by Tim ORourke
Chapter Thirteen
Vincent had been right. I did need to go to bed. I needed some serious sleep. Sleep undisrupted by nightmares of the people I had killed on the road. I went through my apartment, switching out the lights. Picking up my iPod, which Vincent had returned, and a set of small earphones, I went to my bedroom. I peeled off my clothes and climbed into bed. With the light from my iPod casting eerie shadows about the room, I hit the music icon with my thumb, expecting to see the album cover for Adele - 21 to appear on the screen, as that had been the track which had been playing before switching it off. I was surprised to see Sting staring back at me. The Police - Greatest Hits the screen read. I frowned, unable to remember ever downloading the album to my iPod - it was too 80's for me. Perhaps I had in some drunken stupor or perhaps Vincent had downloaded it. Would he have? Vincent admitted to searching through my iPod to see what music I liked; perhaps he had downloaded this album for a joke or something. It was The Police after all. Perhaps one of my colleagues had downloaded it? But why?
I pulled the duvet up under my chin, pressed play on my iPod, and closed my eyes. The song Message in a Bottle started to play. . . Just a castaway. . . an island lost at sea. . . another lonely day. . . with no one here but me. . . Sting sang. The words swam through my mind as I lay alone in my bed in the dark. Maybe whoever had downloaded the album to my iPod was trying to send me a message. . . I'm sending out an S. O. S. . . I'm sending out an S. O. S. . . or perhaps they were asking for my help, I wondered as the song went around and around in my head. But who would need help from someone like me? How could I help anyone else when I couldn't even help myself?
I pictured a bottle floating in water, bobbing and listing from side to side. The water was black, just like the waves which had crashed against the shore earlier that day. The water made a sploshing sound as the bottle came towards me. There was something tucked inside it. A message, perhaps? A cry for help? My feet felt suddenly cold and wet. I looked down to see that I was standing ankle-deep in a pool of dirty, black water. There was music playing in the background from far off, as if coming down a tunnel. I vaguely recognised the song but couldn't quite place it. I looked left and right expecting to see the sandy shoreline stretching away from me in both directions. I threw my hands to my face in fear. There was no sea, no sand - just thick, slimy, stone grey walls. I looked up, the funnel of the well stretching high above me, its opening looking like a pinprick of white light.
With my heart racing and mouth turning dust dry, I knew I was trapped at the bottom of the well again. Something brushed against my ankle, and I screamed. It was the bottle and there was something inside, a folded piece of paper. I reached for it, then stopped, my fingertips brushing the cold, black water. The music had suddenly grown louder. But it wasn't music - not quite. It was the sound of somebody humming behind me. Slowly, I straightened, leaving the bottle to bob about my feet. I recognised the song being hummed - Every Breath You Take by The Police. The humming was soft, and it floated around the bottom of the well like a hymn, spiralling upwards and echoing back off the moss-covered walls. My hands were covering my face, and peering through my fingers, I turned around. I wasn't alone. There was somebody standing, hidden in shadow just a few feet from me.
"Every breath you take. . . Every move you make. . . I'll be watching you. . . " the figure sang softly.
"Who are you?" I whispered, shaking with fear.
Out of the shadows stepped a young woman. I didn't recognise her. She looked about eighteen years old. She had a pretty face, which was paper white. Long, straight, black hair hung against the sides of her face like curtains, and onto her shoulders. The girl wore a thin, long black dress, the hem brushing over the surface of the water at the bottom of the well. Her eyes were like dark pools as she stared at me.
"Who are you?" I whispered again.
"Every vow you break. . . Every smile you fake. . . Every claim you stake. . . I'll be watching you," she sang as if in answer to my question.
"Watching me," I breathed, my teeth starting to chatter. Was I that scared or had it grown so suddenly cold? "Why would you be watching me?"
Opening her arms as if to embrace me, the girl took a step forwards and sung just above a whisper, "How my poor heart aches with every step you take. . . "
I flinched away, her long, white fingers looking skeletal in the darkness of the well.
"I feel so cold and I long for your embrace. . . " the girl sang softly, her arms still open, as if inviting me to hold her. She stopped singing, her lower lip trembling, tears rolling down her ashen face as she started to sob. Somehow the music continued to echo softly about the well, even though she had stopped singing and humming. And even though my mind was screaming at me to run - climb out of the well and escape - I couldn't leave her alone. The girl looked too sad. Heartbroken.
With the water lapping against my ankles, I stepped forward and took her in my arms. I held her and she hugged me back gently. No, she didn't hug me - she clung to me. Her hair felt soft against my face, her body frail and delicate in my arms.
"Why are you crying?" I whispered in her ear, my heart suddenly aching as if I could feel her sadness. It was more than sadness - it felt like utter despair.
The girl sobbed against me, like a younger sister needing comfort.
"How did you end up in this well?" I whispered.
"I was pushed," she cried against me.
"Who pushed you?" I asked.
"Witch. . . " she said.
But it didn't sound like the girl anymore. . . her voice had changed. It had grown hoarse, rough, as if she were gargling on a throat full of broken glass. I pulled away from her and screamed. It wasn't the girl I was holding in my arms, but the old man who had died on the road. Tiny bubbles of blood popped around his flaky lips. He jerked and twitched as he came towards me, his milky white eyes rolled back in their sunken sockets.
"Witch," he croaked.
"I'm not a witch!" I screamed at him, my heart racing. "It was an accident. I didn't mean to kill you. "
"No accident. . . " the old man gargled. "Witch!"
"Leave me alone!" I screamed, covering my ears with my hands, and screwing my eyes shut. "I don't want to see you no more! Please just leave me alone. "
Then, in time with the music, and just like the girl had, the old man started to hum, then sing that song. "Every move you make. . . I'll be watching you. . . "
"Please," I cried, turning and beginning to claw my way up the walls of the well. My fingernails dug and scratched at the stone surface, but I couldn't get a hold. The walls were damp, covered in hundreds of years' worth of moss and mildew. I glanced back over my shoulder. The old man was standing in the water, humming that song. The flap of skin which had been torn free during the car crash hung against the side of his face, making a wet, slapping sound.
"Please stop," I cried, my heart beating so fast I thought it might just break.
Despite my pleas, the old man continued to sing. That same line going around and around in my head. . . I'll be watching you. . . I'll be watching you. . . I'll be watching you. . .
. . . I'll be watching you! I pulled the earphones out, just wanting that song to stop, and sat up in my bed. Sweat dripped from my brow, plastering my hair to the sides of my face. A splinter of grey dawn light cut through a gap in the curtains and gave my room a dim, smoky-like quality. I looked down at my iPod; that song by The Police was stuck on repeat. With a set of trembling fingers, I turned it off.