NOTE: The following was recorded as the fog rolled in
Is this working? Hello? Testing… Ah yes, thank God…
I’m hoping this reaches somebody, so there will be no mystery as to what happened to me. That I didn’t know she was married made no difference to him; he quoted “ignorance of the law does not excuse you from it.” I seem to be only one of her indiscretions, but her husband, giant, ignorant brute of a man, seems to blame everyone but her.
I only discovered later that this was merely a ploy.
Things are hazy after he shouted at me to dress. I remember a hail of club-like fists, then waking up in this field, a bucket of cold water unceremoniously dumped on my head. That was over an hour ago, from what I can tell by the changing position of the waxing moon. The field is wide and lined with forest on all sides. The moon is complete full, and a thick fog is hugging the lower parts of the ground. The fog is everywhere. If I sit, I can’t see so much as my hand in front of my face.
Although I have heard coyotes baying in the distance, they aren’t my concern. I have been chained to a stake near a well in the middle of the field. I have been secured by the ankle, wrapped uncomfortably tight and locked with a padlock. He doesn’t want me to leave; not by my own choice, at any rate.
I know what is in store for me; I only hope someone finds this and the man who did this is stopped. From what I can tell, he and his wife play a sick game, baiting lonely men and then sacrificing them. I am but the latest. When he woke me, I saw that he held a pig. I don’t know where he got it; they don’t live on a farm, although the area is rural, so I do not doubt the lummox stole it. He had tied it up, much like me, only with some light rope.
He proceeded to cut the pig several times on the hind legs with a large hunting knife. He turned to me and smiled when the grim work was done. His sloe eyes and barely toothed smile only heightened his menace as he brandished the bloody weapon; I knew he was capable of whatever his ignorant brain could conceive, without guilt. He pushed his bulk up close to me; I could smell his rancid breath with each word:
“Hold very still. Watch the pig, but do not move. I want you to see what is coming; I want you to understand what will happen to you. It has more meaning.”
I did as I was told, too terrified to disobey. He ran off behind me, presumably to hide behind a tree, so as to not be at risk, as I surely was. Each minute that passed moved agonizingly slow, interminably uneventful. I slowly began to relax, when I heard a sound. I can’t accurately describe it; it was sort of a soft scraping, accompanied by a low gibber and the sound of dripping water. I was assaulted by a rank odor which brought back memories of biology class and animals preserved in formaldehyde. The smell grew stronger as the sound grew louder; the dripping never subsiding, suggesting that whatever was scaling the inside of the well was either water-logged, or salivating copiously.
My panic nearly reached its apex when the sound abruptly stopped. Again, interminable minutes passed. I began to doubt my senses; perhaps it was my imagination, fueled by the suggestions of my liaison’s bestial husband taking over my good sense. But then a new sound emerged from the rock circle of the well, a strange inhalation that bordered somewhere between breathing and sniffing. The dripping noise began again, and I was convinced, then, that it was salivation I was hearing. I stood perfectly still, my terror rooting me as surely as a tree. I saw movement now. It was just a vague shape at first, tendril of darkness slithering over the side, toward the now panic-stricken pig. It squealed pitifully as it tried in vain to pull away from the nebulous member.
The thing barely touched the blood soaked leg of the animal, when a great sucking sound emerged from the well.
My horror seems to have clouded my mind from the bulk of what I saw, for now I only remember impressions. I recall an immense blackness emerging in a shot from the gaping orifice of the well. It was too large to have fit in the well’s shaft, but that was explained by the largely amorphous form of it. I recall tentacles, a multitude of them, swishing and dancing in all directions at random intervals from its shifting, gibbering mass. Eyes, black pearls the size of my fist stared blindly, yet hungrily, in all directions.
It seemed to be taking in the night; absorbing every detail that its senses would allow. The mist seemed to recede from its presence, as if nature itself was trying to deny its existence. The normal noises of the night had disappeared. There was a terrible silence, broken only by the terrified struggles of the pig. The sniffing resumed, and the mass seemed to turn toward the pig.
Several tendrils reached out toward the pig, feeling, sniffing, tasting. The pathetic creature screamed. It screamed. Good God, I didn’t know animals could scream, but it did. I never knew such terror was possible, but I saw it in the panicked struggle of the pig; it went beyond the knowledge that it was going to die. Somehow, it knew it would die horribly. The swaying of the tentacles changed to frenzied spasms as the thing grew excited at its find. As the pig struggled, the dance increased its pitch, until finally, several times the immensity that already protruded from the well spilled up and out, enveloping the pig entirely. Its screams were muffled by the monstrosity from the well, which sat and pulsated for several seconds.
It suddenly withdrew itself, in its entirety, back into the well. It happened with astonishing speed, and there was an awful tearing sound as the pig was ripped from its bonds, bone and flesh ripping from the force of the thing’s pull, its final scream echoing from the dark chasm of the well for seconds after its form had disappeared within.
A loud, malevolent sucking sound erupted from the well. I could hear the pig being crushed, its bones cracking audibly, accompanied by a horrendous grinding noise. There was a grotesque exhalation, and the smell of blood poured out of the well like a sickening miasma of death. I fought the urge to vomit, barely able to maintain my upright posture against the olfactory assault.
Minutes later, my mind finally allowed my body to collapse, though my fear had not lessened in the least. Minutes later, still, and the husband reappeared. He was shaking slightly, and his skin had taken on a ghostly pallor. He was no longer smiling. “It will feed as often as there is food.” He said, the quaver in his voice showing me that he had done this many times before. He grabbed my arm, and I marveled in the back of my mind how often stupidity is supplemented with strength. He slid the knife in long lines down my arm, grimacing with the effort of making the lines as deep as possible.
I sublimated my scream, hoping that if I kept quiet, the thing from the well would not emerge again; that I might formulate some plan of escape, despite being shackled and now wounded. He let go abruptly and stalked away, not looking back, confident that his plan would come to fruition. Eventually, I understood his confidence. The chain is thick and attached with practiced skill. The night is not done, and I am becoming ill from the pain in my arm.
I don’t know how regular an interval the thing emerges, but I have heard stirrings in the black depths of the well again, so no doubt it will return… From what I have pieced together, and mind you this is simple conjecture, the couple who captured me is part of a cult. Previously forgotten, seemingly idle statements by the wife have been coming back to me with new, frightening meaning.
That she was a part of a small local church that celebrated the full moon every month with a feast seemed of small consequence before, as I had assumed they were the ones dining at it. The truth of that statement is now brutally apparent. Whatever the thing in the well is, it is does not conform to any life I have ever witnessed or heard of. It brings back memories of old tales of Elder Gods and creatures from beyond time and space. I know it doesn’t belong here; it seems to consume but give nothing. I can only imagine the cult worships it to supplicate it, to feed its ravenous nature as I can’t imagine what product this being could provide that would be of any use to any human, sane or otherwise.
A friend of mine, a private investigator of some repute named Arthur Crowley recently lost a friend to some beast worshipping cult; a group of insane people who sacrificed themselves en masse to strange being, so it was said. I thought it was a fanciful theory put forth by the kind of people who believe supermarket tabloids have some insight that the legitimate press is not privy too.
It would appear that this is not the case. The thing I have witnessed is very real, although my every sense wants to deny its existence; being of questionable sanity, it would seem, is far preferable to the mind than certain, horrific death. There is something down there in that well, something not from here. It craves flesh, or blood, or both. I can only assume it does not stray far from the well, or even leave it with its entirety, as I would assume it would devastate the surrounding territory if it did.
Perhaps it posses some cruel, alien intelligence and understands its relationship with the people in the surrounding lands. Why risk an assured meal for the sake of wanton destruction?
Or maybe I am trying to assign motivations to something that is truly beyond understanding.
I hear the dripping again. I will hold the recorder out so you can hear it. I don’t know if the recorder can pick this up, but there is a subtle scraping sound. It knows I’m here. I am lucky the hick that stuck me out here did not bother to check my clothing; else he might have noticed my recorder. My one consolation is that someone may find this and bring justice to those that did this to me, and with luck, seal the baneful well that I am staring at so that no one else meets this fate.
I am also hoping that the tunnels of the well do not extend very far; I hate to think that there are more groups feeding this abomination. It has occurred to me that there may be more of these things in the world, that perhaps this ravenous monstrosity is not unique, and that perhaps certain disappearances in the world might be the result of others such as this. Perhaps the villagers of Roanoke, Virginia dug their well in the wrong spot, and weren’t as crafty or insane as the people of this town. Perhaps the Mayans or any of a number of once great civilizations that disappeared stumbled upon this…
It’s sniffing again. I don’t believe it will wait like it did before; like a shark once it smells and tastes blood, it is ready for more. It’ shifting, moving toward the well opening; I can hear it crawling. It’s near. The sniffing is getting louder; I can see the top of… The eyes are red… It sees the blood…
Oh holy God. Please. God, N…
Is this damn thing still runnin’? Here, you can have it back you poor sum’bitch.