The sound of footsteps woke me up. I looked up and saw Peter up and cleaning. There was a mess on the floor that I swore was not there the night before. When I stood up, I noticed a cut on my leg. No, not a cut. A slice. A long, thin line burned down my thigh from top to bottom. The pace of my heart picked up as I checked to see if something was in my bed, but it was empty.
“You can’t forget,” Peter said quietly. “Please never forget.” He put the broom down and left the room. I looked at the cut on my leg in the full length mirror behind the door. It stopped bleeding, but needed to be cleaned up. I quickly grabbed the bloody sheets and hid them in the closet away from my mother, and replaced them with fresh ones from the armoire. I then checked the hall to make sure nobody was around and ran into the bathroom. After I showered, bandaged my leg, and put on clothes to cover the bandage, I went downstairs to breakfast.
Peter was helping our mother finish cooking what seemed to be french toast. I sat at the table and poured myself a glass of apple juice when my mother came and sat next to me. “How was your night?” She asks me eerily, as if she knew. “Did anything happen?”
My stomach dropped after she asked that question. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.” she grabs my leg as she says this, pain shoots up my leg and I wince and bite my lip.
“I’m not hungry, I’m going to my room.” I stand up and head back upstairs and my mother watches me with a sinister look on her face, but she says nothing else.
Late June in Louisiana is usually hell for me. I hate the heat and especially the humidity. The only good thing about my father taking me to California is the weather was much nicer. But now that I’m back, I never want to go outside. So for the first couple of weeks, I didn’t unless I needed to. But I don’t sleep either. My occasional bouts of sleep happen during the day, when Peter is awake. I’m too scared to sleep at night, but I also refuse to believe in the stories my mother whispers about every day.
The cut on my leg is healed, and I have done a lot of research on what could have gone on. I found that the house was built nearly 300 years ago, it was one of the first houses built in this area. It’s had many remodels and modern updates, but the history of the house can’t be taken away. I also found that over 100 people have died here, and most of their bodies have disappeared. The ones they found were buried near the well outside. When I found that information last week, I stopped looking things up. I couldn’t bear hearing anything else that will keep me up at night.
The night after independence day was when it started again. I decided to sleep at night again after Peter had been consistently telling me it would be okay as long as I listened to my mother. I still didn’t believe it was “monsters” that did that to me the first night, but I was still a little worried about what was going to happen.
As I was falling asleep that night, I heard tiny scratches coming from near me. It sounded like claws on the floor. And then I got a whiff of something terrible. It smelled like mold, dirty water, and death. It’s a nightmare. I kept repeating in my head. I closed my eyes tighter and covered my ears. Then it happened.
Something grabbed my foot and started pulling me off the bed. Something else, or someone else, crawled up next to me at the same time and covered my mouth so I couldn’t scream. It was too dark to see what or who was in the room with me, but the smell was very strong now. The only light in the room was a bit of moonlight coming through the window over Peter’s bed. I glanced over quickly and saw that he was still asleep, and perfectly unharmed. They weren’t after him, they were after me. I thrashed and tried to scream as they continued to pull me off the bed. When my head hit the floor, everything went black.
Never forget about the monsters in the well. Remember, they come out at night.