The Wishing Well by Realist101 Horror Story contest entry |
Abigail sat alone with her thoughts, her small bare feet swinging slowly just above the swollen creek. The quickly moving water below made her dizzy if she stared at it long enough, but the bark of the fallen tree she sat on, even though hard, was a secure seat. And as her imagination carried her astride a shiny black pony, an owl called out from the golden shade of the autumn trees, his voice as old and knowing, as the very woods themselves.
The unexpected sound gave Abbey a sudden chill. Owls only spoke at night and this was ten o'clock in the morning. Goosebumps rose on her arms. She remembered clearly what her Grandfather Lowell had taught her, and she knew just what it meant to hear an owl hoot in the daytime. Some say you only have days to live, others say weeks. Either way, Abbey sat, stiff with fear. And the bright sun of this October day didn't help shake her feeling of doom at all. She bit her lower lip, afraid to climb down off the log. What if she fell, disappearing into the pool of dark water below? She had failed to let her family know where she was going and now, almost two miles from home, an owl had hooted just a few trees over, mere feet, from her perch above Spider Creek. "Old hooty owl. Ain't nuthin' nohow." Muttering in defiance, she was determined not to show fear. But Abigail had butterflies beating against her guts and they were fast stealing her strength. She finally climbed slowly down onto the mossy bank and brushed the chips of bark off her bluejeans as she picked her way over to put her dusty tennis shoes back on. She had no more than got her second foot in, when the owl called again, making her jump this time and she didn't bother lacing her shoes, she just ran, her feet barely skimming the leafy ground as she made it back home in record time. "Abbey, where've you been? Did you get your chores done?" Mrs.. Brown sat on their front porch, folding clothes that she had just taken from the line. "Yes ma'am." Her heart still pounding, Abigail scruffed her shoes along the narrow sidewalk, wanting to ask her mother about the owl calling in the daytime. "Momma?" "Hmmm?" Her mother seemed preoccupied, but Abbey pressed on. "Do you think kids die? I mean, someone 'bout my age? Could they really die?" "Well, sometimes the Lord takes people your age, Abbey, you know that." "But why, Momma, why would God take someone my age?" "He works in mysterious ways, child. There ain't answers sometimes. We just have to have a bit of faith, that's all there is to it." "But Grandpa said if you hear an owl hoot in the daytime, it means your gonna die, 'member?" "Oh, Abbey, so that's what's a botherin' you? That old wives-tale again?" Her laugh rang out hearty and clear. And it eased Abigail's mind. "So, it's just a legend, Momma? Are you sure?" "I imagine, Abbey, I don't think no old owl's gonna come for you! Not just yet, anyhow!" She beamed at her daughter, who at nine years old, sometimes seemed wise beyond her years. She clucked at her daughter and folded clothes, her mind already planning the supper she'd be cooking soon. "Jackie! You're it!" Abbey hit her brother on his arm as she flew around behind the big maple tree in the back yard. "Okay, I'ma countin'!" Jack, who had just turned six, put his head down into the crook of his arm, and began slowly counting to twenty. "One, two, three, four, five ... ," and then he peeked, but his sister had already disappeared. He kept counting, proud of himself, he could have gone clear to one hundred, but he wanted to find Abigail first, before it got dark. He surely didn't want her jumping out at him like last time. He'd been so scared, he'd peed his pants and had almost gotten a whipping for it. "Ready or not! Here I come!" He yelled the familiar refrain and began walking toward the old pumphouse. Abbey always hid there, it was easy and quick. But not this time. All Jackie found was a wolf spider. "Dang ol' spider!" He slammed the door hard, he wasn't afraid of spiders, just snakes. He started looking at the ground, his daddy had seen a copperhead just days earlier and Jackie knew there could still be one around. He slowly and carefully high-stepped around the back yard, softly calling his sister's name. "Abbey! Abbey, where are ya?" The sun was starting to slide down the western sky and Jackie knew he was going to get a good scare if he didn't hurry up and find her. The comforting sounds and the good smells coming from the kitchen window, gave him the idea that his sister was probably already inside, snitching a taste of supper. "Momma!" He looked up through the small kitchen window, hoping to see Abigail looking down at him, laughing. "Momma, is Abbey in there?" "What's that, Jackie?" "Is Abbey in there?" "No, honey, she's prob'ly hidin' somewhere's. You'll find her! Supper's 'bout ready now!" "Okay, Momma ... ." He trekked back out toward the barn. She was always petting the kittens, so maybe she was in the haymow. Jackie began to hum a non-descript little tune, just to squelch the fear he was beginning to feel. The barn was quiet, except for the rustlings of the mule and their two hogs. The cows were milked and back out to pasture, they wouldn't come back up until early the next morning. Jackie called again, Abbey had to be close. She never waited this long to jump out and say boo. A kitten mewed softly from the haymow and Jackie climbed the steps slowly, hoping Abbey would be sitting there, holding her favorite in the palm of her hand. But she wasn't there either. He took a forefinger and gently stroked the little yellow ball of fluff. It bobbled over to him, wanting more attention, but Jackie set it next to it's mother and climbed back down the narrow ladder to the ground below. He stood for a minute and listened. There were no sounds, except for the rustlings a barn makes and the mewling of the kittens as they vied for positions at their mama's teats. Jackie gave up and went to the house, where fear would not follow him. "Momma, I can't find Abbey." His eyes were wide with worry, even though his sister was always scaring him, he took great comfort in her presence. "Oh, Jackie, did you try the apple tree?" "No, Momma, I forgot. Okay!" And off he went, with his sense of security renewed, Jackie fairly flew as he raced to the platform that he and Abbey called a playhouse. The sun was now below the treeline as the chill of the night air took hold and Abbey was lying on her back, hands clasped behind her head, staring at the stars. "Where ya been, brat?" She spoke softly as Jackie labored up the tree trunk. "Lookin' for you! I thought you was up with the cats, but you weren't. What's the matter Ab?" "Oh, nothin'." Silence blanketed the two as they watched the sky turn from blue to lavender to navy and the golden leaves go dim. Abbey broke the stillness, her voice low and ominous. "Jackie?" "Huh ... ?" He had mimicked his sister, laying on his back, gazing at the stars and now he was half asleep. "Remember Grandpa saying if you was to hear an owl hoot in the daytime, it meant you was gonna die soon?" "Oh, yeah, but it's dumb, ain't it, Abbey? Grandpa was foolin', wasn't he?" "No, he said it's a real fanonamon, or whatever that word is." "You mean like a ghost?" "No, dip-stick, like a legend." "Oh." Jackie was dozing again. The gnarled old apple tree was a safe and familiar friend, a place that held childhood secrets and wishful daydreams. He and Abbey both spent many hours in the tree, far from the demands of chores and parents. Yet, they could always hear the call to supper and the cry of a kitten in distress. It was a haven for them both. "I heard one this morning, Jackie. When I was in Simpson's woods. Sittin' over the crick." Jackie sat straight up. "A hoot owl? For sure?" "Yep, twice too." "Ya gonna die, Abbey?" He was wide awake now, bug-eyed, adrenaline pumping with a new fear. "Don't know. Maybe. I been thinkin' about it. I sure wish Grandpa was here. But Momma said it's just a silly legend, so ... it probly ain't nothin'." She sat up then and pulled the ponytail band tight again around her long, thick hair. "Come on! I'll race ya!" With that, she leaped from their playhouse floor, like a cat, down onto the orchard ground and was gone into the shadows. "Wait for me, Abbey!" Jackie climbed down, his fear of heights keeping him from a fair start. He always lost if they started from the treehouse. But he was always behind his sister, her small and ever faithful shadow. Abbey slowed down halfway through the orchard. She could feel eyes watching her and Jackie was still too far back, as he picked his way around the fruit trees. "Come ON, Jackie! Hurry up!" Abbey was hungry, she could smell the beef stew and biscuits clear down here. Impatiently, she began to walk back toward her brother, but he was no where to be found, the orchard was still and Jackie was gone. Abbey stood, her eyes scanning the quickly disappearing shapes of the apple trees, her breath coming shallow and fast with apprehension. "Jackie! Answer me, Jackie!" A lone katy-did was the only answer and as Abbey stepped once again to return to the treehouse, great claws clutched her shoulders. It was so fast, so unexpected that she had no time to scream. She was gone, up and away, into the October sky, her limp form a shape outlined in the Harvest moon, as the great bird carried its second meal to its lair. Silence befell the orchard, even the katy-did stilled her calls. Almost as a final serenade, an acorn fell to the dry ground, a small sound, almost an acknowledgement of life and death. And a squirrel lay in it's nest, curled tight, listening, knowing and huddled against the dark. The mother and father searched frantically, every inch of their small farm. The haymow and the old well were the first places they looked, but their babies were gone, the well was too deep to see into and they had failed to properly cover it. The old lid had rotted and fallen down into the pit, to join the things at the bottom. It was almost as if Abbey and Jackie had never existed. Hours later they collapsed in despair, forced by exhaustion to let the authorities take over. And the well was over eighty feet deep. At the bottom were small bones, left over carrion from feasts of winged beasts. A dumping ground. Mrs. Brown stood there, leaning on the stone side of the well, silent tears streaming, before she let herself tumble forward, down into oblivion. On the outskirts of the cow pasture, invisible in the shadows, the great-horned owl sat, a sharp watchman of the woods, the self-appointed, solitary steward of the dark. It perched in one spot, for what seemed like hours searching for it's own meal. And after a time, on silent wing, it finally flew away, blending into the mist as the small creatures below cringed, then tried to run away. Had anyone been listening just then, a faint, but desperate shriek could have been heard, shattering the still of the night and heralding just one more tiny death.
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