You should feel safe in your own home. It’s the one place you should always feel safe. After a stressful day at work; Before that date you’ve been anxious about; Even whilst you’re crying in bed, that’s not because you don’t feel safe. It’s quite the opposite - You have those outbursts there because it’s where you feel safest. To have anything invalidate that feeling is an insult. Safety makes up that line between a house and a home.
My husband had an accident recently. Nobody knows what caused it, and nobody can ask him, because he still hasn’t woken up. He’s in the hospital in stable condition, but the doctors aren’t sure if he will ever open his eyes again. I found him unconscious on the kitchen floor a week ago, with blood coming from his lower leg. He’s estimated to have been there for a few hours - I woke up that morning without him in my arms, and went straight downstairs to find him.
We’ve called this place our home for a little over 3 years. We fell in love with it immediately when seeing pictures online, and that love only got further cemented during our viewing. 5 bedrooms, 3 bathrooms, a spacious living room… and a 1-acre garden. We thought moving here would be the best decision of our lives.
This is not somewhere we would usually be able to afford. My husband said it’s best to just accept that we got a good deal, but I decided to do research before letting myself get too comfortable with the idea of moving here. The price we got it for seemed too good. I expected to find out that the area was horrible to live in, or even that the home wasn’t up to some safety standards and would need to be demolished and rebuilt. Instead, I only found that it was constructed in the 1800s as a pub, with a short life as a bakery and a hotel, before officially becoming a residential building.
The pub also explains the well in the kitchen.
The previous owner told us he discovered the well whilst having work done on the flooring. It was mostly filled in, but he decided to incorporate it into the design. He spoke to the contractors, changed the plan, and they started work on emptying the well without damaging the old brickwork of the walls. In the middle of our kitchen, below a crystal-clear circle of tempered glass, is a 1800s pitch-black well. No, we do not know how deep it goes. The bottom is never visible.
Before finalising the purchase, I directly asked the previous homeowner why he was selling the place for such a low amount of money, and his response was heartbreaking.
“I’m old. Too old to be walking up and down these stairs. I haven’t used the second floor in a year; I sleep in the downstairs bedroom. I don’t have a family to help me out, or even to pass this place on to. You think you want a big home, until the responsibilities get too much…”
We’ve always loved this home, and it’s even allowed us to explore new hobbies. One of the first things my husband did was set up a beautiful flower bed outside. I had never known him to have such a green thumb in the past, but he seemed to really enjoy it. The outside of our home became full of life - Every colour in the rainbow was visible somewhere or other. It became beautiful. I always told him how proud of him I was, and he’d always tell me that the secret was cat food. Every week he’d buy the same huge bag of cat food - Not for a cat, we don’t even have one. Apparently, his dad taught him that it was the best fertilizer. It made me laugh; it sounded ridiculous, but something worked right - Those flowers bloomed all year round.
Last week was my first night alone without my husband in years. I thought I wouldn’t get any sleep, but after the exhausting day I had, I actually fell asleep faster than ever. That miracle was short-lived, however, as I woke up in the night to a booming crash. Thunder echoed all throughout the house. It spoke to the mood I was in - The universe didn’t seem to want me to have just one peaceful night.
The next morning I walked back to the hospital to see my husband. I expected a sludgy, mucky walk, but I was willing to go through it all to see him. Instead, I was met with dry, warm ground. There was no evidence of the storm I had heard loudly visiting the neighbourhood. I didn’t think much of it at the time. When I got back to the house that day, I found myself with especially little to do. Without him I felt less than empty - I felt like I didn’t exist. I was so used to having someone else around the house that the lack of it is simply wrong. I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the well for the longest time. He always loved it. It was his go-to show-off when we had people around for any type of occasion. It’s ironic, really, that it’s where I found him passed out. Even the ambulance driver asked me about it, as if we weren’t rushing to the hospital to help my dying husband. I suppose if a centrepiece is interesting enough, people truly can’t help but make conversation.
The next night, the thunder happened again. Louder and longer this time. In fact, it was the loudest I had ever heard it, and the feeling of terror seemed to loom around long after the noise died down. It was akin to thunder from hell, rather than the thunder from the heavens we are used to. It was whilst I was laying there, eyes open (yet still trying to get to sleep), that I realised - There was no light. Not a single flash from any kind of lightning. Those bedroom windows remained as dark as void. I decided to check the weather… “Cold, Slightly cloudy”…
This cycle repeated. I felt like I was going insane. Like clockwork, every night, the same cycle, the same cycle, the same cycle. It got stronger with each night. I spoke to neighbours; doctors at the hospital; friends on the phone. I’d always bring the thunder up in conversation. None of them had heard anything that night, or any night recently. I chalked it up to them sleeping through it, but I think deep down, I knew there was something more sinister going on.
Yesterday, my mind seemed to decide that it was time to be active around the house again. I cleaned the dishes that were piling up, emptied the bins, and decided I should tend to my husband’s flowers. I was surprised that they weren’t wilting already, yet happy to see so. It gave me a funny feeling that he was still around, taking care of them whenever I wasn’t looking. I got emotional as I looked at them, cat food bag at my feet. I wasn’t sure how to do this, as I had never actually watched him do it. I knelt down to smell them - They always smelt so beautiful. When the breeze hit just right you could catch their scent from surprisingly far away. Yet, this time, nothing. No beautiful smell. Just nothing. Was my sadness running so deep that I had forgotten how to experience beauty? I extended a hand out to touch one. Plastic. I touched another, and felt the same thing. I ran around like an insane person, touching at least a few flowers from every single flower pot. All of them were plastic. Every single last one. His hobby had been a lie. I was almost angry, but all that emotion came out as tears, as I settled for just feeling empty. Why had he lied?
That night is when things took a turn. The thunder didn’t feel louder from the previous night, possibly because it couldn’t get much louder. I could hardly hear my own thoughts - I knew that until it ended, there was no chance of sleep. I decided to get a glass of water, a decision that changed everything. As I stepped down each step, the thunder seemed to somehow get louder.
step
BOOM
step
BOOM
step
BOOM
I stepped into the kitchen, and the noise stopped. I tensed up, bracing for the next crash to cut through the silence, yet the silence remained. Relieved, I flicked the light switch, to be met with more darkness. The bulb was busted, great. But at least the noise had stopped. Of course, I know my own house, so I made my way through the kitchen. The cold feeling of the glass at my feet confirmed that I was walking right over the well. As my feet made their way back onto the tiles, they hit something far too early. A tile seemed to be broken, or out of place, or upright. I couldn’t tell, and whilst I could get a glass of water in darkness, I could not deduce this foreign feeling without the light. So, I went to get the spare bulbs down in the basement.
Truth be told, I hadn’t been down there since we moved to the house. I never liked the spooky atmosphere, so I’d never go down alone, and there was never any reason to venture down together. But I had to, and thankfully, only the kitchen bulb needed replacing, so the basement was nice and bright. I had no plans to be down there long, I just quickly searched for the bulbs. But as I grabbed one, something caught my eye.
Perfume. Lots of perfume. Boxes and boxes of them, none of them mine, and to my knowledge, none of them my husband’s. Curiously, I sprayed one in the air and smelt it. I was instantly transported to the flower beds - This bottle smelt exactly like the ones outside our front door. So, I grabbed another bottle… This one smelt like the ones near our kitchen window. The next, like the ones at the front gate. This is why I was always able to smell scents from the fake flowers. He had been playing me for a fool. But why?
Against my instinct, I decided to look around the basement a little more. I discovered a wooden box, with a label. “The Well Diaries.” It was locked.
I discovered a collection of 6 framed photos. Each of them contained different people standing at the well. The first was dated 1910, with a man and a woman, and the well wide open. This was the year this building became a house, as the hotel seized operation. The next photo was dated 1920, and the third was 1935. These had a metal grate covering the well. 1952 showed the well now with tempered glass. This confused me, as it was my understanding that the previous owner discovered it and had the glass put there… The photo of 1971 showed that previous owner - The old man we had purchased this house from. He was younger looking; Happier looking. He stood on the glass of the well. The final photo, 2020, showed my husband. By himself. I had no idea this photo existed, who even took it?
My husband had been lying to me about the flowers. The old man had lied to us about the well. I wasn’t sure what to think.
I focused on my original goal and headed back for the kitchen. In my confusion, I had forgotten to turn off the light, as the new bulb immediately turned as it screwed in. The almost blinding brightness isn’t what startled me. It was the face I could now see under the glass of the well, staring at me.
It was still hardly visible in the darkness of the well, but I could clearly see two eyes and an outstretched mouth. At first, I was too shocked to notice one of the kitchen tiles open like a trapdoor, with a small chute that seemed to go into the well. The passage was far too small to enter, but it was covered in cat food. I only snapped out of my state when I saw 2 fingers slowly make their way out of the chute, as the face continued to stare right through me.
I ran. I ran faster than you’re imagining right now - I ran faster than I ever have in my life. I ran and I ran, and when I couldn’t run anymore, I ran anyway. I ended up at the hospital. I’m sitting now, with my husband, still shaking. What the fuck was that thing? I’m scared to go back to that house.
Thinking back, I wish had broken open that wooden box to see what the diaries said. But perhaps if I had stayed long enough to read them, I wouldn’t still be here right now.
As I sit here, clutching my husband’s hand, I keep thinking back to what the old man told me.
“You think you want a big home, until the responsibilities get too much…”