The Well

By James Tagge

The Well is a mystery/thriller spanning a century and a half in which supernatural foces of evil invade a small village in the Pennsylvania mountains. Attempts of the people to uncover the source are unsuccessful but their actions and some letters discovered by their descendants set them on the same path of destruction as they find the village and set about the task of solving the mystery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Tagge
• Release date: Jun 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465727152

James Tagge

I grew up in the Northeast, in Stamford CT and moved to Massachusetts in 1989. I started writing in my forties, begining with "When You Catch a Butterfly...", after having spent my entire career as a machine design engineer. I began to seek the help of my co-author Sarah Hammond when she was only fifteen at the time that she might guide me with regard to the main character Molly who was fifteen in the begining of the story. I was so impressed with her creativeness, we have worked together ever since. Ultimately, I hope to be able to write for a living.

Book preview

The Well

Published By James Tagge and Sarah Hammond

Copyright 2010 James Tagge and Sarah Hammond at Smashwords

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Chapter 1

The Village

Priss jumped up in her bed, gasping for breath. Overwhelmed with a sense of horror, her heart beat hard against the wall of her chest as she struggled to re-establish her awareness in the wake of feelings, ominous and threatening which lingered in her mind as she returned slowly to an awakened state. A bead of sweat rolled slowly down her cheek and neck, soaking the delicate lace of her nightgown.

She looked around the moonlit room frantically, desperate to verify each threatening looking shadow as that proper to the objects she knew to belong there. After a time too long for her comfort had passed, her perspective no longer diluted by the effects of the freedom of a mind set loose from the impositions of the order which defines consciousness, her judgment reigned again over her imagination and her anxiety waned with her growing satisfaction that she was in fact alone in her bedchamber.

She slipped off her bed and tip toed to the window whose shear curtains fluttered in the warm summer breeze. The dirt road below, which passed through the center of the village had been overrun by the shadows of the arms and mandibles of mangled and deformed creatures that grasped wildly about in the hopes of capturing whatever might happen by. She then turned her gaze upward to the tops of huge trees, which lined the street on the opposite side, whose branches, though providing the display below, imparted quite the opposite effect as they swayed gently in the wind.

Finally, feeling some sense of peace, she turned to the woods edge just beyond the village, her mind sorting carefully through the thoughts and feelings which fought for prominence at that moment, hoping to discover some aspect of that which had yet again, caused her to wake before her proper time. She felt its lingering effect, a despair of a horror of a nameless quality, which in each attempt to define in her mind, only slipped further from her understanding.

The coal black interior of the woods dissolved at the tree line under the weight of the soft moonlight which lay upon the field at the south edge of the village. It was threatening in its depth, the blackness, a realm in which anyone or anything might lurk with impunity. It would be no great feat to traverse the field to any one of the homes or other buildings. No one would know until it was too late. Surely there were creatures or entities to be feared she thought. Father had spoken of demons before, at home while they all sat by the fire, trying to instill in them all a fear of wandering too far from God’s pleasure in their most private thoughts and acts. Perhaps it was the beckoning, torturous cry of one of these she felt and heard in the night while drifting within that twilight state only through which such a communication might be realized. She would not yet speak of it she thought, knowing father would attribute such notions to her over active imagination, an aspect of her nature about which he had often commented. She sat on the windowsill.

How foolish they were to have settled so far from the other towns, so deep in the woods where any manner of creature might prowl. Why did they have to leave the city? What was so special about that place? Unable to displace the dulled sense of fear which remained with any command of her intellect or will, she began to consider going to her mother’s room to seek the comfort of her embrace and consolations whispered with such a gentle authority when suddenly, she saw one of the men of the village walking the street, his musket shouldered and at the ready. Finally, the elders had done something she thought. Apparently her father’s requests had made some impression on them, illuminating the exposure of the village to attack. From what or whom it was not known but such prospects had imposed their effects in the dark of the night and their suggestion, the sharp edge of which remained within the understanding throughout the following day had apparently influenced them. She smiled, thinking that men can be so foolish sometimes, so willing to fight and kill when the time for all other remedies had passed, yet unwilling to exercise the lesser effort to prevent the necessity of it all in the first account.

Priss sighed, a warm rush of relief flowing through her entire body as she watched the man disappear from her sight around the corner the kitchen of her house, the last on that side of the road. She returned to her bed and was asleep before she could contemplate the night’s events. The next morning she rose with the sun. She sat at her dressing table, fixing her hair, thinking of what it was about her that made the men in the town begin to treat her so differently, especially Francis Ledbetter who watched her constantly as she went about her daily chores, or during church services and other town gatherings. She was almost sixteen and would have to make a decision about which of them she would have court her. Another lecture by her father that it was time she decide was more than she could endure

She finished her putting up her hair and stood before the full-length mirror near her bed. Turning from side to side, she tried to see herself as the men in the town did, no longer a little girl but a woman and a sound prospect of a wife, as much as was her sister Mary or as her mother had been at her age. Mother was beautiful she thought. Father was so protective of her, obsessive really. She smiled at the notion. How wonderful to have such a man, one that was consumed with her safety and comfort in even the most incidental aspects of life. She hoped for a husband like that and wondered if there were any among those soliciting her attention who might be of similar character, having no idea as to how she might come to know for certain. Francis Ledbetter made no such impression.

She looked around to the door of the room then back at the mirror and smiling, loosened the ties at her shoulders which held her night gown. It slipped gently to the floor at her feet, her naked body in full view in the mirror. I am beautiful, she thought, turning again in one direction and another that she might see her figure in all its glory. Her thoughts then moved to her father’s talks of her responsibilities as a beautiful woman, that God had given her a gift beyond that given to most and to it she was responsible and for its effect she was culpable, should she flaunt it without due regard for those in witness. But he was not like the preachers of the day and in private times with her he softened his positions and explained to her in a greater depth than most would in his place would risk, what it was that she might enjoy of that gift and how.

As she watched her hands run slowly over her tiny waist and the graceful flare of her hips, the door swung open to the look of horror of her mother. Pricilla! She cried, moving quickly into the room, slamming the door behind her that no one else might happen by and see. She ran to Priss and bent over to take her nightgown in hand. What are you doing child!…..have you no shame!? She said, lifting the garment back into place. I just wanted to see….. Priss began but her mother had not finished venting her shock and displeasure. Do you not fear God!…..the vanity!…..the indulgence! But mother….I was alone…its my body….did not God create it as He wished it? Of course Pricilla….but to stand naked!….to stand naked and…the touching…its…its… She stumbled unable to allow the words to leave her lips. I am sorry mother…I didn’t mean to…. Sit child. Her mother said gently, by then calm and more concerned than angry. Priss sat on the bed with her and held her hand. Priss…God intended for certain…for certain aspects of… Mother? Priss interrupted. You need not speak of this…I know, truly I do…and I understand your worry…please…do not fret over me…I wish only to be good…I was just curious. Of what? The men in the village…the way they are with me…those things said…the way they are said…they seek my attentions unlike before…you understand. Yes…I do. Mrs. Weaver sighed. Desire burns in the hearts of men always…desire for us….it is a fire they cannot control or extinguish…. thank the Lord Pricilla that He made you a woman…for a man is taunted by its heat in every waking moment…his every day is a struggle, until the toll of time dulls the edge of his passions. Mother?...is father… Priss began, but her mother would not let her continue for the likely content of her question. Let it be sufficient for you that we are of a time in our lives when the pressures of marital life are somewhat less a trial…but you will find in your life as a wife and mother that you must carry yourself in a manner to remind your husband in every moment you are together that his regard for you must rule his passions…though you are obliged to see to his…needs…do you understand child? Yes mother…I think so…but it seems as if it is all so hard. One need be so careful Pricilla for God’s way is a good and pleasant one, but….it is not difficult to lose the path…and often it is lost in only the smallest of steps. She stroked her daughter’s cheek. I do not always agree with your father’s liberal views Priss…but he is your father and my husband and I do support him in all things…as you must when you marry…except in sin…beware child…the gift of your beauty can be your undoing…a curse as much a blessing." She leaned in and kissed Priss’s forehead, then stood and left the room. Priss sat for a short time thinking, frustrated that such things so natural were the object of such displeasure in God’s eyes. Life was hard she thought, not as much in the daily toils but more in the constraint of all that is natural to the self. She rose, dressed and went downstairs to begin the day’s chores.

Two hours were consumed by the work of the day before her mother called her and her sisters, Felicity and Mary for breakfast. As she sat in her usual place at the table she noticed father smiling at her. Returning the gesture she sat up, her back straight, her hands together in her lap, as did her two sisters and waited for her mother to take her seat at the opposite end of the table from him. Well. Mother began. The day looks as though it will be quite pleasant. To be sure my dear. Mr. Weaver said, then bowed his head, a signal to them all that grace was about to begin. They took each other’s hands and prayed. After, he looked to Priss with a curious and concerned expression. You were awakened again last night Priss? Yes. She said pensively, trying to think again what it was which caused her such distress. Then a flash of an understanding of a feeling or a sound rooted itself in her mind. She looked at her father curiously. Priss? He said, his eyebrows telling of his puzzlement at her manner. I think…I feel…I feel as if I…as if I heard something in the middle of the night. What was it child. Her mother asked, then worried herself, Priss being the daughter about whom she seemed always the most concerned. I am not certain….but I think…no…I feel as if it were…sad…tortured and in misery yet…horrible and wanting of the suffering of others…it cried out in the night to impart an awareness of its misery but as a warning also…I fear I cannot describe it well within my own thoughts. Mr. and Mrs. Weaver looked at each other for a few moments then back at her, her father laying his fork in his plate as he leaned back in his chair. Daughter…are you frightened when you wake from this…feeling? I am….more than I can describe and in a manner which defies even my own understanding…that I anticipate it now is as fearful a thing as that which I feel…it troubles me…father?...could there be something in the woods? Her father thought carefully for a few moments. That is possible….though a man or some manner of beast would surely reveal itself in less ill defined terms….and for the one, the constable would suffice…for the other, a clear shot from a musket would resolve the problem. I would venture Priss has struck her head on a rock or the branch of a tree and has loosed some important fixture within. Her younger sister Felicity said, breaking into laughter. The oldest of the three, Mary followed suite, stopping only when their father’s disapproval was displayed in a stern expression. Priss, I would have you wake me should you experience this…this feeling, again…is that understood? Yes sir…but it often happens deep within the night. Wake me nonetheless. Yes sir." Priss said with reservations as to his enthusiasm when his sleep would be interrupted. They all finished eating and set off about the rest of their daily chores.

It was a glorious day. The sun was bright but the temperature comfortable, a gentle breeze from the west acting to temper its effect. The town was bustling with the activity of the unusual number of travelers passing through, the road being the most convenient way over the mountains. Priss loved to watch the outsiders with their odd manners and strange dress. Her life being rather a sheltered one, as it was with all of those who lived in the village, it made for rather good entertainment.

Those who passed through were never there for more than a few days and with the exception of an occasional walk through the fields on the edge of the village, never ventured from the center of town, generally remaining close to Mrs. O’Donnell’s boarding house. They would see little of the nature of life in the village beyond the boundaries of its center, which pleased the town elders greatly as well as the majority of the residents, but their money was needed and so their presence, tolerated.

Deciding to take a break, Priss made her way across the road and down the wooden planked sidewalk, which linked the various stores in the village center on that side of the street. She walked slowly, looking in the windows of the shops, dreaming of the things she might one day have, wondering what would be her fate. Would she marry someone who would move them beyond the boundaries of the parochial life there which she found so limiting of her dreams? Or would she be given to a farmer, a man like Francis Ledbetter to become caged bird, sentenced to a life of the drudgery of tending to the everyday chores of village existence? Her heart sank at the prospect as she watched a well dressed man exit the door of the boarding house across the street, stop and check his pocket watch, look about the town with a smile then proceed down the steps and off toward the livery. He was undoubtedly wealthy, free to roam the world as he wished. There was certainly good fortune in being a man she thought.

Turning to survey the traffic on the street, she caught sight of Francis Ledbetter watching her, his expression indicative of thoughts other than that which was proper. She confessed within her own mind that she enjoyed his attentions and the fact that they were accompanied by desires which she knew to be less than pure. She let her hips sway just a little more than was natural to her gate, knowing that men were attracted to such a sight, though not yet understanding why. She turned to glance at him for a moment with a naughty little smirk to suggest her pleasure, followed immediately by a change of expression to that of disgust and with a snap of her head to face the other direction, indicated that his gaze was no longer welcomed. He looked at her confused then turned away to continue on toward the village center. She smiled to herself, enjoying her newly discovered ability to so affect men with but a gesture.

She took her usual seat on the bench just outside the mercantile, which provided a view of most of the events taking place within the village center. Her posture straight and her hands together in her lap, she watched the people shuffling back and forth shopping, engaging in conversations in small groups and admiring the unique, rural character of the village. She longed for the romance of the stories father had told her about his time in other lands, sailing across the sea through storms and clement whether, for the adventure and anticipation of the unknown and wondered how many of the visitors there lived such a life.

Francis turned to look at her again from across the road and down by the blacksmith shop and livery. She glanced back with a little smile, arched her back and took a deep breath, watching as he reacted with a sigh of desire he unsuccessfully tried to mask. The power of influence she felt was intoxicating. She didn’t look to see him leave a few moments later, feeling a little guilt and shame for her indulgence of the effect of her wiles, but there was little else a young girl might do for entertainment in the village so far from the nearest city or town. She would talk to her father again she thought. Perhaps he would offer some words of encouragement and hope. She was his favorite after all. Hello Miss Priss. She heard someone say as she turned, startled, to find Michael Powers standing next to her smiling. Oh, hello… forgive me…I did not see you standing there. I was in the mercantile…how is your family? They are well…thank you. Michael stood silent for a few moments, trying to think of something else to say. You look very pretty today Miss Priss. Why thank you Michael…and may I say that you look quite handsome. He smiled in delight of the compliment. Priss knew that he was taken with her and looked for opportunities to engage her in conversation. It was difficult for him in that her mother did not find him a suitable prospect given his lack of resources. She was determined to see that Priss would be well cared for and have a relatively comfortable marriage circumstance, in as much as that could be for a woman in that era.

Suddenly, she felt a fear well up within her, a sense of foreboding, which drew her eyes toward Mrs. O’Donnell’s boarding house, which was directly across the street. A well heeled man in an impeccable, expensive black suite and highly polished boots walked slowly down the stairs of the front porch, adjusting his gloves as he descended. He stopped at the bottom and scanned the street, as if taking stock of the village, turning slowly and deliberately at the end of his survey to glare at Priss with a smirk whose character caused her to tremble in the sense of evil which was its inspiration, as if he were able to see deep within her to those desires and thoughts which though kept buried and under strict control, could be the means of the vilest corruption.

He was handsome she thought though his countenance imparted the effect of one supremely repulsive. At once confused and greatly disturbed by the sight of him she turned away to look at Michael, who had not yet taken his eyes from her. She took a deep breath and shivered in her seat. Oh no. She said with an odd tone of urgency, the source of which she did not understand. Who is that man? Michael turned to look in the direction Priss had been looking. Who? He asked, confused. She turned back to find him gone, looking frantically about the village within a distance proper to that he might have been able to traverse within that span of time, but he was nowhere to be seen.But…but… She said, standing, urgent about the mystery. Priss? Michael asked, concerned. Oh…no…its nothing. She said then turned back to him, placing her hand on his arm. I must go… She said smiling, hoping in her expression to convey to him some measure of affection appropriate to their circumstance, which was that of the association of friends, though he wished so desperately that it might be more. He smiled as she turned and started quickly back toward her house. She scanned the street once more as she walked, hoping that she might spy the mysterious man again. Unsuccessful, she continued on to her house to find her mother in the kitchen with Felicity. Hello Priss. Her mother said, stroking her hair as she approached. Would you help your sister prepare supper please? Yes mother. She responded, pensively, her response causing her mother to look at her curiously. What is the matter child? Consumed in thoughts of the man she had seen, Priss did not hear her and stood frozen at the counter, her hands holding the loaf of bread she was assigned to cut into slices. Felicity nudged her as her mother walked over to look into her eyes. Pricilla? Yes? What is it that has your attention that is so much more important than the preparation of your father’s meal? Oh, mother. She said, chuckling, again setting her attention to the task. Her mother kissed her on the cheek and left for another room in the house. Felicity and Priss smiled at each other and hurried to finish. For the rest of the day, the girls worked together to help their mother with the household chores.

That evening, Mr. Weaver returned a little late, requiring that the food be kept warm in his absence, which upset Mrs. Weaver greatly for it was always diminished in the process. She took such pride in her duties as a wife, her proficiency most manifest in the quality of her cooking. In fact, she was famous for it in the village, Mrs. O’Donnell often asking her to cook for her guests when the occasion was special.

Finally, Mr. Weaver arrived, nodding to the four of them seated at the table, waiting with smiles. Mrs. Weaver rose to meet him as he approached. I am sorry my dear, but…I…I was detained. His smile seemed to be typical of his manner when he entered to find them all together yet Mrs. Weaver was not deceived. Something had happened which had aroused an urgency in his mind and was evident, though subtly, in his manner. She took her seat along with him as he looked at them all with the suggestion of emotion in his gaze, then taking the hands of Priss and Felicity, led them in grace. How was your day father? Mary asked in the manner her mother might have, she being the most serious of the three girls. Already promised to John Weber, a well-respected son of a farmer who lived on the outskirts of the village, she sought to meet those expectations of a woman engaged and ready to become a wife. Mrs. Weaver was certain that she would be well cared for and would have the promise of a relatively comfortable life. Her father looked at her then at his wife, his eyes telling of a knowledge of events he would rather not convey in the presence of their daughters. They talked of other things, typical of families like theirs, though their discussions were generally freer and more open than those of the others in the village. Mr. Weaver often complained of the Puritanism, which seemed to hold all the Protestants in its grasp, as if some amorphous, jealous spirit, which lurked always within the ranks of those who genuinely sought to do God’s will. Somehow they would always lose their way and in time, though probably absent any deliberate intent, drift to possess a state of mind in which life became something for which to apologize to God. But Mr. Weaver knew the true meaning of the faith and shared that understanding with his family, advising them all to tailor their expressions of it in the midst of the other townsfolk, a constraint they were all only too happy to endure for the pleasure of indulging their freedom of thought when together at home. There was no catholic church within a hundred miles of the village so they were unable to officially practice their faith as could the others. However, they did do what they could, praying together and saying rosaries before they retired for the night.

When supper was over they all retired to their rooms and prepared for bed. Priss feared that she would again be haunted, awakened as the night before, worried that her nightmares were somehow associated with the presence of the man she had seen in the village earlier that day. She sat on the bed, brushing her hair, remembering the repulsion she felt and the sense of evil he imparted.

Frustrated and feeling alone in her predicament, she put down her brush and tip toed to the door, opening it a crack to hear her parents talking in low voices downstairs. Near the old well. She heard her father say. What happened to it? Mr. Weaver sighed. It was horrible…the poor creature…it was ripped to pieces…there was blood everywhere…as if… Perhaps it was some other animal. Her mother interrupted and suggested, hoping not to be contradicted. No…it appears the old well was of some intended purpose…the blood…no wife…it was at the hand of someone…I fear a member of our village. How…but how? I am not certain…It frightens me...terribly…that…that someone could be so cruel…or that there might be some other reason. But husband…what reason…what could be the motivation of such an act? I fear the answer. He said, sighing. But you need not worry…I will address the issue again with the town elders. Be careful John…please…you know how they can be…they will find witches and demons behind every tree and rock. Priss closed the door and walked to her bed. It was not the kind of information she wished to hear and feared that she would be awake all night, waiting for whatever it was that haunted her, but she was asleep in minutes, rising the next morning with no memory of another visitation.

Pricilla set out early as always to see to her chores until it was time for her to rest before breakfast. As she started for the village to take her place in front of the mercantile as was her habit, she turned to walk to the well, remembering her father’s comments the night before. When she was just a few yards away, she could see the stains of blood which had dripped from its stone wall and pooled at the ground below. Pricilla Weaver! She turned to see the wife of one of her neighbors walking urgently toward her. Come away child…you should not see such things…away to your home. Priss turned obediently and walked with the woman along the road to that point closest to her house. She was now more curious than ever and was determined to see the evidence of what had happened there.

She waited by the stairs to the kitchen as the woman continued down the road, wondering what she might do, reconsidering her plan to investigate while she was again alone, but when she turned again toward the well, she could see two men from the village with shovels and pails of whitewash preparing to remove all evidence of the horrible event. She sighed and returned to her chores deciding that in time she would speak to her father of the event. He would tell her she thought, though most likely in terms carefully designed to convey as few of the grisly details as possible.

The day wore on as was usual, her bedtime welcomed in her exhaustion. She lay under the warm covers feeling so secure and safe, the smell of her sheets and blankets that of the air of a spring morning. She wondered if the animal found at the well was connected somehow to the dreams which were her torment in the night then slipped away into the twilight state and dreamed the dreams of young girls.

Chapter 2

The Missing Girl

Two weeks passed without incident. Life in the village was quiet and routine, each setting about his daily chores with usual dedication, the memories of the animal’s massacre distant and by then disconnected from any immediate sense of worry. Time it seemed would dull the most intense of fears. The morning’s character told of a beautiful day to come. Her chores seemed less burdensome somehow. When it was time for her customary break she walked to the mercantile and took her usual seat outside on the sidewalk to watch the town’s people passing by in the prosecution of their daily affairs. The sun was warm on her face and the smell of flowers hung in the air, the source the gardens which lined the front of Mrs. O’Donnell’s boarding house. She felt happy at that moment. The air smelled sweet and an almost undetectable breeze enveloped her, its effect felt in a gentle fusion