The Well- a short horror
I read my first Stephen King at 14. I dutifully charged ahead, page after page- pale and frightened of 'IT'. I remember treating my stuffed toys with immense respect, lest one of them turn around and stab me. Thereafter 'thinner' freaked me out. Stoically I read some more and soon I realized the genius that is the man. For he creates horror out of the mundane.
Anyways, I had to write something scary and ghastly for the college magazine. Although this isn't what I submitted, I feel I have managed to capture the terror of the man with sufficient imagination.
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The first thing Martin realised after gaining consciousness was that something really prickly was crawling up his leg. Even before he tried to make sense of his surroundings, he tried to shake whatever insect was busy making an ‘Everest’ out of his leg. With the disorientation of someone heavily drugged, Martin tried to move his hands.
Why was everything so dark?
The last thing he remembered was peering into a bottomless well, trying to gauge the level of water. He had been conducting a routine check of the water supply of the small village of Darbagha. He blinked rapidly, silently urging his slow mind to catch up with reality.
With a growing sense of horror he realised that he couldn’t move his hands. It felt as if they were being held down. His right leg was numb, while the pesky insect continued to climb up his left leg.
As his vision cleared, he croaked a scream. He was in the well. He was at the bottom of a well that was what had looked like a million feet below the ground. Martin realised with mounting panic that some kind of weed had his hands secured behind his back. He couldn’t move his hands to free himself. Meanwhile, his entire body was submerged underwater, with only a portion of his face above the surface.
Why? Why had he come here?
He tried moving his legs, pumping them like a champion swimmer. He couldn’t breathe.
“Help!” he shouted. He looked up, trying to get his voice to travel as far as it possibly could. “Somebody help me,” he shouted again.
The darkness beyond the top indicated the hour. Nobody would be here at this time. The villagers believed that it was unlucky to venture outdoors after dark. They wouldn’t be here until dawn.
Somehow he had to hold on till then.
“Okay Martin, you’re a smart guy. You can hold on till morning. Someone will be here to pull you out. The farmers need water for their crops; the first thing they are going to do is come to the well.” He took a deep breath, coughing when he inhaled a little water. “Everything is going to be fine. There is no need to panic.”
But as time went by, Martin began to feel as if he were being pulled. The water felt like quicksand around him, urging him deeper towards the pit below. He made another attempt at freeing his hands, but the weeds felt like they were attached to his skin. He winced as he felt the raw skin of his hands rub against the brick of the well.
“I am not going to die here,” he chanted to himself. But slowly he felt his skin begin to prune, rotting away under the onslaught of water. His teeth began chattering, partly because of the cold and partly because of fear. He was soaked to the skin and it was becoming difficult to stay afloat. Each breath wheezing out of his body was an effort. With small tears of frustration at his vulnerable position, Martin dropped his head in shame.
The villagers found his body the next morning. Pale white and unmoving Martin became an example for kids of the village- don’t go near the well in the night. It’s dangerous.
Anyways, I had to write something scary and ghastly for the college magazine. Although this isn't what I submitted, I feel I have managed to capture the terror of the man with sufficient imagination.
____________
The first thing Martin realised after gaining consciousness was that something really prickly was crawling up his leg. Even before he tried to make sense of his surroundings, he tried to shake whatever insect was busy making an ‘Everest’ out of his leg. With the disorientation of someone heavily drugged, Martin tried to move his hands.
Why was everything so dark?
The last thing he remembered was peering into a bottomless well, trying to gauge the level of water. He had been conducting a routine check of the water supply of the small village of Darbagha. He blinked rapidly, silently urging his slow mind to catch up with reality.
With a growing sense of horror he realised that he couldn’t move his hands. It felt as if they were being held down. His right leg was numb, while the pesky insect continued to climb up his left leg.
As his vision cleared, he croaked a scream. He was in the well. He was at the bottom of a well that was what had looked like a million feet below the ground. Martin realised with mounting panic that some kind of weed had his hands secured behind his back. He couldn’t move his hands to free himself. Meanwhile, his entire body was submerged underwater, with only a portion of his face above the surface.
Why? Why had he come here?
He tried moving his legs, pumping them like a champion swimmer. He couldn’t breathe.
“Help!” he shouted. He looked up, trying to get his voice to travel as far as it possibly could. “Somebody help me,” he shouted again.
The darkness beyond the top indicated the hour. Nobody would be here at this time. The villagers believed that it was unlucky to venture outdoors after dark. They wouldn’t be here until dawn.
Somehow he had to hold on till then.
“Okay Martin, you’re a smart guy. You can hold on till morning. Someone will be here to pull you out. The farmers need water for their crops; the first thing they are going to do is come to the well.” He took a deep breath, coughing when he inhaled a little water. “Everything is going to be fine. There is no need to panic.”
But as time went by, Martin began to feel as if he were being pulled. The water felt like quicksand around him, urging him deeper towards the pit below. He made another attempt at freeing his hands, but the weeds felt like they were attached to his skin. He winced as he felt the raw skin of his hands rub against the brick of the well.
“I am not going to die here,” he chanted to himself. But slowly he felt his skin begin to prune, rotting away under the onslaught of water. His teeth began chattering, partly because of the cold and partly because of fear. He was soaked to the skin and it was becoming difficult to stay afloat. Each breath wheezing out of his body was an effort. With small tears of frustration at his vulnerable position, Martin dropped his head in shame.
The villagers found his body the next morning. Pale white and unmoving Martin became an example for kids of the village- don’t go near the well in the night. It’s dangerous.
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