Bumstead's Well

by R E Swirsky

  "Things are so different now. Two very good friends of mine are dead, and my Grams isn't the same as she was when I left for school last fall. I am so afraid of what she'll be like when I return next year, or even this Christmas."

  "I'm sure she'll be okay. Your Gramps will look after her."

  "That's what worries me the most. I can see he's dying inside every time she has one of those episodes. It scares me to see him like that. I've never seen him any other way but solid, like a rock. The whole time I was growing up, he was there with all of the answers and always knew what to do in every situation. But now..."

  Anna reached out and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back gently.

  "Nothing is ever going to be the same anymore. I can feel it.”

  "That's what's bothering you?" Anna asked gently. "Vincent, I know you're sad about your Grams and losing two really close friends, but your grandparents will always be here when you come home."

  He stared back at the house. "Grams won't be. I can see it on Gramps' face. There's something worrying him, and I think it's Grams. She's definitely not well. Ever since I came back from being down in that well, everything about them seems different. They've changed. I've changed. Maybe the shock of being down there has just made me more sensitive to things."

  "You Gramps seems like a good man. And he certainly isn't the shy type."

  Vincent smiled. She was right about that.

  "I think he'd tell you if something really serious was going on with your Grams, don’t you?"

  Vincent didn’t say anything. In his mind, dementia was something serious. He was losing his Grams to it and his Gramps because of it.

  "I hate this place so much," he said and ran his hands through his hair in frustration. He shifted anxiously about and turned to Anna. “I was contemplating not going back to school this fall. I think I should maybe stay here and help Gramps with my Grams."

  "You can't be serious." She looked shocked and somewhat wounded by his comment.

  "I am serious. Everyone can see it's getting tough on him to try to care for her alone these days. He's done so much for me, and now maybe it's my turn to give something back."

  Anna shook her head. "I don't think your Gramps or your Grams would ever let you do that. Not after what they’ve been through these past few weeks."

  "I know they won't want me to, but..."

  "No buts about it, Vincent. You just came back from the dead in their eyes. There's no way they are going to let you drop out and stay here. They’ll want you to finish school no matter what happens back here. You must know that.”

  Vincent glanced back towards the house and noticed the drapes of his gramps study were wide open. His Gramps was poised up near the window with a cigarette hanging out from the corner of his mouth as he watched them. "But who else is going to be here to look after them if I leave?"

  CHAPTER 46 Day Six - Wednesday 3:18 PM

  The late afternoon sun shone in through the large window of Chris' study and illuminated a small patch on the burgundy carpet. The eerie radiance of the red glow seemed to affirm to Chris that even though hell had certainly arrived this past week, it hadn’t yet departed upon Vincent’s return. It was resolved to stick around for a while longer.

  He had only intended to open the drapes a crack to let in a little of the natural light to freshen the atmosphere, but when he spotted Vincent with Anna out on the far edge of the property, he instinctively pulled the drapes and shears wide open. He was consumed with watching his grandson every minute he could since his return. He hoped watching his grandson would free his mind from some more worrisome problems, for the moment at least. After he stood for a few minutes close to the glass, he retreated back to the comfort of his chair where he smoked a few more cigarettes and stared out the window lost in thought. His thoughts drifted like feathers on the wind, flipping and rolling gently, until one needling thought spiraled into the centre and stuck there.

  He reached for his rolodex and flipped through the cards until he found the one card with the name he had learned to hate so very much over the past two years. He dialed the number.

  "Doctor Hamil, it's Chris Pattison."

  He listened.

  "Yes, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. When..." The doctor cut him off.

  "No, no. That will be fine. I'll bring Anita in with me to discuss the arrangements. It'll just start out at a few days a week then?"

  He listened again patiently.

  "Uh huh. I see. Three days a week to start, and only for the night. Uh huh. Then back home each morning. Uh huh… I see.”

  He glanced out the window at Vincent and Anna holding hands under the trees.

  "No, no. That's going to be good for me," he said and nodded as if the doctor was sitting across his desk.

  "Oh, yes. Anita knows. We've discussed it many times already."

  They met Dr. Hamil on numerous occasions. He quickly grew to hate Dr. Hamil as he described a quick and progressive decline to Anita's condition. Chris scoffed at his prognosis. But the doctor was correct about the progression of Anita's dementia the entire time. Now he hated the man even more for being right.

  "I am holding up just fine," he said. "Three or four more weeks won't make much difference to either of us. We can wait until a spot opens up. I just thought it was time we considered the next step and started putting things in place."

  He listened again.

  "Yes. We'll see you next week then," he said and hung up the phone.

  He continued to watch his grandson and crushed the remains of the cigarette out into the ashtray. He immediately pulled out another, lit up, and stared out the window again. That was one problem sorted for the moment. His thoughts shifted to the next issue that nagged him more than the first.

  "Vincent, my boy… Why the hell did you have to pick the Bumstead place?"

  He mused over what he could remember about that well. A three foot wide, six foot deep trench was excavated against the outside of the well the entire way around, and a scaffold was suspended down the inside. He and his crew meticulously removed all the stones in the top six feet below ground level. They then replaced and mortared all of the stones back into place one by one.

  The winter freeze caused the problem with that particular well. The surface water seeped into the ground and froze between the stones, causing them to shift ever so slightly. By the early fifties, a few of the stones near the top of the well, just below ground level, were in danger of falling and causing the entire well to collapse. His father's company was contracted to repair the well, and he was placed in charge of the project. It was his very first project working under his father. His father scrutinized his every action and decision he made. Chris was anxious and irritated at the time. With all that went on between his father and Bumstead before this project, he was bothered by the fact that his father was awarded the contract. Considering the multitude of squabbles and legal wrangling that escalated between those two at the time, it didn't quite make sense that Bumstead would give Chris’ father anything. Was it possible that Bumstead was trying to reconcile things between them? Was the whole thing really just a peace offering?

  Vincent said part of the wall inside the well collapsed. Of course the stones they set in mortar couldn't collapse, he was sure of that, but the stones just below certainly could, and he suspected that he knew exactly which stones fell away to the bottom. The thought terrified him. When they were finally allowed to tamp and backfill around the well, he was relieved to put everything to rest. But once the land around the outside was smoothed out and levelled, he took one last glance down the inside; the wall just below where they had just completed the mortared work had shifted a few inches towards the centre of the well. He knew damn well why it shifted.

  He sighed heavily and continued to look at his grandson. A cool, grey cloud of smoke drifted away from him and quickly evacuated from the room. The hum of the air recovery system droned away in the background.

  He tapped his fi
ngers on the desk in deep thought.

  Could he risk driving out to the Bumstead property? His past at the well was beginning to haunt his every thought, and he didn't like it one bit. Why couldn't the whole damn thing just stay buried where it belongs?

  "Damn you, Vincent," he whispered. He knew the only option he had to check on where things stood was to visit the well himself.

  CHAPTER 47 Day Six - Wednesday 4:22 PM

  Detective Daly returned to the precinct to look at the pictures Jet was supposed to load onto the office computer. Millie waved him over laughing uncontrollably the moment he walked in.

  "What's got your horse bucking about this afternoon?" Dean asked.

  Millie shook her head and laughed so hard that Dean could see her tonsils in the back of her open mouth. She waved one arm at Dean to hold him off until she could catch her words.

  Dean moved up behind her. "C'mon now, Millie. Tell 'ol Dean what's got you all in a state like this."

  Millie finally managed to corral her laughter. "It's Jet," she said and laughed some more.

  "Jet? What's he done now?"

  Millie wiped at her eyes. "He's seeing..." She started laughing again.

  "What is it, Millie?"

  "He's seeing ghosts," she said and immediately erupted into laughter once again.

  Dean started to chuckle himself because her laughter was contagious. He had no idea what Millie was even talking about. "Ghosts?"

  She nodded. "He just left ten minutes ago. He was telling me he was coming back from the university this afternoon and saw a ghost standing out on the street corner."

  Millie started laughing again and Dean was starting to get annoyed. He didn't see anything terribly funny about what she said. He ignored her talk about the ghosts. "Did he load my pictures on the computer like I asked him to?"

  Millie shook her head and continued to laugh. "He said to tell you he had a problem loading them. Said he'd try again tomorrow."

  Dean raised his eyebrows. "So who's the old man now?"

  "Pardon?" Millie asked and wiped her sleeve across her smiling mouth.

  "Never mind. I just wanted to have a look at those photos."

  Millie nodded. "But about that ghost. He said it was real." She giggled some more.

  "Come on, Millie."

  "No. You should have seen him. He rushed in here as white as a sheet. You know how he is. Always smiling and showing those Chiclets of his all of the time. Well, he wasn't like that at all today."

  "Really? He's always cool and collected."

  "Well, he sure wasn't twenty minutes ago. He said the ghost was on the corner just standing there. White like snow, he said it was. He said the ghost stared right at him and its eyes followed him down the street as he drove by."

  "A ghost," Dean repeated.

  "A ghost. That's what he said. Funny, right? He looked so bloody scared. I think he actually believes it."

  "Did he say anything else about this ghost?"

  "Not so much. Only that he said the ghost looked like one he’d seen before. It looked somewhat different than he remembered, but he was sure it was the same one. And he watched it in his rear view mirror. When he got to the end of the block, it was still staring and he even thought it pointed at him. That was what he said creeped him out so much. He drove once around the block to get a better look at it, but it had disappeared."

  Dean nodded and smiled at Millie. "I bet it had. Anyways, you tell him to call me when he comes back in. I want those pictures loaded, and I need my phone back."

  Millie looked up at the clock. "His shift is over. He won't be back in until morning."

  "If you see him before I do, be sure to have him radio me. Ghosts? That's all we need around here."

  CHAPTER 48 Day Seven - Thursday 2:21 AM

  Vincent was jolted out of his dream and fear swept across him in the darkness of his bedroom. He looked up automatically and expected to see only a small number of stars confined in a small circle above him. He thought he was still trapped at the bottom of Bumstead's well, but saw rough shadows and familiar shapes. His eyes adjusted quickly, and he welcomed the relief of knowing he was safe in his own bed.

  But the dream seemed so real. The late August heat was unbearable and his skin burned under the blistering sun. He, Roger, and Aaron were out along the river, and Aaron dared Roger to jump in.

  The cold, glacial water from the mountains enticed the boys to throw themselves into the river to escape the incredulous heat, but it was clear to all that the abnormally high flow was much too fast and dangerous. The water cascaded through many chutes and channels and diverged between and around large boulders before crashing down into deep, churning pools. Roger couldn’t stand the heat any longer and finally gave in to Aaron's relentless taunts. He was immediately pulled deep under the water by the strong current.

  Vincent watched anxiously for Roger to surface. It seemed like minutes passed before his friend broke the surface. He was immediately sucked back under the bubbling water. Terror filled Roger’s eyes as he gasped for air before he disappeared again.

  He watched helplessly as his friend’s body tumbled about below the bubbling surface. He hopped along the boulders that lined the river, as fast as he dared, trying to keep a watch on his friend. His body continued to travel downstream until it dropped down through a small chute into a deep pool. One outstretched hand with fingers spread wide broke the surface before he vanished below again.

  Vincent's reaction to his friend’s plight was immediate, and he dove head first into the icy pool. He swam deep under the churning, bubbling water and spotted Roger caught in an undertow at the bottom of the narrow chute. Bubbles spewed from his nose and up from between his lips. His black hair twisted into small clumps that thrashed about violently in all directions, and his usually radiant, brown eyes screamed with panic and terror. Vincent grabbed Roger by the foot and pulled him away. He swam as hard as he could towards the surface. As the two boys broke the surface and struggled against the heavy current, he spotted Aaron standing downstream on the pedestrian suspension bridge that crossed above the river.

  Aaron's laughter horrified him.

  As Vincent battled feverishly to reach the safety of the shore with his friend in tow, Aaron continued to laugh and point down at them as they tumbled under the bridge and drifted further downstream. He cackled, shouted, and laughed until Vincent awoke.

  The dream mortified him. Aaron seemed so cruel and vicious. He knew Aaron's mother planted that thought in his mind. He couldn't shake the dream, and he started to lament. He missed his two friends so much. Memories of them floated into his thoughts. He yearned for their smiles, laughter, and friendly teasing. He recalled the outing at Bumstead's well and his final image of his friends as they looked down and laughed at him. Their faces were mere silhouettes against the evening sky. Memory after memory of his friends swirled about in his mind, and each one tortured him. As the images of his friends slowly faded, new images from inside the well skipped into their place and brought with them a new horror he tried to ignore.

  He wanted to flee from the room into the caring arms of his Anna who was asleep in the guest room next door, but he could barely move. One image he collected during his escape from the well finally surfaced and anchored itself front and centre. It was a gruesome image that he managed to keep concealed somewhere in the catacombs of his mind until now. The image was knocking once again, demanding to be let out and set free. As much he tried to fight it, the image continued to throb like some petulant contagion in his mind. He told no one what he had stumbled upon in the well and didn’t know if he ever could.

  "No!" he called out. He realized he actually shouted. It was still the middle of the night, and he listened for footfalls in the hall of anyone in the house who heard him cry out, but no one came.

  He urged his mind to access and grasp hold of any other available thought.

  "Anywhere, please. Anywhere but back down there," he whispered to the darkness.

/>   His mind responded and quickly latched onto another thought just as horrible. He knew why it chose to rear its ugliness. The memory awoke the very moment he first landed alone at the bottom of the well.

  He pulled his blankets up tight around him, and a frigid shiver snaked across his body. Goosebumps erupted, and the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck crawled up as he squirmed under the blankets. The old atrocity pushed its way back in.

  He saw his mother. She looked different back then; young, smiling sweetly at him, pushing him across the stoop of his grandparents’ house to their front door, and setting his two suitcases down gently next to him. He remembered how she rang the front bell once and seconds later dashed away from him, laughing giddily to Roo's old rusty pickup truck, jumped inside, slammed the door, and disappeared from his life forever. She didn’t look back as the truck rolled away down the wet, sloppy road and left only a hazy blue mist from the exhaust suspended in the air long after she was gone.

  He felt his heart collapse in his chest as if she reached inside, grasped his tiny heart, and squeezed and crushed it with all her might until nearly every drop of love he had was extracted.

  He wept for many days after she left him, but as the days slowly turned to weeks, the few remaining precious drops of love for her that remained in his heart turned sour. They were fetid and grew into a hatred that rooted itself so deep inside him that it was embedded into the very pores of his young bones. His heart survived the ordeal, but in all of the crevices and spaces where love once blossomed, repugnance for his mother now found its home. The loath he felt for her, and only her, pulsated again with every beat of his heart now that she was back in his presence.

  He lifted his head and looked above him to the shelf above his bed. He pushed his blankets down, turned, knelt on the bed, and reached up high to where he placed his old, scruffy teddy bear years ago. He hadn't given in to the comfort of "Bee" for many years, but he needed the embrace of his fuzzy friend tonight.