The Boy in the Well

by Dan Clark

  The Boy in the Well

  Dan Clark

  Copyright © 2021 by Dan Clark

  Artwork: Adobe Stock: © andreiuc88

  Design: Services for Authors

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Crooked Cat/darkstroke except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.

  First Dark Edition, darkstroke. 2021

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  something nice will happen.

  For Rachel.

  Thank you for the constant support, guidance and love, and most importantly, for believing in me and shutting down any self-doubt I had.

  I love you.

  About the Author

  Dan was born in the northwest of England. He started reading Stephen King from an early age and is still a committed fan today, believing this is what inspired him to start writing.

  After leaving school, he studied Accounting before realising working with numbers wasn’t for him. He has done numerous jobs which include, working in retail, in busy restaurants as a Chef, driving a taxi and moving on to driving lorries.

  Dan lives with his fiancé, Rachel, and easily annoyed cat, Burt. In his free time he loves to find a comfortable chair with a large cup of tea and read thriller and horror novels. He enjoys walking and being out in the countryside and devotes most of his time to his passion: writing his own stories.

  The Boy in the Well

  Chapter One

  October 2nd 2019

  Carolyn hits the button on her phone’s screen suddenly, to silence the alarm before it can wake her sleeping husband. It’s useless, though – he’s already awake. The vibration, rattling on the wooden bedside table, was enough.

  Simon groans and turns to face her with eyes still mostly shut. He fixes the pillow underneath his head. “Hey, how come you’re getting up so early?” he asks, yawning. “Isn’t it your day off?”

  “Yeah, well, no… it was supposed to be,” she says, giving him an apologetic smile. “Remember, I took that order for the birthday party. I didn’t have time yesterday afternoon to finish it, so I’ll have to get it done today.” She pulls the duvet off and slides her legs out of the bed. “It’s supposed to be delivered this afternoon.”

  Simon rolls over again and stretches. “Oh yeah. I forgot. Well, I’ll tell Mum and Dad you said hi.” He mumbles the Hi, and his breathing changes, informing Carolyn that he’s gone back to sleep.

  She finishes washing and dressing, kisses Simon on the cheek, then creeps past her six-year-old son Ryan’s room, before heading out of the house. They live in a three-bed semi-detached new-build, although it’s hard to call the six-by-four third room a bedroom rather than a storage cupboard. They’d moved onto the new housing estate just before Ryan was born. The houses were built on the old Brennan’s Industrial Estate. It’s a short drive from Leeds city centre, fifteen minutes exactly. And that’s fine by Carolyn and Simon Hill. They enjoy the peace that the new estate offers.

  The shop, Happy Bakes, would usually be closed today, but as it barely makes enough to pay the rent and give Carolyn a liveable wage, she has to take whatever orders she’s asked for. Besides, today she doesn’t mind. She, Simon and Ryan won’t be doing anything outdoors, not in this rain.

  ***

  In Manchester, Simon is strapping Ryan into the child’s seat in the back of the car. They’ve just finished visiting his parents.

  “BYE!” Ryan shouts to his grandparents before they head back inside, escaping the wet.

  On their way home, Simon pulls into the M62 service station. The rain has increased tremendously, and the car park is overcrowded. The majority of people don’t like to drive in bad weather.

  Simon makes a call to Carolyn at the shop.

  “Hello?” Carolyn answers.

  “Hey, we’re finished. How’s it going? You nearly done?” Simon asks.

  “You’re finished already?”

  “Yeah, we didn’t stay long. Ryan had Dad running around like mad.”

  Carolyn doesn’t answer, causing Simon to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I asked how it was going, and you ignored me. I bet you’ve got your tongue bit between your teeth as you concentrate, haven’t you?”

  He’s seen this so many times before, like when Carolyn is reading the instructional manual from the IKEA furniture, or painting in the finer, harder-to-reach places. She has the steadiest hand out of the two of them.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not far off finishing.”

  “HI MUMMY!” Ryan shouts from the back seat.

  “Hey sweetheart. Having fun?” she asks.

  Ryan doesn’t reply. He’s gone back to steering his fire engine along the seat next to him, followed by a police car.

  “Anyway… we’re on our way home. What do you feel like for dinner?” Simon asks.

  Carolyn grunts. “Something that doesn’t involve prepping, or a lot of tidying up!” she states. “Oh, and a bottle or two of red.”

  They say their goodbyes and end the call. Simon picks up dinner – a family-sized throw-in-the-oven pasta-bake, a ready-prepared bag of salad, and the wine – and they re-join the motorway.

  They head on towards Leeds, playing I-Spy in the rear-view mirror in an attempt to keep Ryan awake so he’ll sleep properly that night. Ryan’s head springs up as the loud hum of a passing car’s exhaust disturbs him. He jolts up, lifting himself closer to the window, watching the passing car with excitement. Simon turns the wipers to a faster setting, as the rain he’d waited to die off at the service station increases again. He acknowledges the car to his right, a Honda Civic fitted with a huge spoiler and rear tinted windows, and driven by a man in his mid-twenties. As the car passes, the CDs in Simon’s door pocket rattle from the loud music and huge exhaust.

  “WOW!” Ryan calls out, staring at the uncommon car. “Daddy… Look.”

  “Ah, feeling more awake are we, son?” Simon asks, flicking the indicator to overtake a lorry that is transporting farming tractors, before moving back over. The car in front is spraying Simon’s windscreen from the wet road surface. A second car speeds past so quickly that Ryan doesn’t have the chance to see it, but he spins his head anyway. It carelessly swerves in front of a camper van up ahead, barely making the motorway exit in time. The driver of the camper van stomps on his brakes sharply, and the driver in front of Simon reacts in just enough time to swerve to the next lane.

  Simon, his vision still marred by the spray on his windscreen, doesn’t respond quickly enough. By the time the brake is pressed, his car is already skidding straight for the back of the camper van. His mind instantly falls to Carolyn at the day of Ryan’s birth. He pictures his wife in the hospital, cradling their new-born son. He tries to call out her name, but his voice is silent. He looks up to the rear-view mirror for the last split second he has left, and his eyes meet Ryan’s.

  Simon’s car ploughs into the back of the braking camper van. The lorry behind, carrying the farming tractors, slides on the wet road surface, and over forty tons of weight crash straight into the back of Simon’s Vauxhall. Simon and Ryan are both killed instantly.

  ***

  The cake is finished and loaded into the back of the van. For the first couple of months after the bakery first opened Carolyn had tried to deliver things herself, but she soon realised she wasn’t gentle enough on the b
rakes. The cakes would often arrive sloped, squashed or even on the floor of the van. Then she’d have to refund the upset customer, hurting not only her finances, but her business’s reputation too. So, after a good few costly incidents, she’d hired a delivery driver who was happy to work on an as-and-when-needed basis.

  After seeing off her delivery driver with the instructions, she locks up and changes out of her buttercream-stained baker’s uniform into jeans, Converse and a t-shirt. She sighs as she releases the clasp which has been holding up her long brunette hair all day.

  Outside, she turns the key to operate the shutters then pulls her phone out to message Simon, telling him she won’t be much longer. As the shutters reach the floor, a police car pulls into the lay-by and parks in front of hers. Two men step out with serious faces. The officer who was driving is short and stumpy, and they both have plump stomachs.

  A sense of utter dread rushes through Carolyn. She looks down to her phone, hoping Simon has replied and this will demolish any disconcerting thoughts.

  Unfortunately, the phone screen offers no reassurance.

  “Mrs Hill?” the taller officer asks.

  Carolyn tries to stay professional. She smiles and nods, hoping that the visit will be about nothing more than the kids playing in the abandoned shop next door. But she already knows it isn’t going to be about that.

  The expressions of the two men are filled with sadness, compassion and dread. Carolyn looks down to her phone again.

  Come on, please! she thinks, before looking the tall officer in the eye.

  “Mrs Hill, is it possible to go inside?” the officer asks.

  Carolyn freezes, the smile starting to escape her face.

  “What is this about?” Carolyn asks, her voice sounding wavy and nervous.

  “I think it’ll be best if we go inside.”

  Carolyn shakes her head. Awful images start to occupy her mind. “Simon and R-Ryan…?” she asks, tailing off. The two officers clench their jaws simultaneously and look to the ground.

  “Tell me… please.” Carolyn watches the two men and waits for their response, though she already knows she doesn’t want to hear it. Later in life she will wonder whether, if she hadn’t taken that cake order, any of this would have happened. She, Simon and Ryan would all be together. They’d probably take a different route home, perhaps after taking Ryan to the cinema. What if she wasn’t busy decorating the cake and had kept Simon on the phone for just a minute longer? Would he had been in that spot on the motorway when the accident happened?

  The officer looks up from his boots. “We have some terrible news,” he says, and steps a little closer. “Your husband and son have been in a serious accident. I’m afraid to say they’re both…”

  Carolyn doesn’t hear much else after that awful word, the word she was begging not to be spoken. Her knees buckle, sending her backwards. Her shoulder hits the shutters, causing them to rattle as she slides down to the floor, every muscle in her body limp and useless.

  No, no! It’s been a mistake. They’re not dead!

  Carolyn lifts the mobile to her face with jelly-like arms, praying that Simon has messaged and she can show the officers how wrong they are.

  Of course, Simon hasn’t replied.

  They’re not dead. They can’t be dead.

  She unlocks the phone with trembling fingers and opens the recent calls list, presses Simon’s name and holds the phone to her ear.

  It rings, then goes to voicemail. She tries again and again and again. The smaller of the two officers stoops and takes her hand, lifting her back to her feet.

  “A-are you s-sure?” Carolyn stutters.

  The two men nod and lower their heads again.

  Simon had always been a joker. He’d place whoopie cushions under the sofa, and plastic spiders on the kitchen floor. Carolyn begs for this to be one of Simon’s jokes – a little too far, but they can argue about that later. Right now, Carolyn just wants to go home and find Simon and Ryan safe.

  The crushing realisation hits her, the thought of never again watching Ryan play and laugh, never watching as he becomes excited building sandcastles. The thought of never again being able to hug her loving husband, Simon, after a hard day’s work, to cuddle him in bed and speak of their future.

  Carolyn leaves her car outside the shop and the two officers drive her home. She’s silent as she looks through the window. The world around her becomes blurred and non-existent.

  The shorter policeman walks her inside and pours her a glass of water. Her neighbour, Sara, is alerted, and she makes the call to Carolyn’s mother.

  Carolyn is deflated. All of her energy has been swept away. She looks around the living room. Ryan’s toys are in the corner. Simon’s slippers are next to the sofa where he had left them the night before.

  This can’t be real.

  She rests her head in her hands and cries.

  Chapter Two

  October 18th

  The funeral is a blur, a horrendous living nightmare. Carolyn is expecting, at any moment, to jolt and wake up panting next to Simon, who would be sleeping with his wrist resting on his forehead, and Ryan, her snoozing son, wedged in between them both, also snoring loudly.

  But it isn’t a nightmare. It is very, very real.

  Carolyn watches in a daze, from the face of Simon’s manager at work, and a few other work colleagues, to the squeaking of the coffins lowering and the thud from handfuls of earth landing on them. She feels a hundred eyes looking from the grave back to her, as if expecting her sorrowful expression to change.

  Jeanette, Carolyn’s mother, tells her it was a lovely send-off (‘lovely’ is probably the wrong word choice, but Carolyn ignores it anyway) and that they’ll be up there looking down over her with Carolyn’s late father. But Carolyn, despite her Catholic upbringing, doesn’t believe in that sort of thing. She believes that Simon and Ryan are together, yes, but they’re not looking down over her – they’re waiting for her to join them.

  The idea of speeding up that reunion begins to take over the rational side of her mind, more and more.

  ***

  Jeanette pulls open the curtains, allowing the sun to light the room, before taking a seat at Ryan’s desk. The chair is from a Thomas the Tank Engine chair and desk set, and is made of strong quality wood. Not that Jeanette weighs much, she’s just under five foot and shy of eight stone. She sits and refuses to leave, calling Carolyn’s name until she wakes and is out of bed. It’s 11 am, and if left alone, Carolyn would spend the day in Ryan’s room, leaving only to use the toilet and make a Pot Noodle before heading back.

  Today, Carolyn has her first appointment with a grief counsellor. She’d cancelled the previous two, and promised Jeanette she’d keep to this one.

  Carolyn had got the number from a friend, Nicola, who’d had sessions herself after losing a child. She admitted she’d felt better after them, and more able to cope with everyday life, but it hadn’t stopped Nicola and her husband from divorcing. “Some things can’t be saved,” she would shyly joke.

  “I know you don’t want to go to this session,” Jeanette says. She’s now at the edge of her seat, resting her palms on her knees. “But it’ll do you good. Even leaving the house and going to the shop will help.”

  Her daughter has locked herself in Ryan’s room for the last three weeks. It had started with sleeping in his bed and cuddling his favourite tiger teddy for a night or two, then three or four. Now Carolyn practically lives there. Her skin has turned pale and spotty. She refuses to open the curtains, or even the windows to allow some fresh air in. Her weight has dropped alarmingly. She refuses to eat anything, even when Jeanette orders her favourite takeaway. Carolyn just picks at a few chips from the plate and leaves the rest.

  “It’s not going to help, Mum. Nothing will,” she says, running her fingers through greasy hair and pulling it free from the side of her face. She feels dazed and headachy.

  The ray of sun coming through the bedroom window annoys her a
nd sends a siren through her ears. Everything annoys her lately.

  After a shower, her first in over a week, Carolyn studies herself in the long mirror attached to the back of the bathroom door. The person staring back is unrecognisable. The bones of her rib cage are more exposed, the bags under her eyes are noticeably darker, and her lips are dry, cracked and discoloured. She realises she must look dreadful. Standing in the bathroom, the tiles cold under her bare feet, she opens the medicine cabinet for her toothbrush and spots the box of razor blades. She holds the box in the palm of her hand for a moment, as she’s done many nights while Jeanette slept, and contemplates the idea of ending it all, of making the unknown journey to join her husband and son. Like all the times before, after careful consideration, she puts the box back on the shelf. She couldn’t do it to her mother. It wouldn’t be fair for Jeanette to find her like that.

  Do it. You’ll feel better, an inner voice insists.

  But Carolyn doesn’t reply. On a few occasions she’s thought about telling her mother about the inner voice. It had started not long after the accident. It always gives her the wrong advice, and tries so hard to persuade her to do something she’d later regret. But Carolyn can’t tell Jeanette about the voice. If she does, she knows exactly what will happen next. She’ll be sleeping in Ryan’s bed, and when the curtains are pulled open to wake her, it won’t be her mother, but a couple of stocky men in white coats. They’ll pull her out of bed and take her away, away from Ryan’s room, away from his teddies, away from his crayon drawings stuck to the wall, and away from the rest of the things that once belonged to him. Away from Simon’s things too: his clothes, and his old tatty t-shirts he’d wear only for bed.

  No, she can’t have that.

  “Nearly ready, love?” Jeanette shouts from downstairs.