The Well Beneath the Floor

There it was again. The voice.

“You know what you’ve done,” it whispered in its androgynous timbre.

This time I was angry. Enough was enough.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!” I shouted, rising sharply from my chair and throwing my book against the wall, as if my raging humanity would frighten off the unknown. As if my very masculinity could shut down this whining, irritating accusation that came from the genderless voice night after night.

But like most men, my belief in my own importance and virility was nothing more than an adolescent fantasy.

More importantly, though, did I know what the voice was talking about? Deep down? Did I? Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

A vision flashed in my mind so fast that I could see little more than a blur, as if my mind slammed a door shut on a memory before I could put all the sensory pieces together. But it left behind the stench of betrayal, narcissism and intrusion. But that wasn’t me. Nope.

I shook my head as if to clear it, and in place of the failed memory I re-seated my indignant outrage. With furious strides, I crossed to the room from which the voice always issued, and threw the door open. Without slowing, I walked over to the trapdoor on the floor and pulled it up by its metal ring.

There it was. The well.

I was shown it when I first viewed the house for potential purchase. It seemed like a quaint addition to a home, and ultimately sold me on the place. It’s rough-hewn, antiquitous circular stone wall had a unique charm and beauty. It made the house feel special. Now, however, it felt like a nightmare.

The ladder was still in place from the last time I had followed the voice, trying to figure out what it wanted from me. I swung one leg over the edge and held tight to the wall as I found the top rung with my foot, then proceeded to descend. I didn’t have a light with me this time, but I had been down here a few times now, and I knew it was nothing more than a 15-foot descent to a dirt floor. The well had been dry for many decades. The ceiling light of the room above was enough for me this time.

At the bottom, I stood in the middle of the fairly featureless round room, and tried hard to feel the strength and invincibility I was trying to convey. I wouldn’t admit to myself that my resolve and courage were faltering.

“Well?” I demanded. I was dimly aware of the pun I had made, but at that moment I could find no humour in anything.

“You know what you’ve done,” it whispered again.

“No, I fucking don’t! What do you want from me? I’m sick of your bullshit!”

Maddeningly, it whispered again, “You know what you’ve done.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” I spat out. I was so done with this, and took a step towards the ladder. But the voice stopped me.

“Liberate yourself. Join us.”

This was the first time it has said anything other than it’s repetitive accusation.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You know what it means, don’t you, Paul?” the voice said. It’s ambiguous tonality was really getting under my skin. It sounded like all genders, and none. In fact, was it multiple voices in unison? And how did it know my name?

The mask of bravery I was still stoically trying to wear was beginning to crumble. A shiver ran from head to toe. Suddenly, I didn’t want to confront it anymore. Like previous nights, my resolve broke and I just wanted to get up that ladder so fast that it wouldn’t have time to...I didn’t even know what.

But for some reason, I couldn’t move. I don’t know if it was the paralysis of fear, or something else. Surely it couldn’t be understanding.

Surely, it couldn’t be desire.

At that moment, I heard the trickling of water. Felt cold wetness rising against the sides of my feet.

I looked down at it, with a multitude of questions in my mind screaming to be let out, but my mouth was as still as the rest of me.

“Join us. You’ll see. Just wait.”

And I did.

The water looked black, but that must just have been the dim light. Wasn’t it?

Stagnant damp air assaulted my nostrils. There appeared to be movement within the curved stone of the wall. Shapes randomly weaving together...I tried to discern what they were as the water reached my knees.

I looked down again, and realized I couldn’t see my legs below the waterline. Was the water really black? Why? And why wasn’t I moving? What the hell was wrong with me, standing frozen knee-deep in water, making no effort to save myself?

Some logical part of my mind said calmly, “Don’t worry, you’ll float if it gets too high. You’re not made of stone. You’ll just float up to the top of the well and step out. No problem. Seal up the trapdoor, sell the house, and never speak of it again. Caveat emptor to the next owner.”

As the water level rose, I tried not to think about the fact that so far, I didn’t feel buoyant at all.

“Shed your clothes, let us surround you. Join us.”

Us? I thought. What the fuck?

“What do you mean by that?” I said with a shaky voice, even as I unbuttoned my jeans and took them off, followed by the rest of my clothes.

“What are you doing?” I screamed at myself inside my head.

I was even more horrified to realize that I was becoming tumescent, while cold, black water rose up my thighs. That, I think, was when I really started to unravel. I was shocked by my physical reaction. It made no sense. But then, I thought, such is life. Your body betrays you. Again and again. It’s just part of our endless dance of insanity.

The shapes on the walls were starting to crystalize now. Was that a face that looked at me? Were those limbs that were moving and sliding together? They were everywhere on the walls, as far up as the eye could see. The well itself now seemed even higher than it had been before, taller than the ladder I had used to climb down, but that was impossible, was it not?

I screamed when the figures began to slip quietly into the dark water. Screamed, but remained still. There was no longer any doubt: some part of me wanted this, even as my guts twisted in terror. I found myself surrendering, as the water level rose above my clenched lips, my breath held tightly.

Under the water, it was mercifully dark. I could no longer see the writhing shapes of people slipping into the pitch-blackness.

I suddenly realized that I was not floating, as I had assured myself I would. A stab of panic accompanied that thought, and another one came when I felt the first touch of something on my foot.

Hands were grabbing at me, tentatively at first, then more sensually. I could feel them on my ankles, sliding up my calves and thighs. Then mouths too, and limbs wrapping around me. It was like they were made of the water, but a little more tactile, and a lot more purposeful.

I fought them at first, jerking my feet and hands and other parts away as quickly as I could with revulsion, flailing underwater like a frightened fish. But as it went on, I began to let it happen.

Limbs wrapped around my torso. Mouths wrapped around my sexual organs, around my toes, my fingers, my nipples, my chin. It was equal parts terrifying and ecstatic.

Wet words whispered into my submerged ears, “You know what you’ve done. We’re here together now. Join us.”

I opened my own mouth to reply, and the water flowed in. The darkness flowed in. My new friends flowed in. Liberation flowed in. Relief and understanding flowed in.

And I am free.