The Legend of the Well

By Amelia and Daniel

There was a legend about the old well in the garden. To tell you this legend however, first I have to tell you about the house. The house is empty. The green-brown-yellow paint peels more with each rainy day, the ivy climbing a little higher every spring. The house isn’t for sale, it never has been, but nobody dares to live in it. Somehow, mist always covers the ground near the well, giving the property an eerie carpet. The moss grows thick on the well, not the soft kind, but the tough stuff that’s impossible to get off, deep green clumps between sodden gray stones. It’s a miracle the well is still standing, given the ivy crawling up one side like a snake. It pulls at the stones, but something odd pulls them together. 

The house is empty. If one were to walk inside, they would see the house perfectly clean. Dust doesn't dare settle here, spiders never cross the threshold, and nobody enters. If one were to survive the house long enough to get to the back room, they would see a small bed, not yet claimed by time and rot, neatly made. They would see a porcelain plate, with a few crumbs still left on its tarnished white surface, seemingly left yesterday. A broom sits in the corner, the only thing with a film of dust. 

The person would wonder why the bed is still warm, why the ink in the pot on the desk is still wet. They would then see a figure in the doorframe, pale and thin. Their hair falls in matted clumps at their shoulders, and their nails are long and broken. They are the guardian of this place, eternally bound to these peeling walls. If one were to hear them speak they would hear a soft rasp. But the guardian hasn't spoken in 100 years, their voice unused and untrained. It might be a gift for the guardian to finally have someone to talk to. But the guardian doesn't remember anyone but themself. 

If one were to enter the garden and peer into the depths of the well, they would see a silvery substance, almost like water. Some may think it's fog, but it glows with otherworldly iridescence, with blinking lights like far away stars. Looking into the well is like peering into the farthest depths of the cosmos. The mossy walls of the well would be covered in dew and bits of stone, looking as if they would fall off with the slightest touch. But no one would get that far. The guardian would do away with them first. 

The guardian is a giant, tending silently to the well in the garden without a sound. Nobody has ever seen the guardian, except those who have intruded, and they never make it out whole. The garden is a living thing, hungry and terrifying. Those who enter always leave with something missing, may it be part of their sanity, or a few of their limbs, or themself entirely. Those who enter the garden feel drawn to the well, some think it whispers to them, others have no idea. But they all gravitate towards it. Occasionally one gets in sight of the well, but this doesn't last for long, a whoosh and then their body lays on the ground, with a tall figure standing behind it. 

The plants in the garden are none that anyone has ever seen before, each plant is a corpse and each one looks like that person's soul. There are exactly 63 corpses in the garden, and there have been exactly 64 visitors. The one that managed to get past the towering guardian and the garden of horrors. The only explanation is that the person made it to the well. Some might say the well does a better job of getting rid of people than the guardian, but unlike the well the guardian is merciful. But both get the job done. The things that await the visitors inside the well make the guardian look like a fuzzy bunny rabbit. 

If you are to enter the well you may find yourself falling, or you might find a solid bottom and a whole new world. Some enter because they think the well will make their dreams come true, and we call them delusional. The well grants wishes, at a cost. When one wishes for something, the bucket in the well brings it up to them, but the wisher goes insane. Only one person has gotten to the well, and excuse the pun; it did not go well. This is the story of that person.