The Painted Well

When my sister went through her divorce, she parked herself at our parents’ place for a few months until she could find her footing. She finally bought a modest fixer-upper on the edge of town, a place with a long gravel driveway and a sagging porch. My sister, Dana, had been a corrections officer for nearly two decades; she was the last person to spook easy. But a week after she moved in, our mother called me, her voice tight with worry. She said Dana had been coming back to their house every night, sleeping in her old childhood room, and spending daylight hours at the new place working on repairs. When our folks asked if something was wrong, Dana just said she didn’t want to talk about it.

I called Dana and told her I’d drive down Saturday morning to help with the plumbing and maybe stay a few nights. She tried to wave me off, but I insisted, using the excuse that I needed a break and could use the manual labor. So Saturday came, and I pulled up to her new house, a two-story Colonial with peeling paint and a yard that was more weeds than grass. I walked around the side to check the foundation and noticed the basement windows had heavy steel bars welded over them, freshly installed. The bars were new, but the rust on the hinges suggested they’d been there a long time. I tried the basement door; it was locked with a padlock that had no key.

Dana met me at the front steps, her face pale and her eyes darting to the woods behind the house. She gave me a stiff hug and said, ‘Thanks for coming, but I’m fine, really.’ I didn’t push it. We spent the morning fixing a leaky kitchen faucet and replacing a cracked window pane. The house had a strange smell, like damp earth and old pennies, and I noticed Dana would pause and listen, as if expecting a sound. At lunch, she told me about the previous owner, an old woman named Margaret who had lived there alone for forty years. Margaret had died in the house, and the neighbors said she’d been ‘eccentric,’ always muttering about her well crying at night.

That evening, as the sun dipped behind the pines, Dana grew more restless. She kept glancing at the basement door, which we’d left unlocked after checking the fuse box. Around nine, I heard a faint, rhythmic creaking from below, like a rope swaying under a heavy load. Dana froze, her knuckles white on her coffee mug. ‘There it is,’ she whispered. ‘It starts when the light goes.’

I asked what she meant, but she shook her head. Reluctantly, she led me to the basement door and pulled it open. The stairs descended into darkness, and the smell hit me—rot and mineral water. I flicked on a flashlight and saw a dirt floor, old shelves lined with dusty jars, and in the corner, a low stone well, its opening covered with a wooden lid. The creaking sound was coming from beneath the lid, as if something were stirring the water. I walked closer, and Dana grabbed my arm. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Last week, I lifted that lid, and I heard a voice from the water, calling my name. It said, ‘Dana, let me out.’ I slammed the lid down and ran.’

I stared at the lid, which was warped and stained. Against my better judgment, I knelt and pressed my ear to the wood. The creaking stopped. Then, from below, a soft, muffled voice said, ‘You’re not the one I want.’

I backed away, my heart pounding. Dana was already at the top of the stairs, urging me to come up. I did, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the well knew we were there. We spent the night in the living room, lights blazing. Dana told me she’d tried to board up the well, but every time she did, the lid would be found askew in the morning, as if someone had peeked out.

On Sunday morning, I called the county records office and learned that Margaret had once had a daughter who vanished in the 1960s. The official report said she’d likely drowned in the nearby creek, but the body was never found. The neighbors said Margaret had a habit of leaving the well open, and that after the disappearance, she claimed to hear her daughter’s voice calling from the water, begging to be let out.

Dana and I decided to seal the well for good. We mixed concrete and hauled it down, intending to fill the shaft. As we tipped the first wheelbarrow of concrete into the opening, a terrible scream erupted from below, followed by a wet, clotted plea: ‘Don’t bury me again!’ The concrete fell, but the sound didn’t stop. It grew louder, shaking the house. Dana dropped the wheelbarrow and ran, and I followed, my ears ringing.

We didn’t sleep that night, nor the next. We both agreed the house was bad news. On Tuesday, Dana put it on the market, but the realtor said the basement was ‘structurally unsound’ and recommended filling the well before sale. Dana refused, moving back to our parents’ place for good. The house sat empty for years. Sometimes, when I drive past, I see the lights on in the basement, and if I roll down my window, I can hear a faint, rhythmic creaking, like a rope swaying under a heavy load. I never stop. I never look back. But I always wonder if the well has found a new voice to cry for.