I remember the first time I saw the old house. It was a rainy day, early in the New Year, when the sales agent drove me to the house. I thought it odd, this old house with its giant trees. Really old houses are rare enough these days, and this one looked like something from another time. The trees, there were many of them, seemed to cluster around the house, as if protecting it from the outside world. The stonework of the house also caught my interest: stonework that looked a thousand years old. The house was something that belonged in an ancient European town or village, not a modern suburb.
The agent answered my questions as he showed me around the ancient home, assuring me that all the modern conveniences had been provided for. The inside of the house had been completely restored only three years before, and the restoration had included updating as much of the house as was possible.
Needless to say I was satisfied with what I saw, and had started to consider a price, when the agent led me into the basement. This oldest part of the house had not been neglected in the restoration process, though most of the rooms were too small for anything but storage. There was one larger room in the basement, large enough to be considered as a spare bedroom, but I had no plans to use it as one. I had almost completed my inspection of the house when I noticed something that seemed strange.
In one of the smaller basement rooms a section of the floor seemed out of place. Looking closer, I discovered that a three-foot square in a shadowed corner of the room was a full three inches higher than the rest of the floor. This raised portion of floor would not have bothered me, except of the fact that it was covered by what looked like a steel plate; the kind of thing you might see in a road covering a utility access. This odd trapdoor, for lack of a better word, was locked down so it could not be raised. When I questioned the agent about the trapdoor he became slightly nervous in his reply.
The agent told me that several of the older houses in the area had wells in their basements. He shifted uncomfortably as he spoke, as if wishing to change the subject. The old houses had been built nearly two hundred years ago, he explained, going on to say that this had been frontier country then and that wild Indians had still roamed the area.
I doubted if the agent knew what he was talking about, but had the good manners not to say so. I wasn't bothered to learn that the agent did not have the key to the padlock on the trapdoor, or that he knew nothing about what was underneath. The house was nice enough, and the trapdoor seemed of little importance at the time. My primary concern was the asking price on the house, which I found much lower than I'd expected.
The explanation for the low price was simple, so the agent said. He was selling the house for the state. The former owner had been institutionalized and was in no condition to name his price.
After further questioning, I learned that the former owner had been hospitalized six months prior to my visit. He'd been found running through the nearby woods, screaming wildly at the rocks and trees. It was a sad story the way the agent told it, but had nothing to do with my decision to buy the house.
Looking back now, I should have walked, no, ran away. At the time, however, I didn't think that the trapdoor in the basement and the madness of the house's former owner could have anything to do with each other, or with me. I thought myself lucky to have found such a fine house, and at such a reasonable price. I wasn't interested in the history of the house, or its former owner, and that was a mistake.
You might wonder, as I do now, why I, a middle-aged man, would want a home in the suburbs. At the time, I wanted a place away from the crowded city and all the noise, people, and distractions that go with the city. I'm a writer by trade, and I've made a good life for myself, though I've never written anything that will be called a classic. When I bought the house I thought I might try writing something more than the weekly column, the occasional short piece for a magazine, or the satirical review. I thought I would try to write something that would become a classic, and I hoped that the solitude of a house away from the city would help me with my writing.
With thoughts of writing a great novel, or perhaps a collection of wonderful short stories, I settled into my new house. As I said, it was early in the New Year, and I had high hopes of finishing a first draft of my "great work before summer was gone. With any luck at all, my masterpiece would be published, or at least accepted, the following spring.
My first few weeks in the house went well enough, though I did little writing. I'm always surprised by how much time moving into a new house actually takes, and how much work it involves. I managed to scribble a few ideas down as I moved into my new home, but nothing of importance. Before I made any real effort to start writing, I'd been in the house for a month. I'd become used to the little noises the old house made, the sudden drafts that didn't seem to come from anywhere, and what I call the "feel of the house. Sadly, now that I was comfortable and ready to write, no ideas would come to me.
Most writers have experienced a block at one time or another, and I'm no different. I thought, at the time, that my ideas would return in a day or two and that I had nothing at all to worry about. Days, however, became weeks, and no ideas would come. What did come to me, in the darkest hours of the night, were dreams. Dreams so terrible and real that I can hardly describe them even now. Dreams so strange and grotesque at times that I wouldn't dare write them down, even if I had the words, fearing that someone might read what I had written and judge me insane.
I was disturbed by my dreams, and found myself unwilling to sleep, or at least, unwilling to sleep at night. I soon discovered that I had fewer dreams when I slept in daylight hours, but that was difficult as well. The house seemed so empty at night as I tried to stay awake, and all the little noises I thought myself accustomed to, began to annoy me more and more as time went by. There were even times when I left the house, taking a room in a nearby motel, just so I could sleep at night.
It was after one of these motel visits that my thoughts were drawn back to the trapdoor over the basement well. I was looking for some half written story, something I'd started years ago and never finished. I had stored several boxes of half written stories and ideas in the basement, more to get them out of the way than for any other reason. I was surprised, however, when I entered the little room with the trapdoor in it. I found that the boxes I had stacked so neatly on the trapdoor were now scattered violently across the floor.
Surprised is perhaps too calm a word. Shocked and upset would both be better words, and troubled and scared might be better still. After all, I had only stacked the boxes three high and two deep, but now the contents of the boxes were scattered. The loose papers were spread in such a way that I didn't really think falling boxes could be the reason for the mess. At first, I thought someone had broken into my house while I was away and had gone through these boxes looking for something of value. A quick inspection of the house proved, at least to me, that burglars were not my problem.
As I returned to the basement, and surveyed the mess in front of me, the idea of mice or even rats came to my mind. Mice would be too small to move the heavy boxes full of documents, but rats, well, I wasn't sure. I'd seen no sign of mice or rats while inspecting the house, or during my move, but they are elusive creatures and could easily have hidden from me. The trapdoor also suggested a possible entrance for such unwanted guests, but this idea was quickly proven wrong. I checked the trapdoor and the padlock that held it in place. The lock, while slightly rusted, was sound and strong. Even after making an attempt to lift the trapdoor, I was convinced that it would not lift even a fraction of an inch with the lock in place.
Slightly concerned by my failure to find any explanation for the fallen boxes, I repacked my papers and placed the boxes back on the trapdoor. I took the precaution this time of only stacking the boxes two high in case my ideas were wrong and the weight of the boxes was the actual explanation. With this done, the mystery was soon forgotten and I returned to my work. It was ten or twelve days later, after another night's stay away from home, that the trapdoor returned to my mind.
I don't remember why I went down to the basement room at the time. Perhaps some subconscious thought sent me there just to make sure the boxes were undisturbed. Whatever the reason, I once again found the boxes tossed aside and their contents scattered. Now I was concerned, and my whole mind searched for some reason that might explain the mess. As I stored my papers for a second time, my eyes continually wandered to the trapdoor. I simply could not explain what had happened, so once again I wondered if someone might have entered my house while I was away.
Convinced that the only explanation must be some mischievous stranger, someone who obviously had a key to the old house, I decided what to do. I was on the phone that afternoon, and early the next morning a locksmith was at my door. I had all of the outside locks changed, and then on a whim, I asked the smith about the padlock on the trapdoor.
The locksmith seemed interested when I explained about the trapdoor, and was impressed with the arrangement when I showed it to him. When I told him about the boxes that had seemed to be pushed off the trapdoor, the locksmith came up with an answer I would never have thought of. He suggested that temperature changes in the space under the trapdoor might be the cause of my problems. It seemed likely, at least according to the smith, that the steel plate would expand and contract depending on the changes in temperature in the well.
This explanation seemed reasonable enough, and when the locksmith offered to remove the old padlock so that we could get a look at the well, I quickly agreed. I did, however, make sure that the smith had a replacement lock in his truck before allowing him to remove the existing one. I don't know why I was concerned about replacing the lock at the time, but I'm glad now that I did.
It didn't take the smith long to remove the old lock, and together, we lifted the trapdoor and looked into the well. Surprise is not an adequate word to describe my feelings as we gazed into the darkness. Even the locksmith seemed stunned as we looked into the vast empty space under the trapdoor. Taking a small flashlight from his toolbox, the locksmith shined the beam into the abyss. Granted, the small flashlight would only be visible for ten or twelve feet, but its beam found nothing to reflect off of in the well. Even the walls of the well seemed to soak up the light that entered, and we were completely unable to see anything at all.
Somewhat shaken by the seemingly bottomless pit we were looking into, the locksmith quickly calculated my bill and made his exit. It seemed to me that he was exceptionally nervous as he left my house, and I can honestly say I understood why. Still, my own thoughts were more of amazed curiosity at the time, and certainly not fear.
Having no way of projecting a stronger beam of light into the well I replaced the trapdoor and put the new lock in place. I left the house, in search of the most powerful flashlight I could find, determined to find out how deep the basement well really was. I didn't believe the well could be terribly deep, so I had every confidence of success.
Returning that afternoon with a portable floodlight that claimed on the box to have one million candle power, I was convinced that the bottom of the well would now be easily visible to me. I took my time with the new light, making sure that its batteries were fully charged before making any attempt to use it. Curiosity got the best of me, however, so instead of leaving the light to charge over night, I remained awake until near midnight. Checking the floodlight's power by shinning it into the low hanging clouds from the front door of my house, I had every reason to be confident of success.
It was difficult to lift the trapdoor by myself that night, and I dropped it a few times with loud clanging slaps before managing to get it all the way open. A cold almost icy breeze came up from the black abyss in front of me, which seemed to confirm the locksmith's ideas about temperature changes. Without taking time to consider where the breeze might be coming from, I turned on my new light, aiming the beam into the darkness.
Fear seemed to grip me as I looked into the empty and formless void below me. I could clearly see the beam of light for the first six or seven feet of the decent, but nothing more. It looked as if the well was bottomless, swallowing up my light like some terrible midnight creature from my darkest dreams. I tried moving the light to the sides of the well, but that did little to calm my fear. The walls were as black as the empty pit below, and they reflected little of my light back to me.
I felt a strange madness creeping over me as I lay there on my stomach, looking into that dark and empty space. A strange dizziness filled my head, as if I were standing at the edge of a high cliff. The completeness of the void below me was more than my mind could take in all at once, but that wasn't really the source of my madness. The madness was attached to a feeling, an impossible feeling that I was being watched.
Shaking myself mentally, I rolled way from the void, taking comfort in the simple but solid form of the room around me. The well had no true shape or tangible dimensions for my mind to grasp, which might have been the reason I was so troubled by it. Even as I replaced the trapdoor and locked it down once more, my mind made up reasons for my strange feeling of being watched. At the time, I thought the strangeness of the view, the surprise at finding so vast an empty space beneath my house, or maybe even the late hour, were the reasons for my feelings.
Resolved that there was little or nothing I could do about the basement well, I simply decided to leave it alone. I would not place boxes on the trapdoor, because I knew they would only be spilled around the room. Instead, I stacked the boxes next to the walls, leaving the trapdoor uncovered, but locked tightly against that awful void.
I tried, for a time, to get back to writing. I had decided not to worry about the basement well and to try to get my daily life back to normal. This proved more difficult than I had imagined because I still had great difficulty sleeping in the house. My dreams were, if anything, more troubled and frightening than they had been before, and I often woke in the night with a strange sinking feeling. I remember dreaming more than once, that my house was crumbling around me, slowly being swallowed up by the dark abyss below. I also found it difficult not to think about the vast, empty pit under my house, and I began to wonder if there was any way I could fill in the empty well.
After two weeks of nightmares and endlessly troubled thoughts, I decided to look into the basement well once more. I had convinced myself that the well could not actually be as bottomless as I had thought, and that there must be some way to fill it in. Before making any attempt to fill in the well, I thought I should try once more to determine how deep it really was. This time I would actually lower a light into the well. I decided, after some thought, that a repair light like those used by mechanics would be my best bet. I could attaché a hundred foot extension cord to the light, and that would surly be more than enough to reach the bottom of the basement well.
As I prepared for this second attempt to discover how large and deep the well in my basement was, I considered my plan. Thinking about how little light the sides of the well reflected, the idea of an extension cord seemed like a good one. The cord would give me something visible to track into the darkness, even if I had to use the floodlight to follow its path.
It was still morning when I made my second attempt to see the bottom of the well. I had two, one hundred food extension cords ready, even though I thought one would be more than enough. The repair light had a new one-hundred-watt bulb in it, and I took the precaution of knotting the repair lights cord to the extension cord above the plugs, to keep them from pulling apart, and the light from falling away into the abyss.
Unlocking the trapdoor, I managed to lift it without dropping it on my first try. Once more I felt a cold breeze rise from the darkness, though this time I noticed a slightly moldy smell that came with the breeze. Dangling the light above the void, I slowly let the extension cord slip through my hands and into the well. I must confess that I felt strangely excited as the light descended into the darkness. I had great hopes of finding a solution to my problem, and possibly my troubled dreams as well.
Watching the light sink into the well, I could see little. The walls of the well were completely smooth but not at all glassy, and it wasn't long before my light looked like a single star in a sea of darkness. It was only when the first hundred foot extension cord was running out, that I started to worry. The repair light was a hundred feet down, but it remained clearly visible in the darkness. Convinced that my plan was still a good one, I prepared to attach the second extension cord to the first.
Wrapping the already extended cord around the doorknob, I unplugged it from the wall and tied it securely to the second cord. I had only just taken the cord off the doorknob, when I felt a sudden jerk on the cord. This unexpected jerk shocked me, and the cord slipped several feet before I was able to get a good grip on it once more. Holding tightly onto the second cord, I looked down into the well once more. My light was still visible, but it seemed dimmer than it had before. For a moment I thought some dark mist was obscuring the light from me, but I had little time to consider why or how that could be.
A sudden, violent pulling on the extension cord ripped it free of my grasp. While I struggled to get a hold on the cord once more, I saw the light below me go out. I tried desperately to hold onto the cord that was shooting through my hands, but it was impossible. The remaining cord slipped away, and the plug was pulled from the wall with enough force to break the outlet. I sat for a moment, shaken and confused by this unexplainable turn of events. I could not even guess what had happened because it had been so sudden and unexpected.
My thoughts about what might have caused the sudden pull on the cord were instantly changed to fear when I heard a strange scrapping sound coming from the well. To me, it sounded like something was climbing the dark walls of the pit, slowly scrapping for footholds as it climbed up the smooth walls of the well. I remember feeling once again that I was being watched; only now I was certain that the watching eyes were unfriendly. As the climbing sounds continued, fear took control of me and I slammed the trapdoor down, fumbling madly to get the lock into place before it was too late.
I sat there in shock and terror staring at the basement well. With the trapdoor in place no sounds from the well could reach me, but I felt certain whatever was in the well was still climbing towards me. Eventually, as my shock wore off I made my way upstairs. The sun was already sinking and the trees around the house filled the rooms with strange shadows that brought fresh, ghostly horrors to my mind. I turned on every light in the house trying to quiet my fears, but it wasn't enough. Without thinking to take anything with me, I left the house and resolved never to return.
I spent most of that night driving, though I can't actually remember where I went. When the first rays of sunlight appeared the next morning my mind cleared a little. I considered what I should do, and what I actually could do. Leaving all of my things at the house was not really an option that I could take, but spending another night in the house was out of the question. Finally, I decided to return to the house and collect at least a few of my things. I would take what I could fit into my car, and arrange for the rest to be packed and sent to me once I'd found someplace else to live. Someplace far away from that house with the basement well.
When I returned to the house I was reluctant to go inside. I half expected the house to be gone, swallowed up by the dark well and the unseen creature that lived in it. I walked softly as I entered the side door, afraid of what I might find there waiting for me. There was nothing, however, and my fears subsided slightly. I moved around the house as quickly as I could, to collect what I needed and wanted to take with me. I didn't want to spend any more time in that house than I absolutely had to.
Unenthusiastically, I returned to the basement to collect the boxes of unfinished stories I'd kept there. A very real fear overcame me. I edged around the doorway of the small room where the trapdoor was making sure that it was still in place before actually entering the room. Everything was exactly as I'd left it the day before, and I hurriedly removed my boxes from the room. The further from that dark pit I was the better and safer I felt.
It didn't take long for me to pack my car with items I didn't want to or dare leave behind. I didn't take much, just what I needed really. I was exhausted now from the long sleepless night and my hurried work. I sat down on the couch to rest for a moment. It was a foolish thing to do, I know that now, but at the time I was so painfully tired.
Waking with a start, I looked around the room half expecting someone or something to be there with me. It was dark again and terror filled my mind as I realized what had happened. I'd fallen asleep on the couch, just as I was ready to leave the house forever. I jumped up and started for the door feeling lucky that nothing had happened while I was asleep. It was just as I reached for the door that I heard the sound.
A soft tapping floated up through the floorboards under my feet, a tapping like someone knocking on a door. I knew at once where the sound was coming from, it was the trapdoor over the well, and something was knocking on or against it. Fear flooded into my mind, and good sense told me to run, to leave the house now as quickly as I could, but something stopped me. A terrible sorrow touched my heart, and a longing for something long lost filled my soul. As these new feelings flooded in on me, I felt my willpower drain away. I watched helplessly as my outstretched hand, only inches from the doorknob, dropped back to my side. Slowly, against my will and good sense, I turned and moved toward the basement stairs. I was being pulled there by some unknown force of will, a will that was definitely not my own.
My legs moved like they were made of stone, as step by step I descended the stairs, edging closer and closer to the basement well. My mind screamed for me to get out, to run and never look back, but my body would not obey. Reluctantly, I approached the basement well, listening to the continued tapping as I went. I could feel the presence of something terrible, even evil, in that room. It was there, waiting in the well below me. I could smell the mold of forgotten ages in the air, and the festering smell of death and darkness all around me. Some power greater than my own commanded me to remove the lock on the trapdoor. It wanted to be free of the well, free to move once more in the world of light.
My hands trembled as I reached for the lock, and I knew in my heart that to remove it would mean my instant doom. I hesitated, trying to gain control of my body, but the power that had summoned me there was impatient, unwilling to wait any longer than it already had. Slowly, my hand reached for the key that would open the lock, the key that would set this unknown power of darkness free. I tried to resist the power that was controlling me, losing all hope as I watched the key slip into the lock.
Later, when I thought about what had happened, I was shaken. It took several days for me to regain full control of my movements again, and even now I have trouble from time to time. I know there is something in that basement well, something that does not really belong to this world, not to the lighted parts of this world anyway. I pray that it will never get free, but I have my doubts. I still own the house, of course. How could I sell it knowing what I know? I fear that someday, after I leave this life, someone else will buy that house and the thing in the well will have another chance to escape the darkness.
I was lucky that night in the basement, and I think the world was lucky as well. You see, as the key slipped into the lock the power that was controlling me weakened. The sorrow and longing that filled my mind, weighing me down, and in some strange way controlling my movements, became weaker. Perhaps that thing in the well felt happiness for the first time, I can't really say. Perhaps with freedom so near the thing in the well forgot to keep its hold on my mind and body. Whatever the reason, as the power that was controlling me faltered my own terror and fear took over. My shaking hand moved quickly, not to open the lock, but to break off the key.
With the key broken off in the lock and useless, and the lock still in place, the tapping on the trapdoor became a terrible, angry pounding. My body was mine to control once more, but I stood in fear and horror as the thing in the well pounded with all its strength to break through. For a moment it seemed that the trapdoor would fail, and that my last minute effort to save the world and myself, would be for nothing. Then the pounding stopped, and from beneath the trapdoor I heard a terrible scrapping sound, a sound like fingernails dragging across a blackboard, trying to get a hold on something, but unable to. There was the sound of something tearing as well, followed by an unearthly voice screaming in anger, frustration, perhaps fear. I stood frozen in place, as the scream fell slowly away, as if the source of that pitiful sound was falling deeper and deeper into the bottomless well.
It was dawn when I left the house for the last time. As I said, my movements were not easy, and it took a long time for me to climb the basement stairs and reach my car. There were times during that long climb out of the basement when I thought the pounding would start again, but it never did. Whatever it was that had tried to escape the well that night had now fallen back into the empty blackness below the house.
I'm having some work done on the old house soon. No, I don't believe I will ever go and see how the work turns out. I've decided that the well is too much of a risk, and for the good of mankind I'm making it more secure. The room with the well will be filled in with cement, perhaps the entire basement as well. Some people might think me mad, but I have my reasons as you now know. I hope the basement well will be safe encased forever in man-made stone, but I have my doubts.
The agent answered my questions as he showed me around the ancient home, assuring me that all the modern conveniences had been provided for. The inside of the house had been completely restored only three years before, and the restoration had included updating as much of the house as was possible.
Needless to say I was satisfied with what I saw, and had started to consider a price, when the agent led me into the basement. This oldest part of the house had not been neglected in the restoration process, though most of the rooms were too small for anything but storage. There was one larger room in the basement, large enough to be considered as a spare bedroom, but I had no plans to use it as one. I had almost completed my inspection of the house when I noticed something that seemed strange.
In one of the smaller basement rooms a section of the floor seemed out of place. Looking closer, I discovered that a three-foot square in a shadowed corner of the room was a full three inches higher than the rest of the floor. This raised portion of floor would not have bothered me, except of the fact that it was covered by what looked like a steel plate; the kind of thing you might see in a road covering a utility access. This odd trapdoor, for lack of a better word, was locked down so it could not be raised. When I questioned the agent about the trapdoor he became slightly nervous in his reply.
The agent told me that several of the older houses in the area had wells in their basements. He shifted uncomfortably as he spoke, as if wishing to change the subject. The old houses had been built nearly two hundred years ago, he explained, going on to say that this had been frontier country then and that wild Indians had still roamed the area.
I doubted if the agent knew what he was talking about, but had the good manners not to say so. I wasn't bothered to learn that the agent did not have the key to the padlock on the trapdoor, or that he knew nothing about what was underneath. The house was nice enough, and the trapdoor seemed of little importance at the time. My primary concern was the asking price on the house, which I found much lower than I'd expected.
The explanation for the low price was simple, so the agent said. He was selling the house for the state. The former owner had been institutionalized and was in no condition to name his price.
After further questioning, I learned that the former owner had been hospitalized six months prior to my visit. He'd been found running through the nearby woods, screaming wildly at the rocks and trees. It was a sad story the way the agent told it, but had nothing to do with my decision to buy the house.
Looking back now, I should have walked, no, ran away. At the time, however, I didn't think that the trapdoor in the basement and the madness of the house's former owner could have anything to do with each other, or with me. I thought myself lucky to have found such a fine house, and at such a reasonable price. I wasn't interested in the history of the house, or its former owner, and that was a mistake.
You might wonder, as I do now, why I, a middle-aged man, would want a home in the suburbs. At the time, I wanted a place away from the crowded city and all the noise, people, and distractions that go with the city. I'm a writer by trade, and I've made a good life for myself, though I've never written anything that will be called a classic. When I bought the house I thought I might try writing something more than the weekly column, the occasional short piece for a magazine, or the satirical review. I thought I would try to write something that would become a classic, and I hoped that the solitude of a house away from the city would help me with my writing.
With thoughts of writing a great novel, or perhaps a collection of wonderful short stories, I settled into my new house. As I said, it was early in the New Year, and I had high hopes of finishing a first draft of my "great work before summer was gone. With any luck at all, my masterpiece would be published, or at least accepted, the following spring.
My first few weeks in the house went well enough, though I did little writing. I'm always surprised by how much time moving into a new house actually takes, and how much work it involves. I managed to scribble a few ideas down as I moved into my new home, but nothing of importance. Before I made any real effort to start writing, I'd been in the house for a month. I'd become used to the little noises the old house made, the sudden drafts that didn't seem to come from anywhere, and what I call the "feel of the house. Sadly, now that I was comfortable and ready to write, no ideas would come to me.
Most writers have experienced a block at one time or another, and I'm no different. I thought, at the time, that my ideas would return in a day or two and that I had nothing at all to worry about. Days, however, became weeks, and no ideas would come. What did come to me, in the darkest hours of the night, were dreams. Dreams so terrible and real that I can hardly describe them even now. Dreams so strange and grotesque at times that I wouldn't dare write them down, even if I had the words, fearing that someone might read what I had written and judge me insane.
I was disturbed by my dreams, and found myself unwilling to sleep, or at least, unwilling to sleep at night. I soon discovered that I had fewer dreams when I slept in daylight hours, but that was difficult as well. The house seemed so empty at night as I tried to stay awake, and all the little noises I thought myself accustomed to, began to annoy me more and more as time went by. There were even times when I left the house, taking a room in a nearby motel, just so I could sleep at night.
It was after one of these motel visits that my thoughts were drawn back to the trapdoor over the basement well. I was looking for some half written story, something I'd started years ago and never finished. I had stored several boxes of half written stories and ideas in the basement, more to get them out of the way than for any other reason. I was surprised, however, when I entered the little room with the trapdoor in it. I found that the boxes I had stacked so neatly on the trapdoor were now scattered violently across the floor.
Surprised is perhaps too calm a word. Shocked and upset would both be better words, and troubled and scared might be better still. After all, I had only stacked the boxes three high and two deep, but now the contents of the boxes were scattered. The loose papers were spread in such a way that I didn't really think falling boxes could be the reason for the mess. At first, I thought someone had broken into my house while I was away and had gone through these boxes looking for something of value. A quick inspection of the house proved, at least to me, that burglars were not my problem.
As I returned to the basement, and surveyed the mess in front of me, the idea of mice or even rats came to my mind. Mice would be too small to move the heavy boxes full of documents, but rats, well, I wasn't sure. I'd seen no sign of mice or rats while inspecting the house, or during my move, but they are elusive creatures and could easily have hidden from me. The trapdoor also suggested a possible entrance for such unwanted guests, but this idea was quickly proven wrong. I checked the trapdoor and the padlock that held it in place. The lock, while slightly rusted, was sound and strong. Even after making an attempt to lift the trapdoor, I was convinced that it would not lift even a fraction of an inch with the lock in place.
Slightly concerned by my failure to find any explanation for the fallen boxes, I repacked my papers and placed the boxes back on the trapdoor. I took the precaution this time of only stacking the boxes two high in case my ideas were wrong and the weight of the boxes was the actual explanation. With this done, the mystery was soon forgotten and I returned to my work. It was ten or twelve days later, after another night's stay away from home, that the trapdoor returned to my mind.
I don't remember why I went down to the basement room at the time. Perhaps some subconscious thought sent me there just to make sure the boxes were undisturbed. Whatever the reason, I once again found the boxes tossed aside and their contents scattered. Now I was concerned, and my whole mind searched for some reason that might explain the mess. As I stored my papers for a second time, my eyes continually wandered to the trapdoor. I simply could not explain what had happened, so once again I wondered if someone might have entered my house while I was away.
Convinced that the only explanation must be some mischievous stranger, someone who obviously had a key to the old house, I decided what to do. I was on the phone that afternoon, and early the next morning a locksmith was at my door. I had all of the outside locks changed, and then on a whim, I asked the smith about the padlock on the trapdoor.
The locksmith seemed interested when I explained about the trapdoor, and was impressed with the arrangement when I showed it to him. When I told him about the boxes that had seemed to be pushed off the trapdoor, the locksmith came up with an answer I would never have thought of. He suggested that temperature changes in the space under the trapdoor might be the cause of my problems. It seemed likely, at least according to the smith, that the steel plate would expand and contract depending on the changes in temperature in the well.
This explanation seemed reasonable enough, and when the locksmith offered to remove the old padlock so that we could get a look at the well, I quickly agreed. I did, however, make sure that the smith had a replacement lock in his truck before allowing him to remove the existing one. I don't know why I was concerned about replacing the lock at the time, but I'm glad now that I did.
It didn't take the smith long to remove the old lock, and together, we lifted the trapdoor and looked into the well. Surprise is not an adequate word to describe my feelings as we gazed into the darkness. Even the locksmith seemed stunned as we looked into the vast empty space under the trapdoor. Taking a small flashlight from his toolbox, the locksmith shined the beam into the abyss. Granted, the small flashlight would only be visible for ten or twelve feet, but its beam found nothing to reflect off of in the well. Even the walls of the well seemed to soak up the light that entered, and we were completely unable to see anything at all.
Somewhat shaken by the seemingly bottomless pit we were looking into, the locksmith quickly calculated my bill and made his exit. It seemed to me that he was exceptionally nervous as he left my house, and I can honestly say I understood why. Still, my own thoughts were more of amazed curiosity at the time, and certainly not fear.
Having no way of projecting a stronger beam of light into the well I replaced the trapdoor and put the new lock in place. I left the house, in search of the most powerful flashlight I could find, determined to find out how deep the basement well really was. I didn't believe the well could be terribly deep, so I had every confidence of success.
Returning that afternoon with a portable floodlight that claimed on the box to have one million candle power, I was convinced that the bottom of the well would now be easily visible to me. I took my time with the new light, making sure that its batteries were fully charged before making any attempt to use it. Curiosity got the best of me, however, so instead of leaving the light to charge over night, I remained awake until near midnight. Checking the floodlight's power by shinning it into the low hanging clouds from the front door of my house, I had every reason to be confident of success.
It was difficult to lift the trapdoor by myself that night, and I dropped it a few times with loud clanging slaps before managing to get it all the way open. A cold almost icy breeze came up from the black abyss in front of me, which seemed to confirm the locksmith's ideas about temperature changes. Without taking time to consider where the breeze might be coming from, I turned on my new light, aiming the beam into the darkness.
Fear seemed to grip me as I looked into the empty and formless void below me. I could clearly see the beam of light for the first six or seven feet of the decent, but nothing more. It looked as if the well was bottomless, swallowing up my light like some terrible midnight creature from my darkest dreams. I tried moving the light to the sides of the well, but that did little to calm my fear. The walls were as black as the empty pit below, and they reflected little of my light back to me.
I felt a strange madness creeping over me as I lay there on my stomach, looking into that dark and empty space. A strange dizziness filled my head, as if I were standing at the edge of a high cliff. The completeness of the void below me was more than my mind could take in all at once, but that wasn't really the source of my madness. The madness was attached to a feeling, an impossible feeling that I was being watched.
Shaking myself mentally, I rolled way from the void, taking comfort in the simple but solid form of the room around me. The well had no true shape or tangible dimensions for my mind to grasp, which might have been the reason I was so troubled by it. Even as I replaced the trapdoor and locked it down once more, my mind made up reasons for my strange feeling of being watched. At the time, I thought the strangeness of the view, the surprise at finding so vast an empty space beneath my house, or maybe even the late hour, were the reasons for my feelings.
Resolved that there was little or nothing I could do about the basement well, I simply decided to leave it alone. I would not place boxes on the trapdoor, because I knew they would only be spilled around the room. Instead, I stacked the boxes next to the walls, leaving the trapdoor uncovered, but locked tightly against that awful void.
I tried, for a time, to get back to writing. I had decided not to worry about the basement well and to try to get my daily life back to normal. This proved more difficult than I had imagined because I still had great difficulty sleeping in the house. My dreams were, if anything, more troubled and frightening than they had been before, and I often woke in the night with a strange sinking feeling. I remember dreaming more than once, that my house was crumbling around me, slowly being swallowed up by the dark abyss below. I also found it difficult not to think about the vast, empty pit under my house, and I began to wonder if there was any way I could fill in the empty well.
After two weeks of nightmares and endlessly troubled thoughts, I decided to look into the basement well once more. I had convinced myself that the well could not actually be as bottomless as I had thought, and that there must be some way to fill it in. Before making any attempt to fill in the well, I thought I should try once more to determine how deep it really was. This time I would actually lower a light into the well. I decided, after some thought, that a repair light like those used by mechanics would be my best bet. I could attaché a hundred foot extension cord to the light, and that would surly be more than enough to reach the bottom of the basement well.
As I prepared for this second attempt to discover how large and deep the well in my basement was, I considered my plan. Thinking about how little light the sides of the well reflected, the idea of an extension cord seemed like a good one. The cord would give me something visible to track into the darkness, even if I had to use the floodlight to follow its path.
It was still morning when I made my second attempt to see the bottom of the well. I had two, one hundred food extension cords ready, even though I thought one would be more than enough. The repair light had a new one-hundred-watt bulb in it, and I took the precaution of knotting the repair lights cord to the extension cord above the plugs, to keep them from pulling apart, and the light from falling away into the abyss.
Unlocking the trapdoor, I managed to lift it without dropping it on my first try. Once more I felt a cold breeze rise from the darkness, though this time I noticed a slightly moldy smell that came with the breeze. Dangling the light above the void, I slowly let the extension cord slip through my hands and into the well. I must confess that I felt strangely excited as the light descended into the darkness. I had great hopes of finding a solution to my problem, and possibly my troubled dreams as well.
Watching the light sink into the well, I could see little. The walls of the well were completely smooth but not at all glassy, and it wasn't long before my light looked like a single star in a sea of darkness. It was only when the first hundred foot extension cord was running out, that I started to worry. The repair light was a hundred feet down, but it remained clearly visible in the darkness. Convinced that my plan was still a good one, I prepared to attach the second extension cord to the first.
Wrapping the already extended cord around the doorknob, I unplugged it from the wall and tied it securely to the second cord. I had only just taken the cord off the doorknob, when I felt a sudden jerk on the cord. This unexpected jerk shocked me, and the cord slipped several feet before I was able to get a good grip on it once more. Holding tightly onto the second cord, I looked down into the well once more. My light was still visible, but it seemed dimmer than it had before. For a moment I thought some dark mist was obscuring the light from me, but I had little time to consider why or how that could be.
A sudden, violent pulling on the extension cord ripped it free of my grasp. While I struggled to get a hold on the cord once more, I saw the light below me go out. I tried desperately to hold onto the cord that was shooting through my hands, but it was impossible. The remaining cord slipped away, and the plug was pulled from the wall with enough force to break the outlet. I sat for a moment, shaken and confused by this unexplainable turn of events. I could not even guess what had happened because it had been so sudden and unexpected.
My thoughts about what might have caused the sudden pull on the cord were instantly changed to fear when I heard a strange scrapping sound coming from the well. To me, it sounded like something was climbing the dark walls of the pit, slowly scrapping for footholds as it climbed up the smooth walls of the well. I remember feeling once again that I was being watched; only now I was certain that the watching eyes were unfriendly. As the climbing sounds continued, fear took control of me and I slammed the trapdoor down, fumbling madly to get the lock into place before it was too late.
I sat there in shock and terror staring at the basement well. With the trapdoor in place no sounds from the well could reach me, but I felt certain whatever was in the well was still climbing towards me. Eventually, as my shock wore off I made my way upstairs. The sun was already sinking and the trees around the house filled the rooms with strange shadows that brought fresh, ghostly horrors to my mind. I turned on every light in the house trying to quiet my fears, but it wasn't enough. Without thinking to take anything with me, I left the house and resolved never to return.
I spent most of that night driving, though I can't actually remember where I went. When the first rays of sunlight appeared the next morning my mind cleared a little. I considered what I should do, and what I actually could do. Leaving all of my things at the house was not really an option that I could take, but spending another night in the house was out of the question. Finally, I decided to return to the house and collect at least a few of my things. I would take what I could fit into my car, and arrange for the rest to be packed and sent to me once I'd found someplace else to live. Someplace far away from that house with the basement well.
When I returned to the house I was reluctant to go inside. I half expected the house to be gone, swallowed up by the dark well and the unseen creature that lived in it. I walked softly as I entered the side door, afraid of what I might find there waiting for me. There was nothing, however, and my fears subsided slightly. I moved around the house as quickly as I could, to collect what I needed and wanted to take with me. I didn't want to spend any more time in that house than I absolutely had to.
Unenthusiastically, I returned to the basement to collect the boxes of unfinished stories I'd kept there. A very real fear overcame me. I edged around the doorway of the small room where the trapdoor was making sure that it was still in place before actually entering the room. Everything was exactly as I'd left it the day before, and I hurriedly removed my boxes from the room. The further from that dark pit I was the better and safer I felt.
It didn't take long for me to pack my car with items I didn't want to or dare leave behind. I didn't take much, just what I needed really. I was exhausted now from the long sleepless night and my hurried work. I sat down on the couch to rest for a moment. It was a foolish thing to do, I know that now, but at the time I was so painfully tired.
Waking with a start, I looked around the room half expecting someone or something to be there with me. It was dark again and terror filled my mind as I realized what had happened. I'd fallen asleep on the couch, just as I was ready to leave the house forever. I jumped up and started for the door feeling lucky that nothing had happened while I was asleep. It was just as I reached for the door that I heard the sound.
A soft tapping floated up through the floorboards under my feet, a tapping like someone knocking on a door. I knew at once where the sound was coming from, it was the trapdoor over the well, and something was knocking on or against it. Fear flooded into my mind, and good sense told me to run, to leave the house now as quickly as I could, but something stopped me. A terrible sorrow touched my heart, and a longing for something long lost filled my soul. As these new feelings flooded in on me, I felt my willpower drain away. I watched helplessly as my outstretched hand, only inches from the doorknob, dropped back to my side. Slowly, against my will and good sense, I turned and moved toward the basement stairs. I was being pulled there by some unknown force of will, a will that was definitely not my own.
My legs moved like they were made of stone, as step by step I descended the stairs, edging closer and closer to the basement well. My mind screamed for me to get out, to run and never look back, but my body would not obey. Reluctantly, I approached the basement well, listening to the continued tapping as I went. I could feel the presence of something terrible, even evil, in that room. It was there, waiting in the well below me. I could smell the mold of forgotten ages in the air, and the festering smell of death and darkness all around me. Some power greater than my own commanded me to remove the lock on the trapdoor. It wanted to be free of the well, free to move once more in the world of light.
My hands trembled as I reached for the lock, and I knew in my heart that to remove it would mean my instant doom. I hesitated, trying to gain control of my body, but the power that had summoned me there was impatient, unwilling to wait any longer than it already had. Slowly, my hand reached for the key that would open the lock, the key that would set this unknown power of darkness free. I tried to resist the power that was controlling me, losing all hope as I watched the key slip into the lock.
Later, when I thought about what had happened, I was shaken. It took several days for me to regain full control of my movements again, and even now I have trouble from time to time. I know there is something in that basement well, something that does not really belong to this world, not to the lighted parts of this world anyway. I pray that it will never get free, but I have my doubts. I still own the house, of course. How could I sell it knowing what I know? I fear that someday, after I leave this life, someone else will buy that house and the thing in the well will have another chance to escape the darkness.
I was lucky that night in the basement, and I think the world was lucky as well. You see, as the key slipped into the lock the power that was controlling me weakened. The sorrow and longing that filled my mind, weighing me down, and in some strange way controlling my movements, became weaker. Perhaps that thing in the well felt happiness for the first time, I can't really say. Perhaps with freedom so near the thing in the well forgot to keep its hold on my mind and body. Whatever the reason, as the power that was controlling me faltered my own terror and fear took over. My shaking hand moved quickly, not to open the lock, but to break off the key.
With the key broken off in the lock and useless, and the lock still in place, the tapping on the trapdoor became a terrible, angry pounding. My body was mine to control once more, but I stood in fear and horror as the thing in the well pounded with all its strength to break through. For a moment it seemed that the trapdoor would fail, and that my last minute effort to save the world and myself, would be for nothing. Then the pounding stopped, and from beneath the trapdoor I heard a terrible scrapping sound, a sound like fingernails dragging across a blackboard, trying to get a hold on something, but unable to. There was the sound of something tearing as well, followed by an unearthly voice screaming in anger, frustration, perhaps fear. I stood frozen in place, as the scream fell slowly away, as if the source of that pitiful sound was falling deeper and deeper into the bottomless well.
It was dawn when I left the house for the last time. As I said, my movements were not easy, and it took a long time for me to climb the basement stairs and reach my car. There were times during that long climb out of the basement when I thought the pounding would start again, but it never did. Whatever it was that had tried to escape the well that night had now fallen back into the empty blackness below the house.
I'm having some work done on the old house soon. No, I don't believe I will ever go and see how the work turns out. I've decided that the well is too much of a risk, and for the good of mankind I'm making it more secure. The room with the well will be filled in with cement, perhaps the entire basement as well. Some people might think me mad, but I have my reasons as you now know. I hope the basement well will be safe encased forever in man-made stone, but I have my doubts.
copyright 2006 Fear Knocks
Mark L. Forman
Mark L. Forman has been a systems administrator for the last 20 years and has worked for some pretty innovative firms (who have been bought out by larger firms). Mark writes all genres, including poetry, but has been mainly writing in the fantasy genre as of late. He dreams of returning to England one day.
