sigh.

He looked suddenly older, shoulders slumping. "Since you’ve seen it, I won’t hide it from you."

He hesitated, glancing at Clarissa for support. She just nodded, lips pressed tight. They looked like they were carrying a weight neither could put down.

“Ever since the maids fell into the well, all sorts of strange things have started happening.”

His voice dropped even lower. "Doors slam in the night, lights flicker, and sometimes we hear voices—crying, pleading."

“Late at night, there are strange noises in the yard. My daughter’s been losing her mind, babbling nonsense.”

Clarissa dabbed at her eyes with a silk handkerchief. "She wakes up screaming, says she sees things crawling out of the well."

“We brought in a preacher. He said the dead in the well haven’t been laid to rest, and their angry spirits are causing trouble. I had no choice but to find you online.”

He looked at me, hope flickering in his eyes. "We tried prayer, salt, everything. Nothing worked."

I listened, my expression growing serious.

I leaned forward, hands clasped. This was no ordinary job, and I could feel the weight of it settling on my shoulders. I tried to steady my breathing.

If the preacher was right, this was going to be a real problem.

The stories Grandpa told about restless spirits came rushing back. I tried to remember every warning, every bit of advice. I could almost hear his voice in my head.

I might have inherited the skills to fish out bodies, but exorcisms were not my specialty.

I’d seen enough to know when I was out of my depth. This was the kind of job you called in a priest for, not a body fisher. My hands started to tremble.

I could handle drowned corpses from rivers, but ghosts… that was out of my league.

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady. "I’m no ghost hunter," I thought.

“Why didn’t you tell me all this before?” I asked, keeping my voice flat.

My patience was wearing thin. I didn’t like being blindsided. My jaw clenched.

“I… I was afraid you wouldn’t come if I told you.”

He looked genuinely ashamed, twisting his wedding ring with trembling fingers. I almost felt sorry for him.

“Please, I’m begging you! I’ll pay whatever you want!”

His voice cracked, and for a second, I saw the fear behind the bravado. He was desperate, maybe even scared for his own soul. His hands shook.

He was nearly in tears, ready to drop to his knees.

Clarissa put a hand on his shoulder, her own eyes shining with unshed tears. The room felt heavy with unspoken things. I felt the weight of their hope settle on me.

I sighed to myself. I could wait, but Grandpa’s illness couldn’t. In our line of work, once you take a job, you see it through. You don’t bail.

I remembered Grandpa’s words—"When the river calls, you answer."

“Fine. Take me to the well.”

I stood up, trying to project more confidence than I felt. The man nodded, relief flooding his face. Clarissa squeezed his hand.

He led me to the backyard. In the center stood the ancient well.

The grass was patchy, the earth around the well bare and cracked. Even the birds seemed to avoid it, the air thick with the smell of old stone and something darker. The whole place felt wrong.

Just one look, and my heart skipped a beat.

The well felt wrong—like it was waiting for me. My palms started to sweat, but I forced myself to keep moving. I took a deep breath, steeling myself.

This well was nothing like any I’d seen before.

Most wells were narrow, lined with brick. This one was massive, ringed with moss and spiderwebs, the stone slick with age. It looked ancient and hungry.

The mouth was huge—ten feet across. Eight stone pillars circled it, each with a thick iron chain as wide as a wrist, stretching down into the darkness below. The chains were rusted, clearly over a century old.

The pillars were carved with strange symbols, worn smooth by wind and rain. The chains clinked softly, swaying in the breeze like they were breathing. I shivered.

“This is the well,” the man said, standing fifteen feet away. They didn’t dare come closer, their faces stiff with fear.

Clarissa clung to the man’s arm, knuckles white. I could see their breath in the air, even though it wasn’t that cold. Their eyes were wide, locked on the well.

I tried to steady my nerves, reminding myself that fear was just another part of the job. I clenched my fists, took another breath.

I’d seen plenty of corpses in my time. I walked right up and peered inside. My heart hammered in my chest.

The edge was slick, and I had to brace myself to keep from slipping. The darkness inside seemed to swallow the light. I leaned over, careful not to fall in.

The well was pitch black. Every so often, a deep, gurgling sound echoed up, like something was churning below.

It sounded almost alive, like the river itself was breathing. My skin crawled.

A second later, a wave of stench hit me so hard I staggered back, gagging. My stomach churned, my head spinning. I covered my mouth, trying not to throw up.

It was like a thousand dead things rotting in the sun, mixed with the sharp tang of rust and old water. I doubled over, fighting the urge to throw up. My eyes watered.

I knew the smell of corpses—bodies rotting in water give off a stench that seems almost alive, creeping into your nose and lingering for days.

But this was different—thicker, heavier. It clung to my skin, seeping into my clothes. My stomach lurched.

It was the kind of stench that makes you question your life choices. I wiped my mouth, trying to clear my head. I wondered if I should’ve just stayed home.

“Has it always smelled this bad?” I asked, pinching my nose.

I glanced back at the couple, hoping for some kind of explanation. Maybe they could tell me what the hell was going on here.

“Bad? I don’t smell anything. Clarissa, do you?”

The man looked genuinely confused, and Clarissa shook her head, eyes wide. Whatever was in that well, it seemed I was the only one who could sense it.

Whatever was down there wanted me, not them.