the child in the well

a short story | fiction

Like any new parent, my nights are full of small-hour screams. "Sleeping" means lying supine and anticipating Zachary's next holler. When it comes—as it always does—I sneak from the covers and shuffle down the hall. I linger in the nursery doorway, admiring this new creature as he stands wailing, his little fists curled around the crib's slats, his skin talcum white in the moonlight.

As I reach down to lift him, I brace for the vision that flashes before me every time I touch him—

It's dusk, and I'm standing in a flat grassland. The dry air tickles my throat, and there's just enough light to make out a distant tree line. I'm bent over, reaching into an old stone well—my belly pressed against its cold slate lip. I extend my arms towards Zachary. He's older, perhaps two or three, and grossly scrawny—his hair prematurely gray. When I grab his armpits and begin to lift, his unexpected mass provokes my lower back. 

I grunt as my angry sinews hoist him. He's quiet and smells of apple juice and burnt animal crackers. Little fibers of dead leaves bespeckle his hair like dried leeches. His feet clear the well’s lip, and I stand holding him, staring into unrecognizing eyes, noticing the deep crow's feet surrounding them. I start to cry as my arms shake, hurt by his astral density.

I stoop to set him down, and everything goes black. The moon and stars dissolve, and a faint buzzing appears. I call out for him, but my mouth won't work. I sense his shadow shimmering before me. I cast about in the dark, unable to reach him. Suddenly, he runs off. His footfalls crunch in the grass, light-up Skechers flashing blue and red, cutting through starless ink like rogue RC cruisers.

As he zigzags toward the obscured tree line, the buzzing intensifies. In the light from his shoes, I make out a swarm of bees, their shiny bodies glinting in the strobes. I try to run, but my legs won't work. I'm knocked to the ground as the swarm crashes upon me. They sting my eyes and storm my nostrils, piling upon one another, forcing their way in. I gag as their abdomens pulse in my nasal cavity. They snap through my larynx and careen down my trachea—flooding my lungs like loud concrete. I wheeze and convulse as my chest boils and their stingers slice soft tissues. My lungs stretch and burst with a moist pop.

It's always the same scene, unfolding in an instant, triggered by his skin. After it's passed, I'm standing in the nursery, lifting him from his crib. I pull him close and shush him, rocking him back and forth. I walk to the window. The few trees in the yard are visible in approaching dawn. Zachary quiets, and I peer into his face. He stares back with moist eyes. I try to smile, but I can't. There's a tickle in my nostril, and I'm terrified.

---

Thanks for stopping by! If you’re interested in more short stories, check these out!

belch

wednesdays