Don’t Go Into The Wellhouse (pt:1)


“You aren’t like everyone else, you’re worse.” I remember my Dad telling me that. I’d woke up in the middle of the night, hell I must have been six or seven and decided to make a snack. Somewhere between the hunt for mustard and turkey, he’d come down. He whispered that to me while he fixed a snack of his own. Dad would say things like that to me a lot but never when you might think. Not when he got mad or when I had seriously fucked up. But when we were alone. When normal fathers would take the time to instill some sort wisdom on their son, mine was telling me how awful I was.

Well, maybe he was giving me some wisdom after all.

I got the hell out of that house as soon as I could thanks to good ol’ Uncle Sam. Before I was nineteen I was mean and green. Got stationed in Texas for my first stent and then hit the lottery. Managed to swing Hawaii for my second run. If anyone asked today I’d tell them I didn’t re-up because I felt like getting a taste of that American dream. Honestly, though, some of my “buddies” made my last year hell.

See, it had started on my birthday. Some of the guys had found out I was still a virgin and sprung a call girl on me. We were all drinking and rented a hotel room to keep the party going. I was loving it until she came in. Now I got nothing against women, but I wasn’t a virgin by choice. I couldn’t get it up, never could, not even on my own. So, there she was. Sex poured into a dress and my pistol stuck in the holster.

The boys left us alone for a little “fun time” and she tried everything. I’m talking the most heartfelt striptease, a blowjob so vigorous it would have put a porn star to shame. She gave it the old college try. Nothing, just a very awkward air and her with a handful of overcooked linguine. It was all downhill from there. She left in a huff and demanded that my friend pay her despite me not being able to perform. It was a fucking mess. After that, they teased me relentlessly. Three disciplinary actions for fighting later and it wasn’t any better so I took my walking papers.

Six days back on the mainland and my Dad died. I was in a don’t tell motel outside some no-name town in California when the base forwarded the letter from Mr. Wilkis. Dad didn’t have any family to speak of and I never knew my mother. So Mr. Wilkis took it upon himself to track me down and give me the news. Got the next flight home. Not going to lie I was messed up that whole trip.

Hadn’t talked to the old man since I’d left and he’d not tried to talk to me. Army rolled out this posting thing that you can opt into, let your next of kin know where you’re stationed. For mail and stuff. Never sent one letter. But now that he was gone, my heart was in a knot and those old questions that I had tried so hard to forget came back.

What did I do to make you hate me?

Could I say I’m sorry, can I be sorry?

Why didn’t you love me?

Questions I thought I would never get answered. Looking back on it now, I guess I was wrong. When I made it back, found out Dad had a will. Left me the bulk of his savings, both cars, and the house. I was so overwhelmed that when the lawyer handed me an envelope from him, I almost broke down into a sobbing wreck. I remember holding that letter and thinking

“This is it, just like in the movies.” He’s put down onto paper all the things he couldn’t say, might at the very least hold the reason for his dislike of me.

“Don’t Go Into The Wellhouse.”

That was all it said. I spent the better part of three weeks going through the house and packing things up. Dad had been a bit of a hoarder, hell I’d found newspapers he’d saved since before I was born. He’d also let the two-story house go. The lawn was overgrown, the roof was in dire need of some repairs and the sheer amount of dust was terrifying. Through all the work I kept repeating those words over and over. Don’t go into the wellhouse.

After a long stent stacking boxes in the attic. I went out to it. The wellhouse was a little shack erected on the far end of the backyard. I would have thought nature would have claimed it by now. But to my surprise, there was a clear, well-worn path through the weeds. Seems dad had been out here quite a bit, even in his last days. The well had been dry since before I was born, why would he be out here?

There was a large lock on the aging wooden door but a few good tugs was all it took to separate the latch. I looked around, took out a flashlight and shone it in every dusty corner. Nothing special, just an old stone well. I don’t know what I had expected but disappointment was what I found. As I turned to leave, I spied something half under a tarp. It was a rope ladder.

A lot of things played through my mind then. Scenes of my dad climbing down into the dark. I could see him doing it but I couldn’t fathom why. What on earth could be down there? What did he have that he’d feel the need to hide it from the world? I knew there wasn’t any other way to find out but to see for myself. When I got halfway down I stopped and laughed at myself. Actually laughed, it was ridicules. The old man must have been losing it and here I was following after him for what, more newspapers?

Still, what if there was something?

I kept the light trained on the bottom and it didn’t look right. When I touched ground I found out the “bottom” of the well actually dropped into a tunnel that went along to the right. The tunnel wasn’t natural, there was some evidence of brickwork. Wide enough for me to walk with my arms outstretched, though my head did graze the ceiling. As I went deeper there were even reinforcement beams along the top. About fifty steps in a strange smell assaulted my nose.

It was an odd mix of awful and delightful. Like perfume covered vomit. I gagged and my dick grew hard for the first time in my life. A raging hard-on out of nowhere. The more of the smell I breathed in, the more aroused I became. Shocked and mind flooded by my first sexual awakening, I almost staggered past a door on my right. If I hadn’t put my hand out to steady myself I would have missed it. Unlike the rest of the place, there wasn’t a bit dust on it and the knob looked new but the wood was as old as the shed up top. The scent was strongest here.

My heart slammed in my chest and in an instant I was back in time. I was outside Sally Pritchford’s house, it was prom and my hands were trembling. With a deep breath, I opened the door. It was as if I had opened a dumpster on a hot summer day. The stink nearly knocked me back. I felt my stomach race up my throat as my cock twitched. Instinct took over and I felt around for a light switch. Miracle of miracles there was one.

A naked bulb suspended from the ceiling lit the room up in a flash. Odd enough that was the first thing I noticed. Not so much the light bulb, more the cord. It looked brand new too. As my eyes adjusted to the sickly yellow light I froze in the doorway. There on a mattress on the floor was a woman but not like any woman I had ever seen.

Her face was beauty itself. Luscious lips. full and pout, her eyes were a brilliant green like the heart of an emerald. Red hair spilled down around her shoulders and her breasts rose and fell with her breath. Her milky skin stopped at her belly button, below that her body was bloated and rotten. Her legs were little more than bones held together by mottled, decayed muscle. I could see the thin, almost membrane-like skin that kept her plumb intestine from spilling out. Those emaciated legs were splayed, the mattress under her stained from corpse juice.

As horrified as I was, never had there been such a desire in me. I vomited as she rose up a bit from the bed, my hands immediately went down my pants in a frantic need to ease the ache. She smiled sweet as candy at me before she lay back down and beckoned me with a single finger. I was like a man possessed. Sickened and needy I stripped off my clothes and, with little fanfare, shoved myself into her putrid depths.

We both sighed.

It was completion, a joyful oneness that I had never hoped to know. My head spun and my mouth went dry as we joined in carnal bliss over and over. After my fourth time, my hunger was finally satiated and I staggered back from her. I ran then, naked, my lower half covered in a rancid film.

That was sixteen hours ago. I’m writing this from my father’s desk in his private study. I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on things and I think now I understand the old man a lot better. He was trying to tell me something, some fundamental truth about us. I’m not like everyone else, I’m worse. I’m just like him.

You can follow more as things develop here

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