Charon's Well

My black hoodie swallows me whole, just the way I like it at night. No one needs to see my eyes right now, not with my mascara running.

My little goth princess. My brother's voice rings in my ears like the memory it could only ever be again.

“I always hated it when you called me that,” I mumble while leaning on our idyllic town’s Wishing Well and twirling his lucky coin in my hand. It’s cold and heavy, as if carrying the weight of his death.

Just like me.

He claimed it was a real Greek or Roman pittance of some kind, but he was always full of shit. It is cool, though, I have to admit, with a raised image of a bee on one side and its sunken depression on the other. It was made from a poured mold, which gave it a ton of pimp factor.

The asshole might have never believed in me, nor did anyone else, for that matter, but I loved him nonetheless. Was that too much to ask of a fourteen-year-old girl? Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. Fuck if I know.

I reach into my pocket and pull out a pair of nickels, then toss them into the well one by one, saying:

- “I wish I wasn’t there that day.

- I wish you weren’t either.”

Each splash below rings hollow in my ears. These things are such bullshit, I think as I glared at his lucky coin. My lucky coin now, I guess.

It’s too much - too heavy to bear.

I try to fight off a fresh set of tears welling within me, but fail miserably.

“I wish it would’ve been me,” I mumble - and throw his coin into the well.

The splash doesn’t come as quickly as the others. I peer over the edge and hear metallic clinking several times. I finally hear the splash, but it takes way too long. And it’s deep. Really deep. Then I hear what sounds like oars splashing in the unseen water down below.

One coin, one life.

A voice whispers. The echo rises up the well like a cold breath released from the grave.

I push away from the well and feel a sharp sting of pain. A shiver runs through me as I see a dead bee squashed in my palm, posed just like the one on the coin. I brush it off, but the stinger remains embedded in my flesh.

An unholy, freezing mist sweeps out of the well and comes right at me. I stumble away - my heart racing - urging me into flight. So I flee in the opposite direction.

I’m pounding down Old Devil’s Road when I hear a rhythmic scraping and risk a glance. Impossible, my mind screams.

A boat no more than twenty feet long glides upon the mist, its benches filled with lost souls, apparitions adrift in silence. A rusted lantern sways from a crooked pole at the aft, casting a sickly glow around the hooded silhouette of a figure whose skeletal hands drip from an inky black cloak.

My mind warps, grasping for anything resembling a rational thought. Then I find one. Unfortunately, it’s the realization that I am on the road leading away from town.

Fuck, why am I going this way?

I can hear it gaining on me, so I head into a wheat field. I try to work myself around it to get back to town, but the boat angles to cut me off. Shit. I go back the other way but the fucking thing cuts me off again. Son-of-a-bitch! Then it dawns on me. It’s herding me toward the river!

A light. Thank God. I think I can reach it.

Shit, I’m tired. I haven’t run much since that time Jules threw a donut at some cops. Getting caught then only meant a citation. Getting caught now means… I don’t want to know what the fuck it means.

My chest heaves and my legs shake as I near what looks like a shed. I live not two miles away and never even knew it was here. I take one last glance back, and that boat is close. Too close.

One coin, one life.

The boatman’s voice is a knife in my brain, twisted with suffering. As I round the shed, I trip over some fishing nets and shit that’s just lying around and crash into the door.

I turn the handle, feeling the stinger dig deeper inside my palm as I fall inside, kicking the door closed behind me.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?”

This strange fisherman I have never met must’ve seen the fear in my eyes, cuz his startled expression softens in half a heartbeat after I so much as glance at him.

“What’s wrong, lass?” He asks.

Before I could speak, the shack quakes and the malevolent mist floods into the shed from its every orifice.

The stranger wraps his arms around me, trying to shield me from the evil. I can feel his calloused hands squeezing my shoulders through the thickness of my hoodie. The fog envelops us, and I cram my eyes shut. A chill blasts through me and wrenches the man’s firm grip asunder. Then the quaking stops.

I crack open my eyes and glance around - no man - no mist - no nothing. Was it all a dream? I pray.

Opening the door, I step outside and see the man, now an apparition of his own, sitting alongside the others.

One coin, one life.

The boatman reminds me with a gentle voice.

I stand there frozen - devastated - as the boat fades into obscurity. My panicked plea had been answered, and now that man was dead because of me. Me! Just like my brother!

It’s my fault, and I can’t even cry.

Maybe I’ll never cry again.

Fucking wishing well.

I may not have believed, but something down there… something down there believed in me.

(Can also be read at https://www.royalroad.com/profile/780926/fictions)