The Wet Track

The rain came down in sheets that evening, turning the gravel driveway of the old farmhouse into a muddy slurry. My grandmother, Aunt June, and I had spent the whole day scrubbing every inch of the place, trying to make it presentable for my cousin’s visit. The air smelled of bleach and pine, a sharp contrast to the musty odor that had clung to the walls when we arrived.

We finished just as the sky darkened, and I went to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water. The tile floor, freshly mopped, gleamed under the fluorescent light. I stood there, letting the coolness of the room settle on my skin, when I noticed a dark splotch near the sink. I leaned closer, expecting a smudge, but it was a footprint. A bare foot, maybe adult-sized, but with toes too long and a heel too narrow. It was wet, as if someone had just stepped out of a bath.

My heart stuttered. I looked around, and there they were, prints everywhere, crossing back and forth without any logic. They went under the table, around the trash bin, up the walls, and even on the ceiling. My grandmother hobbled in, her eyes widening as she traced the trail. ‘June, get the lantern,’ she whispered, her voice cracking. ‘This ain’t right.’

Aunt June returned with an old oil lamp, the kind my grandfather used during blackouts. The flickering light threw strange shadows, and I saw the prints shift, as if the moisture was still fresh. My grandmother pointed to a spot on the wall, her finger trembling. ‘They’re going up,’ she said. ‘And they’re not coming down.’

We decided to sleep in the living room that night, huddled on the floor with the lights on. But the sound of dripping water kept me awake. It came from the kitchen, rhythmic, like a leaky faucet, but softer. I crept across the room, my bare feet cold on the carpet, and peered through the doorway. The kitchen was dark, but the moonlight streaming through the window revealed a figure standing by the stove, its back to me. It was small, almost child-sized, but its proportions were wrong—arms too long, legs too short. It was dripping, not water, but something dark that pooled on the floor and then vanished.

I wanted to scream, but my throat closed. The figure turned its head slowly, too slowly, and I saw its face—or rather, what should have been a face. There was only smooth, wet skin, like a newborn baby’s, but pale and slick. No eyes, no nose, no mouth. Yet I felt it looking at me, as if it could see through the emptiness.

‘Don’t move,’ a voice hissed from behind me. It was Aunt June, her hand gripping my shoulder. ‘It’s the old well. It’s been hungry since we sealed it.’

I had never heard of a well. The farm had been in the family for generations, but I thought it was just a house and fields. Aunt June pulled me back, and we didn’t sleep that night. We sat in the living room, listening to the dripping grow louder, then softer, as if it were breathing.

The next morning, the footprints were gone. The kitchen floor was pristine, polished to a shine. But on the ceiling, right above the table, was a patch of dampness, slowly spreading. My grandmother handed me a hammer and a crowbar. ‘The well’s under the floor,’ she said. ‘We got to open it, before it crawls out for good.’

We pried up the linoleum, and there it was, a wooden trapdoor, warped and green with age. As I pulled it open, a gust of cold air rushed out, carrying the stench of wet earth and something sweet, like rotting fruit. And deep below, I heard a splash.