All's well that ends well?

The portly gentleman, Mr Obadiah Smith, looked like a typical nineteenth-century land owner. Tweed plus-fours, a shiny, gold topped cane and a large greying handle- bar moustache made him look as though he had stepped off the pages of one of those novels where the evil Lord of the Manor does despicable things to the lowly serfs on his property. However, the young man currently on his doorstep was not a lowly serf. He was in fact a surveyor whose company had obtained evidence that there was some kind of well on the property. Pound signs had flashed across the portly gentleman’s eyes as he welcomed the young man into his home.

“So, are we thinking a water well or maybe an oil well?”

The young man smiled. “At this stage we’re not entirely certain but...”

Obadiah interrupted him. “Either way it’s on my property so I’ll have my lawyer draw up the relevant paperwork so that there’s no misunderstanding about owner’s rights.”

“Of course,” said the young man who had yet to introduce himself. After some provi- sional arrangements had been made the young man left or rather was practically shoved out the door. He got into his car and drove away slowly crunching the gravel beneath his tyres. Indoors Obadiah was excited and couldn’t wait to speak to Andrew, his lawyer. Andrew was keen to make Obadiah aware that this mysterious well may be something and nothing and certainly not worth getting up any hopes of possible impending financial security. But Obadiah wouldn’t listen. That evening he took a stroll to the village pub where he held court at the bar. With a top-shelf whiskey in hand he loudly announced the discovery of his well, on his land (and potentially his profits). People in the village were used to Obadiah by now and were happy just to let his ramblings go in one ear and out the other. Except for one person. Old Bob had lived in the village for all of his eighty eight years and never held back if he had something to say. And this evening he definitely had something to say.

“You wanna leave that well alone,” he warned. “’Tis nothing but bad news. Mark my words. Just leave it buried and forget abaht it.”

Obadiah slapped his thigh as he laughed at Old Bob. But Old Bob was highly respec- ted in the village and if he gave you a warning about something, you listened. Obadi- ah realised that he was the only one laughing at his ridiculing of Old Bob so instead of apologising he slammed his whiskey glass on the bar top and flounced out of the pub, some choice words left hanging in the air behind him.

Several weeks later, after much to-ing and fro-ing of legal documents, the young man was back with his team of surveyors and engineers. They quickly got to work excav- ating a large hole where they’d calculated the site of the well was. Sure enough that is

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what they uncovered. The engineers could not estimate the depth of the well it was so deep. The diameter of the well was wide enough that a grown man could easily drop down into it so the engineers were careful to implement all the correct safety proced- ures. Obadiah came marching across the field anxious to see if the surveyors had been correct in their assumptions.

“Ah, Mr Smith,” the young man held out his hand, “You’ve come to see...”

Once again he was interrupted by Obadiah. “...what this hole in the ground is going to be worth!” With that he shoved aside a woman who was furiously scribbling notes on a clipboard and peered over the edge of the well. “So, is it water or oil?”

The young man shook his head. “Neither. We think that it may be some ancient dry well. Definitely no oil or water but archaeologically speaking it’s potentially a gold mine.”

Obadiah was furious and threatened to sue them all for the inconvenience of having them on his land plus the fact that he felt he’d been misled about the financial remu- neration he’d receive. No amount of explanation would placate him and everyone on the site heaved a sigh of relief when he finally stomped off back to his manor house. The lady who had been shoved aside earlier on approached the young man. “Gary, I have to tell you I think we should cover up this hole and forget about it.”

Gary was wide-eyed. “What? Why? Jan, you know the legend about this well! I want to go down there and see if the stories are true.”

Jan could see that here was another man not worth arguing with so she compromised. “Okay, but please can we just drop a mike down first. If we hear what we think we’re going to hear then you’ll know definitively. Then you can go down yourself. Please?” Gary knew she was right and agreed that that was what they’d do the following day. At seven the following morning everyone was back on site. The engineers were double checking the mike that they’d be using to drop down the well. As soon as the senior engineer gave the okay down went the audio equipment that would transmit whatever it picked up. The mike had one thousand metres of cable and after a long hour they were still dropping the mike. Eventually Gary couldn’t wait any longer and told them to stop. Jan switched on the receiver and with bated breath they waited. At first all they could make out were tiny, tinny voices, as though someone had used very old equipment. Everyone crowded around the receiver, straining to hear some- thing intelligible. And then they did. Once they recognised what they were listening to, the sounds became crystal clear. Layers upon layers of human voices, pitifully crying, sobbing and screaming in terror flooded the audio line. A couple of the guys stepped back instinctively putting their hands over their ears. But Jan and Gary con- tinued to listen. They knew now that the legends were true. Gary began to sort out his abseiling gear so that he could get down the hole himself but Jan placed a hand on his

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arm and simply shook her head. Gary stopped what he was doing, the sensible part of himself agreeing that to venture anywhere near to those heart wrenching sounds could be nigh on suicidal. Eventually it was just Gary and Jan standing there staring at the receiver as it spewed out horrifying sounds of humanity being shredded to pieces. Everyone was shaken by what they’d heard. They had been expecting to be pleased to have discovered such a fantastic piece of archaeological mythology, some- thing that they could be recognised for for the rest of their lives. But they weren’t. Si- lently the equipment was packed away, the mike was pulled up out of the well and the hole was covered over, making it safe from anyone accidentally finding it. Just as they were about to leave the site they spotted Obadiah approaching, a look of exas- perated fury etched across his face. “You’re leaving?! Without saying a word to me?! I demand that you unpack your stuff and show me what you have found!”

Gary sighed. “I cannot do that Mr Smith. Trust me when I say we found nothing of note down that well. No water. No oil. Just an endless dry well. I’m sorry that this is disappointing for you but that’s the fact of the matter. Our legal team will be in touch regarding money for disruption. I’ll say goodbye, Mr Smith.” He put out his hand and Obadiah shook it.

“Oh well,” he said, “you win some, you lose some. Thank you for your time. Safe journey home.” And with that he turned on his heel and marched back the way he came.

Jan frowned at the retreating figure of Obadiah Smith. “He took that better than I thought he would.” Gary ruefully nodded as he threw his backpack into the boot of his car.

It was a couple of weeks later that the locals were propping up the bar in the Barley Inn and someone commented that they hadn’t seen ‘His Lordship’ in the pub lately. Among themselves they speculated that he may have gone on holiday with the pro- ceeds of his fabulous well or typically had won the lottery and had cleared off around the world. But it was Old Bob who cut the noise like a knife when he piped up from the corner of the snug. “I’ll tell you what’s happened shall I? That greedy bastard wanted a closer look at his well. That’s what’s ‘appened.” The locals were confused. “What do you mean Bob? You think he’s fallen down his own well?”

Bob shook his head. “Nah, he didn’t fall. He would have gone down there properly. But he should ‘ave listened to Old Bob.”

“Bob, you’re scaring me,” the barmaid had stopped what she was doing. “Last time Smith was in here you said something about a legend. What were you on about?” Bob slyly smiled. “The legend is that that hole is called Hell’s Well. There’s only one way in. And there’s no way out.”