The Creak of the Rusted Pump

The old farmhouse stood at the end of a dirt track, surrounded by fields that had lain fallow for years. My grandparents had moved there after the city had become too expensive, and my brother and I visited every summer. The house was huge, with four bedrooms, a cavernous living room, and a wide veranda that overlooked a stretch of land that had once been a rice paddy. Now it was a cracked, dry expanse, dotted with weeds and the skeletons of dead trees. The nearest neighbor was miles away, and the silence was so deep it felt like a blanket pressing on your ears.

We were there for the summer, and one night, my brother was sleeping on the floor of the living room with my two uncles. I was in the room with my grandparents, but I couldn’t sleep. The night was thick with heat, and the only sound was the irregular drone of insects. I got up to get a drink of water, and as I passed the living room, I saw the three of them lying on the mat, their heads pointed toward the window. The moonlight cast long shadows across the floor.

Suddenly, I heard a sound that made my blood run cold. It was a slow, rhythmic creak, coming from the direction of the old hand pump in the backyard. My grandfather had told us the pump was broken, its handle rusted solid. But now it was moving up and down, up and down, as if someone was working it. I stood frozen, watching the window. I could see the pump’s silhouette against the night sky, and the handle was definitely moving. Then I noticed something else: my brother’s head was slowly turning, as if he were hearing it too, though he was asleep. His head rotated until his face was toward the window, and his eyes opened. They looked glassy, not like he was awake, but like he was seeing something else.

I wanted to scream, but my voice was gone. I ran back to my room and buried myself under the blankets, praying for morning. When I finally woke, the sun was high, and my brother was sitting on the edge of the mat, rubbing his eyes. I asked him if he slept well, and he said he had a strange dream. He dreamed that a woman with long black hair was standing by the pump, calling his name. She asked him to come out and help her, because she couldn’t get the water to flow. He said no, he couldn’t, he was too tired. She then said, ‘Then I will come to you.’ He woke up when her fingers touched the window glass.

I told my uncles, but they laughed it off, saying it was just a nightmare. But I noticed that the rusted pump’s handle was now in a different position than it had been the day before. And that night, my brother refused to sleep in the living room. He said he felt like he was being watched. My uncles teased him, but they let him sleep with me and my grandparents. That night, I heard the creaking again. It was louder this time, and it seemed to be coming from right outside our door. My brother was shaking, his face pale. We both lay there, not moving, our eyes fixed on the door. The creaking stopped, and then we heard a soft tap on the window. Slowly, we turned to look. There was a face pressed against the glass – a woman’s face, pale and dripping with water. Her mouth was moving, but we couldn’t hear what she was saying. She smiled, showing blackened teeth, and then slowly sank out of sight.

We told my grandparents the next morning, and my grandmother’s face went white. She said she had heard stories about this place, about a woman who had drowned in the well that used to be where the pump now stood. She had been a servant in the old farmhouse, and the former owner had gotten her pregnant. When he refused to marry her, she threw herself into the well, and he filled it in and built the pump on top. They say her spirit never left, and that she would call out for help, trying to lure someone to free her. But if you went to her, she would drag you down.

That night, my uncles were determined to prove it was all nonsense. They stayed in the living room, with my brother and me in the next room. We heard them laughing, then a sudden silence. Then we heard the creaking, fast and violent. Then a scream, cut short. We rushed out, but the living room was empty. The mat was there, but my uncles were gone. The window was open, and outside, the pump was spinning wildly, as if trying to draw up water from the depths. We never saw my uncles again. We moved away from that place, and I never went back. But sometimes, late at night, I hear a creaking, and I know that pump is still there, waiting for the next person to come and help the woman who whispers in the dark.