The Constant at the Waystation

My name is Eli, and I’m sixteen. I’ve been splitting my time between my mom’s place in Austin and my Uncle Marcus’s farm outside of Waco for the past year. I do online school so I can focus on my music, and the change of scenery helps me write. But the truth is, I’m not just moving for inspiration. I’m moving because something follows me, and I’m trying to stay one step ahead of it.

It started about a year ago, back at mom’s house. I’d be in my room at night, headphones on, trying to lay down a guitar track, and I’d hear footsteps in the hallway. Not my mom’s – she’s light on her feet, and these were heavy, deliberate. I’d pull off my headphones and listen, but the house would be silent. Then came the whispers, just at the edge of hearing, like static on an old radio. I told myself it was the house settling, or my imagination, but the feeling grew stronger – a pressure in the air, a sense of being watched. It was worst when I was alone, but sometimes I’d catch a shadow moving in the corner of my eye, too quick to see clearly.

Things got worse when I started going back and forth. The first time I stayed at Uncle Marcus’s, I heard it hissing my name in the barn. The animals spooked, and the horses wouldn’t go near that corner stall. Uncle Marcus blamed raccoons, but I saw the fear in his eyes. He’s a practical man, but even he admitted something felt off. As I moved more often, the presence became more constant. It was like a thread tied to my ankle, pulling me, reminding me it was there no matter where I ran. I tried to ignore it, to focus on my guitar, but the music felt wrong – the notes came out heavy, dissonant, as if something was pressing on the strings.

The last time I was in Austin, I woke up at 3 a.m. to the sound of my bedroom doorknob turning. I froze, heart pounding. The knob twisted slowly, but the door didn’t open. Then I heard a breath, right next to my ear, and a voice that wasn’t a whisper but a low, guttural vibration in the air: ‘You can’t leave.’ I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. I packed my stuff at dawn and drove to Uncle Marcus’s without telling my mom why.

Uncle Marcus’s farm is my refuge now. It’s a sprawling property with an old farmhouse, a rusted silo, and a field of sunflowers that always seemed peaceful. But the presence followed me. The first night there, I was in the guest room, trying to write a song, when the lights flickered. Then the silence in the room became heavy, like a blanket smothering sound. I looked out the window and saw the sunflowers bending in a wind that wasn’t there, all pointing toward the house. I closed the blinds, but I could still feel it watching, a pressure behind my eyes.

A couple of weeks ago, I found something in the silo. I’d gone to explore, thinking maybe I could use it as a studio. The entrance was boarded up, but one board was loose, and I wriggled through. Inside, the air was stale and cold, and the floor was covered in dust. In the center, there was an old well, covered with a rotting wooden lid. I shouldn’t have lifted it, but I did. Peering down, I saw darkness so deep it seemed to swallow the light from my flashlight. Then I heard a sound – not from below, but from everywhere: a slow, rhythmic dripping, like water hitting stone, but deeper, like something heavier. And then the whispering started again, but this time it was clear, a chorus of voices chanting: ‘Stay. Stay. Stay.’

I slammed the lid back on and scrambled out. I didn’t tell Uncle Marcus about the well, but I’ve been having dreams about it ever since. In the dreams, I’m standing at the edge, and something in the dark is looking up at me, and it has my face. Last night, I woke up in the middle of the night and found myself standing in the yard, barefoot, staring at the silo. The door to the silo was open. My guitar was lying in the grass, as if I’d dropped it. I don’t remember leaving the house.

Today, I found the well uncovered again, the lid leaning against the wall. I didn’t do it. I tried to call my mom, but my phone was dead. Uncle Marcus was in town, so I was alone. I grabbed my flashlight and approached the well, my legs shaking. I looked down, and this time, I saw something – a glimmer of white at the bottom, like a bone. And the whispering grew louder, almost eager. I backed away, and I’m now in the farmhouse, typing this on my laptop, with the doors locked. But I can hear it breathing in the walls. I think it’s in the house now. I think it’s always been in the house, waiting for me to get close enough. I don’t know if I can leave, but I’m writing this in case anyone reads it. If you find this, stay away from abandoned wells, and if you ever feel something following you, don’t run. It only makes it cling tighter. I think it’s been feeding on my fear. And now it’s ready to take me.