There was only one way of finding out. Very slowly, I placed one foot in front of the other and made my way through the trees to the well. I listened intently for any sound – humming, singing, or whispering, but all I could hear was the sound of the wind, my own shallow breathing, and the snap of twigs beneath my boots. Within touching distance of the well, I stopped. I looked about. The well was at the top of a small hill. To my right I could see the road which led to Michael’s farm – the road where I had killed those people. On my left and through the trees I could see the farmhouse itself. From where I stood, it looked small and squat, tired and old. Its black slate roof glimmered wetly in the drizzle which had now started to fall. Apart from the barn with the busted lock, I could see another nearby. From my vantage point on top of the hill, this barn didn’t look as worn down as the one Michael’s father had claimed to have been broken into.
Sensing that I was alone, I turned my attention back to the well. From where I was standing, I couldn’t tell if it was the well I had seen in my dreams or not. I had never seen it from this viewpoint; I had always been at the bottom of it. But there was something familiar. Hadn’t I been lost in a small crop of trees the very first time I had dreamt about it? Hadn’t I been chased through trees, where I had fallen backwards down into the well? With gooseflesh scampering down my back, over my arms and legs, I stepped towards the edge of the well. Half expecting to see the girl, the old man or both staring up at me from the bottom, I closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. With my heart pounding in my ears, and legs feeling like jelly, I dared to open my eyes and peer down into the well.
Chapter Sixteen
It was dark inside. I couldn’t even see the bottom. Taking my torch from my pocket, I switched it on. Casting a beam of white light into the well, I saw the grey stone walls. Were they the same walls I had seen in my dream? I couldn’t be sure. They were covered in slimy green patches of moss, but what did that mean? Wouldn’t all dank, dark wells be covered in the stuff? I listened intently. Was there any sound which I could connect to my nightmare? All I could hear was the Plink! Plink! Plink! of dripping water. I splashed the light from my torch down the length of the walls. It was so dark inside; even with the glow from my torch it was difficult to see anything. I pressed my legs flat against the side of the well. I leaned forward so my top half was hanging over the lip, my arm dangling out before me, hand gripping the torch. Something glistened back at me. What was it? Was there someone in the bottom? Was it the girl? The old man?
With my heart in my throat, I leant forward further still, aiming the cone of light from my torch into the bottom of the well. Screwing my eyes almost shut, I peered into the gloom. There was water, black, dark and oily-looking at the bottom. I had been standing in a foot of water in my nightmare. Hang on – there was something! The torchlight reflected off it as it moved from side to side at the bottom of the well. With my heart racing and beginning to feel sick with dread, I knew I had found the well – the well I had fallen into in my nightmare – the well with the singing girl and whispering man at the bottom of it. Bobbing to and fro in the black water at the bottom was the bottle I had seen in my dream, and it looked as if there was a folded piece of paper inside.
A hand gripped my shoulder and I screamed. I gripped the edge of the well with my free hand. My scream echoed down into the deep hole and back again, sounding shrill and ear-piercing. I span around, holding my torch high above my head like a weapon and looked straight into the face of Michael.
“What are you doing?” he asked, looking surprised to see me.
“What the freaking hell are you doing?” I gasped, my voice still sounding high-pitched and frightened. “You scared the hell out of me!”
“Sorry,” he said, placing a hand on my shoulder as if to calm me. “What are you doing all the way out here?”
What could I say? I’ve been having nightmares about a girl who sings Police songs while trapped at the bottom of a well? I didn’t think so. So, I said, “I was getting tired of sitting at home and staring at the four walls.”
“So you thought you’d like some company,” Michael said, taking me by the hand and guiding me away from the well.
“I guess,” I said, smiling at him.
“You’re freezing,” he said, rubbing my hand in his. “Let’s go and warm you up.”
“I know your idea of warming me up,” I half-smiled at him.
“Sorry,” he said, winking back at me, “the old man’s at home. There’s always the barn?”