The Delusion

by Laura Gallier

  THREE

  “YOU DON’T HEAR THAT?” She stared deep into the woods, not blinking.

  “Uh, nope.” Okay, so I was picking up on something, but it was faint, and I was hoping she’d drop it. I wanted to get beyond talking and on to other things. “Let’s not worry about—”

  “I think it’s underneath us. What is that?”

  Once Jess made up her mind, that was it. I gave up on getting my way and made somewhat of an effort to listen. “It’s probably a drainage ditch or something. It’s been raining for days.” It sounded like rapids, liquid tumbling and sloshing.

  “Seriously, Owen? It’s way bigger than a drainpipe. Listen.”

  I couldn’t have cared less, but out of respect for her, I closed my eyes and silenced my breathing. Sure enough, I not only heard it, I felt it. Something stirring below ground.

  “Maybe there’s an underground spring.” I leaned back against a rock, straightened my legs, and folded my hands behind my head. My work was done.

  “So—you’re just gonna sit there?”

  Should’ve known.

  “All right, Jess. I’ll see what I can find.”

  It didn’t take long to notice that the deeper I went into the woods, Jess on my heels, the louder the odd sound got. We walked for what had to be at least half a mile, stepping over unearthed tree roots and piles of leaves reduced to wet globs of brown.

  I arrived at a thick wall of brush and branches and looked back at her. “You really want me to get through all this?”

  Of course she did.

  I kicked some of the limbs, breaking them in half, then pulled at the entangled clutter. Jess helped too. When a few holes opened up, we stopped and peeked through.

  Jess gasped. “What’s this?”

  I scanned the scene—a large enclosed clearing in the woods, so dark that it already looked like dusk in there.

  I kicked harder now, eventually making a gap we were both able to squeeze through. We stepped into the dirt-covered area—a thick line of trees framing a nearly perfect circle of empty space. About thirty feet across, if I had to guess.

  Jess clutched my hand, and we walked to the center, then stood back-to-back, looking up. Sprawling oak trees formed a ceiling high above our heads, the branches interlocked like bony fingers so that minimal sunlight broke through. It made sense that it was much dryer and cooler inside here—the tree cover was like an immovable dark umbrella.

  In a way, it was scenic. But way too dingy to be pretty.

  Jess spun around slowly, taking it in. “This is your property, right?”

  “Yeah.” It was weird to think I owned this.

  Given the sound and feel of movement beneath our feet, it seemed if we reached down, we’d touch turbulent water. But there was nothing but dry dirt and crunchy leaves.

  Jess wandered to the edge of the tree line. “Check this out.”

  A web of vines concealed a redbrick water well, weathered and cracked. A rope hung from an old but sturdy wooden crankshaft mounted to the well. I leaned forward and gave the rope a tug. “This thing has to be a hundred years old.”

  Jess put her cell in flashlight mode, then shined it down. It’s hard to say how far down the bottom really was, but it was deep enough that I felt kind of queasy leaning over the side. Nothing but a worn wooden bucket on the ground down there, still attached to the rope. The earth was so dry the mud was cracked.

  Jess and I walked around the clearing some more, but we never did locate any water.

  Suddenly something made an eerie, high-pitched howl. I would have sworn it was an owl, but Jess got spooked. We’d walked nearly all the way back to my motorcycle when she stopped and yelled my name. I thought she’d spotted a venomous snake or something.

  “I left my cell phone in that dungeon.”

  I didn’t waste time getting frustrated—just did the manly thing and started back while she sat on my bike and played music on my phone.

  It wasn’t hard to spot her neon pink phone case on the ledge of the well. I grabbed it and turned to go.

  But this time, I got spooked.

  Something was rustling in the trees. Not like a creature scurrying along the ground or birds fluttering leaves but something big. Heavy footed. Headed toward the clearing.

  All I had time to do was duck behind the well.

  I held my breath and waited. Then . . .

  It took me a minute to make sense of what I was seeing. An old man in overalls and a cowboy hat, clutching a large pair of limb cutters. He started whistling an upbeat song as he headed straight for the well.

  I didn’t want to startle him, but I saw no point in hiding anymore. I rose slowly. He saw me but didn’t flinch, just smiled and kept coming toward me.

  I recognized him now. This was the man I’d seen outside Jess’s house this morning. The one who’d stared at me from inside his white pickup.

  “You here to help?” He smiled wide.

  “Help?”

  He didn’t pause, just started cutting vines away from the well. He worked like he had the strength of a young man. The whole scenario was super weird.

  He nodded toward Masonville High. “You go to that new school over there.”

  Seemed like it should have been a question. I went ahead and said, “Yeah.”

  “Tragedy ever since those doors opened.” He shook his head. “Untold loss.”

  I nodded, then peered into the distance, anxious to get back to Jess. Of course I had questions I’d have liked to ask this guy—like, where had he come from, and why bother with this useless well? But I couldn’t stand here all day.

  I was about to say, “See ya,” and go, when he stopped snipping, leaned the cutters against the side of the well, and looked at me. I mean looked at me, like he had that morning, like he was staring through my skin.

  I swallowed hard. Fidgeted. But couldn’t shake the awkward feeling—like I was standing there naked.

  His brown eyes were as dark as his skin yet had a golden tint I’d never seen before. They struck me as kind but intense. I felt the need to look away.

  “How ’bout you and I have a drink?” He turned to the well and began to crank the handle.

  “Um, that’s okay. I need to get back. There’s a girl waiting on me.”

  “You worried about her?”

  I didn’t know if he meant right now or in general, but I said yes. Either way, it was true.

  “This town could use a young man like you. One who looks out for others.” He’d nearly hoisted the bucket to the top by now.

  “Just so you know,” I told him, “that well’s dry.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Uh, yeah, it is.” I tried not to sound rude. “We just shined a light down there.”

  “No. It isn’t.”

  One more turn of the handle and the bucket was up, sloshing over with water.

  “That’s . . . I saw it, and it was definitely dry.”

  The man let out a hearty laugh, then pulled two paper cups from his pocket. He blew in them and used his finger to wipe particles out. Gross.

  He scooped water into both cups, then handed me one. It was torn along the rim—used, for all I knew. He lifted his cup as if to say cheers, then downed the water.

  “Um . . .” No way I was drinking that water, especially after I looked in the cup. “There’s stuff floating in here.”

  He grinned. “City boys. Think a piece of dirt’s gonna kill ’em.”

  I hadn’t told him I’d moved here from the city, but I figured my accent tipped him off.

  I tried to hand the cup back, but he wouldn’t take it.

  “Go on.” He had a gentle smile.

  “I’ll pass.” I reminded him that someone was waiting on me, then felt the need to add, “My guess is this water is loaded with bacteria.” I dumped it out, then crushed the cup. He took it from me this time.

  I thought for sure he’d back off now, but as I turned to go, he piped up. “Brave enough to save his mama�
��s life but scared of a little sip of water.”

  I froze. Then spun around. “What’d you say?”

  I hadn’t told anyone what had happened the night my mom and I left Boston for Texas—and I was sure she hadn’t either. I had no intention of ever telling that story. But it was true. What the man had just said.

  “How did you know that?”

  He smiled bigger and raised his cup. “Let’s have a drink.”

  That was it. All the strangeness I could take. “I’ve gotta go.” I took off again, faster this time. As I was about to squeeze out of there, I mumbled to myself, “This town’s messed up.”

  “Sure is,” he said, somehow hearing me from all the way across the clearing. “Been messed up for a long time.”

  And with that, he went back to trimming, apparently content for me to go. But I just stood there. There was something this man wasn’t telling me.

  FOUR

  I DIDN’T STAND THERE long before the man asked me another question, still working to tame the chaos of vines around the well. “You have ideas about what’s causing the suicides?”

  From across the clearing, I made my best attempt at a logical theory. “Seems to me some people are strong, and others—not so much. The weak ones can’t handle life’s pressures. They give up and end it all, then the stress of the suicides causes other weak people to give in to it themselves. It’s a vicious cycle.”

  “I see,” he said. He didn’t seem impressed by my answer.

  “What about you?” He’d put me on the spot—it seemed fair to do the same to him. “You have a theory?”

  The old man turned to face me. “Sabotage.”

  “Huh?” What was he talking about? I walked fast to the center of the clearing. “You’re saying someone’s plotting the suicides?”

  He nodded, his cowboy hat bobbing up and down.

  “How’s that possible? Suicide is self-inflicted.”

  The man rubbed his hands together, wiping away dirt. “Suicide is provoked. Every time.” His voice echoed off the trees.

  I furrowed my brow. “What do you mean?”

  He swept our surroundings with a glance but said nothing.

  “Provoked by who?” I probed again.

  He just went back to trimming.

  That’s when it clicked. This man was a conspiracy theorist. Irrational. Deranged, for all I knew. Maybe even a protester along with the other psychos that flocked to my school.

  I was out of there.

  I drove Jess home, we said our good-byes, and I watched her step inside her marble-floored house. I’d decided to put the weird man in overalls out of my mind, but on my way home, our conversation gnawed at me. How’d he know about my mom? And that well . . .

  It was dry. I was sure of it. But the bucket came up full.

  I was still some distance away when I spotted a truck parked in my driveway—a blue Chevy I’d never seen before. I pulled up next to it, killed my bike’s engine, and sat there, knowing full well what would happen next. I’d open the front door and find some man on the sofa next to my mom. She’d jump up and introduce me to the guy like there was nothing disgusting about the situation.

  No, thank you.

  I took off. Minutes later, I was blazing down the dirt trail behind Masonville High, then charging through the woods on foot, headed back to the murky clearing.

  It was sunset by the time I got there and nearly pitch black inside the tree-shaded circle. I used my cell to light my steps, determined to take a closer look at the well. There was no way I’d get my brain to stop turning long enough to fall asleep tonight if I didn’t figure this out.

  Yeah, it was eerie here at night, but I wasn’t about to chicken out. I pressed my waist against the brick ledge and leaned over the well, careful not to drop my cell. Just like I thought, there was no water down there.

  Not a drop.

  I was about to turn the handle, but the instant I reached for it, something pressed down hard on my shoulder. My heart nearly leaped out of my chest.

  I spun around, out of breath, working hard to steady my light. “What are you doing here?” I’m sure I sounded angry.

  The old man stood a foot away, smiling at me from the blanket of black that engulfed the clearing. “Had a feeling you’d be back.”

  “So . . . you were waiting for me?”

  I found that odd. Really odd.

  He walked past me and sat on the brick ledge. “You have an interest in my water well?”

  “Actually, ah . . .” I cleared my throat. “It’s my well. I own all this.”

  His eyebrows shot straight up. “So this is your property.” I picked up on some sarcasm, like he was a step ahead of me. “Well then, want a drink from your well?”

  “No, sir. I want an explanation. How’d you know about my life?” I pointed to the well. “And how’d you draw water from a dry source?”

  He gave a long exhale. “I imagine you’re like most people. Have to see to believe.” He crossed his arms. “Problem is, some things you have to believe, or you never will see.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He began to turn the handle. “What do you plan to do with your life, young man?”

  “Get back to Boston. Become a doctor.”

  “You wanna save lives?”

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  He paused his hoisting of the rope. “Young people are dying, son—right here, at your school. An entire town in upheaval, demanding to know why. Guessing at what to do.”

  “And?” I took a step toward him, still shining my cell light. “What can I do?”

  A few more cranks, and the bucket dangled over the well, water spilling over. It made no more sense than it had the first time. “How’s that happening?” I demanded.

  The old man reached into the pocket of his denim overalls and, like before, pulled out two paper cups. He extended one to me. “Some things only make sense in hindsight.”

  I was getting irritated now, but I did my best to keep being polite. “Look, I want you to tell me who you are and what’s going on.” I shined my light on the overflowing bucket, then back on his face. “Please. I came here for answers.”

  He grinned, then scooped water into the cups. Held one out to me yet again.

  I sighed, my irritation out in the open now. I took the cup and stared at it. “Wait . . .” The rim was ripped in the exact same place as before. “I crushed this cup, but it’s not creased.”

  The man shrugged.

  I used my finger to pull out a floating speck. “What’s the point of this?”

  “Some things only—”

  “Make sense in hindsight. Got it.” I shook my head. Huffed. Eyed the water. “I drink this, you talk?”

  “Get all the answers you want.” He lifted his cup to chin level. “And then some.”

  I raised the cup to my lips, gave a reluctant sigh. “Utquomque.” Latin for whatever.

  And with that, I leaned my head back and swigged it down.

  The water tasted normal.

  The old man drained his cup, then just stood there. Staring at me.

  “So?” I crushed the cup. Again.

  “So . . .” He stood. “Now I go.”

  He walked into the shadows.

  “Wait!” I kept my light aimed at him. “Where are you going?”

  He lifted an eyebrow like it was obvious. “Home.”

  “But you said you’d talk to me.”

  “I said you’d get answers.” He pulled the brim of his cowboy hat lower on his forehead, winked, then walked away whistling, apparently fine with walking in the dark.

  “Thanks a lot.” My tone was loaded with resentment. But what could I do? Wrestle him down and force him to explain? I could still hear him whistling long after he faded out of sight, that same song from earlier.

  I stumbled a few times but finally made it back through the woods to my motorcycle, with no more answers than the last time I’d been here. I was shoving my helmet on when
it hit me.

  Pain.

  I mean pain. It hijacked my gut. Worst stomachache ever. It felt like that well water had turned to ice daggers in my belly. I’d never felt anything like it before. And my head was throbbing.

  Big surprise—the water was obviously unsanitary. What had I been thinking?

  I drove home with two goals in mind: don’t wreck, and don’t barf in the helmet. I almost pulled over several times but pushed through, desperate to get to my toilet bowl and flannel sheets.

  I clung tightly to the handlebars with every turn, considering possible diagnoses. The most probable: I’d just ingested a ravenous parasite that was feasting on the lining of my stomach. And giving birth to ice-cold larvae. At an astounding rate.

  Don’t panic.

  I nearly clipped the mailbox as I careened into our driveway. At least the blue truck was gone.

  It was all I could do to pull my keys out of the ignition. Am I really that weak?

  I slid off my bike and accidentally dropped my keys on the damp pavement. By the time I grabbed them, I had a full-blown migraine, the shakes, and what felt like frozen claws trying to slice through my abdomen.

  I tried to throw up in the bushes, but nothing came out.

  I reached the front door, anxiety gripping me. The porch was spinning. How was I supposed to get my key into the lock? Finally something went my way. I gave the knob a twist, and the door opened.

  I normally wouldn’t ask my mom for help, but the feeling that death was breathing down my neck compelled me. I needed to know where she put the bottle of ibuprofen and that pink stomach-relief stuff.

  “Mom?” My keys crashed onto the wood floor. I stumbled toward the sofa. “Mom!”

  I buckled and toppled onto my side, my head connecting painfully with the floor.

  “Are you here?” For all my effort, I couldn’t project my voice beyond a whisper. I rubbed my forehead with one hand and covered my mouth with the other.

  The only light on was in the hallway. Wonderful. The one time I didn’t want to be home alone.

  I heard the patter of Daisy’s nails tapping the floor, but I was too disoriented to see where she was. “Help me, girl,” I whispered. She panted in my ear.

  I lay there in the fetal position and dug my fingers into my sides. My face radiated heat, but my gut remained chilled.