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The Well of Dry Days

A modern gothic horror story

By Michael DarvallPublished 3 years ago 9 min read
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The Well of Dry Days
Photo by Iza Gawrych on Unsplash

“The vendor says you should bull-doze the barn immediately,” the real estate agent said, “it’s not safe and houses vermin. They were going to but had to leave quickly.”

Dale just nodded as he took the house keys from her.

“Well, congratulations on your purchase.” They shook hands and she drove off in her compact BMW. Dale turned and surveyed the property – his property. A square house of beaten weatherboard with a red roof dominated the five acre lot. Towards the back, half hidden by bush, a long barn of rough timber posts and grey corrugated iron leaned by the fence, the whole structure skewed off square, as if a giant hand had shoved it from one side, trying to push it over.

“They’re right,” thought Dale, “that thing’s an accident just waiting for me. I’ll get onto Jordy tomorrow and book some dozer time.” The late setting sun cast gold light across the aging house, but seemed to only deepen the shadows around the barn, and fell chill on the grey iron. Dale turned to go inside, then paused in after-thought; if Jordy was free tomorrow then the barn would be dozed before he could explore it, and you never knew what previous owners might have abandoned; treasures forgotten through familiarity or haste. He grabbed a small torch from his car and headed towards the barn.

The door was stiff. He wrenched it open with a squeal of protesting hinges. Inside seemed cool after the sweaty summer heat, but the heavy air was clammy rather than soothing. He tracked the thin LED beam along the wall to his right. Ancient farm tools, artifacts of bygone manual toil, lined the wall on neat pegs; long handled scythes, shears, adzes and axes. Though neatly arranged, the tool heads were heavily rusted, some into unrecognizable lumps. Along the left wall were decrepit work benches, worm-eaten and useless. Ahead he could see the barn was divided roughly in two, with a half height wall running cross ways and a mezzanine above; likely a hay store.

An empty doorway in the middle of the dividing wall spilled sullen, grey darkness across the floor and from it Dale heard a skittering shuffle. He startled for an instant, then recalled the comment about vermin; probably a cat or fox, certainly larger than a rat. He heard the shuffle again. Definitely bigger than a rat, and probably bigger than a fox. From the tool rack, he lifted a long shovel handle with no spade head, then, emboldened by his makeshift staff, advanced on the doorway.

What Dale heard next was not vermin. It was a footstep. And another. And another; shuffling footsteps from the darkness.

“Stop there! Who are you?” The footsteps paused, then resumed without answer.

“Who are you?” trembled Dale, “you’ve nothing to fear, just tell me who you are.” He stepped back as the steps grew louder, closer. Then they stopped. Dale peered with his torch held up, but the light seemed to suck away from the doorway and blur, as if through fog.

“Who are you?!”

“Ish…tee.”

“What was that? Come into the light!”

“Ersh-tee”

Dale advanced, his makeshift staff thrust before him. Gradually, his torch’s light eked through the portal and washed across a figure, which turned away and shielded its eyes. The emaciated form was swaddled in rags and a battered cloth hat was crammed on its head, pulled down to the eyeline.

“Thirs…tee. Thirsty,” it whispered.

Dale backed up another step, “Just… just wait here. I’ll grab you a drink.” He backed out of the barn keeping the torch towards the figure. Once outside he hurried to his car. He always kept a full water bottle in the centre console. he reached in to grab it and flicked on the headlights, thankful the car was facing the barn. Turning back, he saw the figure standing in the entrance.

“Thirsty!” it croaked, louder now; Dale could hear from across the yard.

“Ok, ok. Here’s your drink,” he strode back, with the bottle in one hand and shovel handle in the other, the torch awkwardly between two fingers. Pale, evening shadows bounced and jumped around his torchlight. The figure stepped back from the light, into the deepening gloom of the barn. Dale could just discern the figure waving him in.

“No way, mate. Here’s your damned drink.”

“Thirsty…” it whimpered, and turned away as if pained, “thirsty”.

“Uh, well,” Dale paused, it didn’t look that big, and Dale had his staff, “Ok, I’m coming in. No silly stuff, right.” He stepped forward and the figure retreated, motioning him, staying several steps ahead.

“Can’t be that bloody thirsty.”

“Thirsty,” the figure nodded, and waved Dale forward. It was a curious wave, a circular motion of the arm with the hand making smaller circles. The intensely pale hand contrasted with the dark ragged sleeve, seeming to float in the peri-darkness. Dale couldn’t help but watch it. Without thinking he stepped forward, following the pale, dancing hand. “Thirsty,” the sibilant hiss sang in curious counter-rhythm to the waving arm.

Dale followed through the interior door, into the second room. The darkness pressed in from every side, squeezing him and thinning his torchlight. And still the dancing hand beckoned him, to the very end of the barn. Then it abruptly stopped. “Thirsty!”

With a start, Dale broke from the fugue and lifted his staff defensively, “What the hell?”

“Thirsty. Thirsty. Thirsty.” The voice rasped in echoes of itself, and the figure gestured towards the back, dimmest corner of the room. Dale kept his light on the figure, “What do you want me here for?”

“Thirsty,” again the figure gestured to the corner. Dale risked a glance at the corner, making out a dim form, before flicking his eyes back to the figure. It stayed put and motioned again. Dale cautiously shuffled towards the corner, keeping watch on the figure, which remained motionless. After several steps he turned the torchlight to the corner, to a scene that made no sense.

A wheel, an enormous wagon wheel, three paces across, lay on the floor. Atop it was the outline of a person’s clothes, as if someone lay spread-eagled – no – not just clothes. There were bones, he saw now, bones! Jutting from cuffs of decaying shirt and trousers, and there, that lump was a skull. He leaned forward to peer at the skull. A thin skein of leather, now rotting away, had once bound the skull to the wheel. And there, at each ankle and wrist, thicker bands bound the skeleton still to the wheel.

“Thirsty,” the voice by his ear made him jump and turn to face the figure, now right next to him.

“Get away! Get away!” he jabbed his staff at the figure which swayed out of the way and shuffled back unharmed.

“Thirsty.” It gestured towards the skeleton.

“Sod that, I’m out of here.”

“Thirsty!” The figure slid in front of him barring his exit, and as he jabbed the staff, again it twisted and swayed out of the path of the blow effortlessly. “Thirsty,” it hissed, and gestured to the skeleton.

“All right, all right. I’ll give it the drink. Just leave me alone!” Dale whirled, uncapped the bottle and squeezed a stream of water at the skull, aiming as best he could in the frail light. He heard more than saw the water spatter across the skeleton and onto the skull. There was a sudden pressure against his head, compressing from every angle, that bowed his head and almost drove him to his knees. A rattly breath came from the wheel. Forcing his eyes up, Dale saw the skull whip forward, a dull, smoky light filled the eye sockets, and with a scream like razors it vomited liquid at him; a rancid, festering stream that filled his nostrils with the stink of hate and loathing. The torch exploded, showering Dale with broken fragments and instant darkness and he reeled back, stunned, and tumbled backwards onto the floor.

And in his ear hissed, a breath, a whisper, a promise; “Thirsty.”

Dale scrabbled backwards, crabbing across the floor, vainly turning his head in the dark, until his back slammed into a wall. To his left was just the vaguest tint of light – a slightly paler darkness. Scrambling, he made for the opening into the outer room, where starlight mocked him at the exit. Tripping and stumbling, he hurried out the door towards the house, past his car which was a dark shape. The headlights were gone and he smelt ozone and burnt plastic. Up to the house, fumbling with the keys, he frantically scrabbled at the lock until the right key twisted and he burst inside, slamming and bolting the door behind him. He crumpled, sobbing to the floor, and curled into a ball; conscious thought fled and he sank into blessed insensibility.

Cool sunlight raked his face and roused him. A moment’s confusion was followed by an influx of scatter-gun memories. Shadows and images played across his mind’s eye in a monochrome harlequin of madness. This was surely not true, could not be true. The bold sun washed away the doubts and fears. He would go into that barn this morning, in true light, and see what was really there. After he called Jordy. But the phone he fished from his pocket was smashed, and more than smashed, it looked as if it had erupted. Dale grunted in frustration, now he’d have to drive into town to buy a new phone. First though, he washed his face clear of the muck from last night, downing several mouthfuls to clear the sticky morning taste from his mouth.

The car wouldn’t start. Dale slapped his hand against the steering wheel and cursed. A brief inspection had shown the headlights were blown out, scattering glass across the yard. And now he had no doubt what he would find when he lifted the bonnet – and his fears were well founded; the wiring was melted and fused, or burnt away completely leaving a malodorous fume. The smell caught in his throat and he guzzled water to clear it, but the taint remained. He jammed the bottle in his pocket then turned to glare at the barn.

Suddenly he straightened and strode into the barn. Sunlight filtered through cracks and seams in the building, speckling the floor and walls. Dale yanked a hammer from the rack, then charged into the second room, and if he met the figure, so be it. But there was no figure waiting for him, only a pile of old clothes, but in the corner, the wagon wheel remained. And its gruesome occupant was still strapped in place. Standing over it, Dale paused to gulp water from his bottle.

“Right you bastard,” he raised the hammer high and crashed it down on the skull. Instantly, he collapsed, clutching his head, vision swimming. He heard a creaking laugh and looked up to see the unblemished skull writhing slowly. The madness filled his sight, but despite the horrific vision, and the pain piercing his own skull, his chief thought was the vile taste growing in his mouth. Desperately he drained the last of his water, but nothing changed, the taste seemed to suck moisture away from his lips, suck the moisture from his body. His mouth was sickeningly dry. He scrambled up and ran for the door, the nearest tap was in the house and he knew the minute’s run would be agonizing. He sprinted towards the exit, thankful the door was open. He leaped over the door-jam; and slammed into an invisible wall, a bright burst of pain exploded in his face and hurled him backwards, into the barn.

He knelt staring at the doorway hopelessly, balled his fists and screamed. But no scream emerged, just a dry croak that dwindled to a desiccated whisper; and from the other room, an answering skeletal chuckle mocked his eternal despair.

supernatural
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About the Creator

Michael Darvall

Quietly getting on with life and hopefully writing something worth reading occasionally.

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