After Brandt chewed my ear off about sports and the newest ghostly gossip, he drifted back to the house to watch EA and snatch a hefty piece of lemon cake with buttercream frosting mom had made from the kitchen.
Getting up was a bitch after the shit is scared out of you. Dusting off the back of my jeans, dirt caked in its pockets. A handful of leaves were fished out from the back of my head, tangled with my mess of hair. My leather was left on the rusty, old clothesline in the back.
After picking the rest of the twigs from my head, I approached a weathered water well, with a shabby, worn cover. Its bucket creaked from its dirty rope in the wind, clinking against the sides of the rock walls. The rocks felt damp and cool, and a smell of both mold and moisture filled my nostrils.
I took in the scents and breathed deep, closing my eyelids. Goosebumps and shivers found its way up and down my body, forcing me to open my eyes.
Tying the rope between my fingers and straddling the wall, I snugly place my feet in the bottom of the bucket. It moaned against my weight, but held me nonetheless. I let go of the slippery rocks and let myself fall into the well, tightly holding onto the rotted rope.
Darkness enveloped me, feeling its strong tug on my body. I landed with a thump and cautiously stepped onto the concrete floor, mossy and wet.
Leaning against a wall in the small chamber, I lean down and pull my camouflage Bic lighter out of my sneaker. It crackled to life, its faint light enough to make an outline of a dark green gas lantern hanging from a rusty hook crammed into a crack in the wall. Igniting the wick, the artificial gas light spills across the cavern, revealing a small, boarded room.
Two faded, red lawn chairs, and electric heater resting on faux turf, a stained folding table, a small mini fridge, and a wall of crucifixes decorated the place, resembling a small bungalow. Accompanying it all was a bright orange extension cord leading from the back of the fridge and up the enterance of the well, trailing to the back of the house.
Over the months, I added a couple books to the cracks in the rock, including To Kill a Mockingbird, a couple Kurt Cobain biographies, Playboy magazines, Stephen Kings The Green Mile series, and much more. Pine scented candles scattered around the room, lighting them as I go along.
With a diet cola from the fridge, I finger The Diary of Anne Frank from the crevices and plop into a lawn chair. Popping off the cap with my teeth, I took a long, well deserved chug.
Pulling a small drawstring above my head, a wooden hatch fell shut on the enterance of the well. Painted on the front are the words, Private Property.
Shrugging my shoulders, I cracked open my book to its dog eared page, 124. While skimming the page, I fished a pack of Marlboros from my shirt pocket, lighting it. Hard inhale, propping my leg on the fold out table.
I said a silent prayer that Brandt never found me down here, puffing fumes.
YOU ARE READING
Whispers Of The Damned
ÜbernatürlichesCarlyle Redson is the all around average-American teen. Average height, average weight, average IQ. High school was a breeze for him, with baseball, a social life, and girls, you'd think his life was a little too average. But, with some average stuf...
