The Black Letter

Chapter 4: Nightmare in the Well

John's mind teetered on the brink of consciousness—was it an hour? Two? His head throbbed viciously, a relentless, burning pain that seared through his thoughts.

His eyes refused to open, squinting against a glaring light that felt as if it wanted to broil him alive. Every joint in his body ached terribly, moving a finger was like touching a hot stove.

Where was he? Surely, he hadn't crossed over to the other side yet? As his senses grudgingly began to rally, a faint, cool fragrance tickled his nose—flowers? Maybe. The scent brought him a slice of reality, and he dared to open his eyes, immediately shielding them from the hateful glare.

Sunlight. It must have been a brilliant, sunny day.

Above him, clouds like soft cotton balls drifted lazily across the sky, a serene scene that mocked his predicament. But his view was terribly limited.

It hit him—he was at the bottom of a well!

The confines were narrow, his body contorted uncomfortably against the cold, hard stone. Fortunately, the well was dry; otherwise, he might have never opened his eyes again.

Shifting slightly, John winced at the sharp pain that shot through him, deciding it best to stay still for a moment. He sucked in a deep breath, steadying himself, his mind racing with questions.

He remembered taking a boat to an island, jumping off, and then...those eyes under the water, the woman's eyes. He was attacked from behind while gazing into her face.

But why? Was it because he saw her face? Who could have attacked him? Was it the boatman? Tom? The fat man? The young lady? The middle-aged woman, or the ten-year-old girl?

John let out a wry chuckle—none of it made sense. If the boatman wanted him dead, why bring him to an island? And if it were any of the others, why attack in plain sight? And all of them together... impossible, they barely knew each other, and had no motive.

Deciding against further futile speculation, John moistened his dry, sticky lips, tasting blood—the tangy, metallic flavor confirmed his suspicions.

"Hello? Is anyone there?" His voice was hoarse, echoing briefly in the well, sounding feeble and distant.

"Hello—can anyone hear me?" He shouted louder this time, pleased with the volume though it returned only his echo.

It seemed no one was coming to his rescue. Disheartened, John closed his eyes, perhaps ready to accept his fate in this forsaken well.

The scent of roses stirred him from his reverie.

He looked up; the sky had darkened, and stars beginning to twinkle, signalling the end of the day.

"Damn, how long was I out?" John shifted, ignoring the lingering pain. He did not want to die in this well. With considerable effort, he propped himself up, grateful his bones were intact, only superficial injuries marred his skin.

The well walls, damp and slimy with moss, made John's skin crawl. He tried not to focus on the revolting feeling.

"Hello, can anyone hear me?" His voice was slightly strained, a sharp reminder of his dehydration.

"I've fallen into a well; can someone help me?" His energy was fading; he sighed, a mix of frustration and resignation lacing his breath.

Was someone actually out to kill him? If so, why were his injuries so minor? If not, why throw him into a well?

John couldn't puzzle it out, no matter how hard he tried.

But now, hunger overtook his thoughts; the slight saliva on his tongue reminding him just how dire his situation was.