The Girl from the Well

By Rin Chupeco

"[A] Stephen Kinglike horror story...A chilling, bloody ghost story that resonates."— Kirkus

From the highly acclaimed author of the Bone Witch trilogy comes a chilling story of a Japanese ghost looking for vengeance and the boy who has no choice but to trust her, lauded as a "a fantastically creepy story sure to keep readers up at night" (RT Book Reviews)

I am where dead children go.

Okiku is a lonely soul. She has wandered the world for centuries, freeing the spirits of the murdered-dead. Once a victim herself, she now takes the lives of killers with the vengeance they're due. But releasing innocent ghosts from their ethereal tethers does not bring Okiku peace. Still she drifts on.

Such is her existence, until she meets Tark. Evil writhes beneath the moody teen's skin, trapped by a series of intricate tattoos. While his neighbors fear him, Okiku knows the boy is not a monster. Tark needs to be freed from the malevolence that clings to him. There's just one problem: if the demon dies, so does its host.

Suspenseful and creepy, The Girl from the Well is perfect for readers looking for

• Spooky books for young adults
• Japanese horror novels
• Ghost stories for teens
• East Asian folklore

Praise for The Girl from the Well

"There's a superior creep factor that is pervasive in every lyrical word of Chupeco's debut, and it's perfect for teens who enjoy traditional horror movies...the story is solidly scary and well worth the read." — Booklist

"Chupeco makes a powerful debut with this unsettling ghost story...told in a marvelously disjointed fashion from Okiku's numbers-obsessed point of view, this story unfolds with creepy imagery and an intimate appreciation for Japanese horror, myth, and legend." — Publishers Weekly STARRED review

"It hit all the right horror notes with me, and I absolutely recommend it to fans looking for a good scare. " — The Book Smugglers

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sourcebooks
• Release date: Aug 5, 2014
• ISBN: 9781402292194

Rin Chupeco

Rin Chupeco has written obscure manuals for complicated computer programs, talked people out of their money at event shows, and done many other terrible things. They now write about ghosts and fantastic worlds but are still sometimes mistaken for a revenant. They are the author of The Girl from the Well, its sequel, The Suffering, and the Bone Witch trilogy. Find them at www.rinchupeco.com.

Book preview

Front cover of The Girl from the Well by Rin Chupeco. Cover features an illustration of a young woman floating with black eyes and a red chain. Tagline reads, I am where dead children go.

Also by Rin Chupeco

The Girl from the Well

The Suffering

The Sacrifice

A Hundred Names for Magic Series

Wicked As You Wish

An Unreliable Magic

The Bone Witch Trilogy

The Bone Witch

The Heart Forger

The Shadowglass

The Never Tilting World Series

The Never Tilting World

The Ever Cruel Kingdom

Title page for The Girl From the Well by Rin Chupeco, published by Sourcebooks Fire.

Copyright © 2014, 2022 by Rin Chupeco

Cover and internal design © 2022 by Sourcebooks

Cover design by Liz Dresner/Sourcebooks

Art © Reiko Murakami

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

[phone]

sourcebooks.com

The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

Chupeco, Rin.

The girl from the well / Rin Chupeco.

pages cm

Summary: Okiku has wandered the world for centuries, freeing the innocent ghosts of the murdered-dead and taking the lives of killers with the vengeance they are due, but when she meets Tark she knows the moody teen with the series of intricate tattoos is not a monster and needs to be freed from the demonic malevolence that clings to him.

(hc : alk. paper) [1. Ghosts—Fiction. 2. Revenge—Fiction. 3. Good and evil—Fiction. 4. Horror stories.] I. Title.

PZ7.C4594Gi 2014

[Fic]—dc23

2014017328

For Les—who taught me that monsters need love too.

Contents

One: Fireflies

Two: The Tattooed Boy

Three: Light Shatters

Four: Black and White

Five: Madwoman

Six: The Murder

Seven: Bread Crumbs

Eight: The Smiling Man

Nine: Dolls

Ten: Understanding

Eleven: A Funeral

Twelve: Good-Bye

Thirteen: The Well

Fourteen: Letters

Fifteen: Boys

Sixteen: Mutsu

Seventeen: Fear Mountain

Eighteen: Chinsei Shrine

Nineteen: Exorcism

Twenty: Purification

Twenty-One: Sacrifice

Twenty-Two: Appeasement

Twenty-Three: Hanami

Excerpt from The Suffering

Acknowledgments

About the Author

One

Fireflies

I am where dead children go.

With other kinds of dead, it is different. Often their souls drift quietly away, like a leaf caught in the throes of a hidden whirlpool, slipping down without sound, away from sight. They roll and ebb gently with the tides until they sink beneath the waves and I no longer see where they go—like sputtering candlelight, like little embers that burn briefly and brightly for several drawn moments before their light goes out.

But they are not my territory. They are not my hunt.

And then there are the murdered dead. And they are peculiar, stranger things.

You may think me biased, being murdered myself. But my state of being has nothing to do with curiosity toward my own species, if we can be called such. We do not go gentle, as your poet encourages, into that good night.

We are the fates that people fear to become. We are what happens to good persons and to bad persons and to everyone in between. Murdered deads live in storms without season, in time without flux. We do not go because people do not let us go.

The man refuses to let her go, though he does not know this yet. He is inside an apartment that smells of dirty cigarettes and stale beer. He sits on a couch and watches television, where a man tells jokes. But this man who wears a stained white shirt, with his pudgy arms and foul vapors, this man does not laugh. He has too much hair on his head and on his face and on his chest, and he is drinking from a bottle and not listening to anything but the alcohol in his thoughts. His mind tastes like sour wine, a dram of sake left out in the dark for too long.

There are other things inside this apartment that he owns. There are filthy jackets of shiny fabric (three). Empty bottles (twenty-one) dribble dregs of brown liquid onto the floor. Thin tobacco stalks (five) are grounded on a tiny tray, smoke curling over their stunted remains.

There are other things inside the apartment that he does not own. Small, pale pink scratches of cloth snagged against nails in the floorboards (three). A golden strand of hair, smothered within the confines of wood (one).

Something

gurgles,

from somewhere nearby. It is a loud and sudden noise, and it penetrates through the haze of his inebriation, startling him.

The Stained Shirt Man turns his head to a nearby wall and shouts, You better fix that fuckin’ toilet tomorrow, Shamrock! mistaking one problem for another. If he is expecting a reply, he does not receive it, but he does not seem to care.

He does not look my way because he does not see me. Not yet.

But she does.

I can tell she has not been dead long. Her long, yellow hair hangs limply around her waist, her skin gray and brittle and bloated. The man drowned her quickly, so quickly that she does not realize it. This is why her mouth opens and closes, why she gulps at intervals like a starving fish, why she is puzzled at the way she does not breathe.

Her blue eyes look into mine from where I lie hidden, shrouded in shadow. An understanding passes between us for I, too, remember that terrible weight of water. Her prison had been of ceramic, mine wrought from cobbled stones. In the end, it made little difference to either of us.

The Stained Shirt Man does not see her either. He does not notice the thin, bony arms clasped about his neck, or the manner in which her little rag dress is hiked up above her hips, her legs balanced against the small of his back. He does not notice the beginnings of decay that are ravaging a face that should have been delicate and pretty.

Many people are like him; they do not feel burdened by the weight of those they kill. A rope braid around her thin wrist is attached to another folded over the man’s arm. I wear a similar loop around my wrist, though unlike her, I endure this affliction with no one else. The rope trails several feet behind me, the edges shorn.

The man talking from inside the television disappears, and the thrum of static buzzes at the Stained Shirt Man’s consciousness, nagging at him like an angry bee. Cursing again, he tosses his empty bottle away and strides to the box, fiddling with the dials. After a minute, he pounds a fist down on top of it once, twice, three times. The television continues to hum, unimpressed.

He is still angry when the lights in the room wink out one by one, leaving him nothing for company but the still-fizzling box.

Son of a bitch! he says, kicking it for good measure. As punishment, the noises stop and the television flickers back on, but the man telling jokes is nowhere to be seen. Instead, for a few seconds, something else flashes across the screen.

It is a wide, staring

eye

and it is looking back at him.

It disappears, though the buzzing continues. The man gapes. He is afraid at first—that delicious fear steals across his face—but when the image does not repeat itself soon, he begins to think and then to argue and then to dismiss, the way people do when they are seeking explanations for things that cannot be explained.

Must have imagined it, he mutters to himself, rubbing at his temple and belching. The girl on his back says nothing.

The Stained Shirt Man moves to the bathroom and frowns when he turns on a switch but sees only darkness. Nonetheless, he moves toward the sink and begins to wash his face.

When he lifts his head, I am standing directly behind him, but only the top of my head and my eyes are visible over his own. The face rising over the back of his skull is one I have worn for many centuries, an oddity for one who has only seen sixteen years of life. But I have little cause to see myself in reflections, and sometimes I forget the face is mine.

Our gazes meet in the mirror, and the Stained Shirt Man shouts in alarm, stepping away. But when he turns back, all he sees is his own sweating face, drenched in water and fear.

Something gurgles

again.

This time, it is closer.

The Stained Shirt Man’s eyes swing toward the bathtub. It is covered in dirt and grime and thin traces of bile. A large pool of blood is forming underneath it, spiraling outward until it touches the tips of his leather boots.

Tag,

the blood is saying.

You

are

it.

And from inside this bathtub a decomposing hand reaches out, grabbing the side with enough strength that the porcelain cracks from the urgency of its grip. The Stained Shirt Man slides to the floor in shock and fright, legs suddenly useless, as

I

heave myself up and over the side of the bathtub to land in a heap of flesh before him. I am writhing. My body stiffens and contracts, tangled hair obscuring enough features that you would not know what I am, only what I am not.

I gurgle a third time.

The Stained Shirt Man crawls back into the living room swearing and screaming. In his fright, he stains his pants with his own excrement. He grabs at a phone, but the line is dead. Stumbling back onto his feet, he tries to feel his way through the dark, the sputtering light of the television set his only guide. He finds the door and tugs at it frantically, but it will not open.

Help me! Oh God oh God… Help me!

He begins to drive his shoulder against the wood, his efforts redoubling once he realizes

I

have followed him out of the bathroom, slithering, slithering, bone joints cracking and noisy from disuse.

Shamrock! His voice totters on panic. Shamrock, can you hear me! Anybody out there! I…Jesus! Jesus Christ, help me!

There is terrible contorting in the way the figure he sees moves. It does not crawl. It does not speak. There is only a dreadful, singular purpose in the way its fingers and feet scuttle closer, spread from its body like a human spider, though I am neither human nor spider.

The Stained Shirt Man soon realizes the futility and sinks back to the ground. Was it the girl? he asks then, and in his piggish eyes, dreadful realization seeps through. Was it the girl? I didn’t mean to…I never—I swear I won’t do it again, I swear! I won’t do it again!

He is right. He will never do this again.

Please, he croaks, lifting his hands as if they could shield him, and whether he is asking for mercy or wishes to be killed quicker, I do not know. Please please please pleasepleasepleaseplease.

Something gurgles one last time, and it is above him. He looks up.

This is how the Stained Shirt Man now sees me.

He sees a woman on the ceiling.

Her gray feet are bare, settled against the beams.

She hangs down.

Her chin is jutted out, her head twisted to the side in a way that the only thing certain is her broken neck.

She wears a loose, white kimono spattered in mud and blood.

Her hair floats down, drifting past her face like a thinly veiled curtain, but this does not protect him from the

sight

of her eyes.

There are no whites in her eyes; they are an impenetrable, dilated black.

Her skin is a mottled patchwork of abuse and bone, some of it stripped from the edges of her mouth. And yet her mouth is hollow, curved into a perpetual scream, jaws too wide to be alive.

For a long moment we stare at each other—he, another girl’s murderer, and I, another man’s victim. Then my mouth widens further, and I

de

tach

myself from the ceiling to lunge, my unblinking eyes boring into his panicked, screaming face.

---

• • •

Some time later, the other girl comes to stand by my side. Silently, she holds out her arms, knowing what comes next. The braid around her wrist dissolves. At the same time, the rope on the dead man’s arm shatters like it was made of glass.

She is free. She is smiling at me with her gap-toothed grin. When the dead are young and have once known love, they bring no malice. Something glows inside her, something that flares brighter and brighter until her features and form are swallowed up, obscured by that blessed warmth.

Yearly festivals of chochin were celebrated in my youth, paper lanterns lit to honor the dead during older, younger times. In dimmer recollections I remember grabbing at those delicate, fire-lit paper lanterns and the excitement that coursed through me as I held them aloft. I remember running along the riverbanks, watching dozens of chochin afloat on the water, bobbing and waving at me as I struggled to keep pace, until they drifted off into larger rivers, into places where I could not follow.

I remember straining to see the lanterns floating away, growing smaller until darkness enveloped the last. I imagine them in my memory like tiny fireflies hovering over the river’s surface, ready to find their way into the world. Even then I found the word fitting, soothing.

Fireflies.

Fire

flies.

Fire, fly.

I remember my mother’s voice, warm and vibrant before the sickness crept inside her. I remember her telling me how chochin bear the souls of those who have passed away. It is why we light these representations of their essences, she said, and float them in rivers—to allow the waters to return them to the world of the dead, where they belong.

The dead girl, like many other dead girls before her, resembles these chochin. When she begins to shine so very brightly, I take her gently in my hands, the soft heat suffusing my being with a sense of peace I am unaccustomed to. It is only for a few seconds. But when you have resigned yourself to an eternity filled with little else but longing, a few seconds is enough.

I release her soul outside the Stained Shirt Man’s apartment. By then she is nothing more than a glowing ball of fire cradled against my withered form. I close my eyes, trying to absorb every bit of warmth I can take from her—to bring out and remember during other colder nights—before lifting my hands to the sky. Unbidden, she rises up, floating briefly above me as if granting benediction, before she continues to soar higher and higher like an autumn balloon, until she becomes another speck of cloud, another trick of the light.

Fire,

fly.

I am where dead children go. But not even I know where they go when I am done, whether to a higher plane or to a new life. I only know this: like the chochin of my youth, where they go, I cannot follow.

I stand there for a long time, just watching the sky. But nothing else moves in that darkness, and in this wide expanse of night, I see little else but stars.

Two

The Tattooed Boy

The city wakes to the rhythm of daylight.

They first arrive in ones and twos. Lone boys with bicycles and newspapers, waging war against doorsteps. I count them: four, five, six. Men and women running down streets, singing aloud to music no one else hears. I count them: seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. A portly official thrusting important papers and packages into every other mailbox. I count him: one.

Then they arrive by the dozens. Men and women hurrying down sidewalks, a few in dark business suits, but the majority dressed simply in plaid or jeans. Some glance down at their wrists with an impatient air before boarding the horseless carriages they call buses or the smaller ones they call cars. (Twenty-seven.) Others saunter down the road with less urgency, with dogs of various breeds and sizes scampering ahead, restrained only by the collars around their necks. (Fourteen.)

A few dogs see me and growl, baring their teeth. I bare my own teeth and immediately they are off, tearing down the street in fright like hell has come nipping at their tails, their masters helpless in their pursuit. I have little regard for animals, and I imagine the feeling is mutual. Their leashes remind me of my own. Collars are as much a form of slavery whether they encircle necks or wrists, whether they are as heavy as lead or as light as a ropestring.

Finally, they come in droves. People in rich suits and richer tastes hurrying along, their minds immersed in the petty affairs that consume their lives (thirty-eight). Children squabbling in cars on their way to school, mothers and fathers behind the wheel (sixteen). They have no reason to see me—an unavenged spirit, a nothing-more. I am not a part of their world, as much as they are no longer a part of mine. They have the rest of their lives before them, and I do not.

I often spend the passage of days in a strange haze. When there is little to attract my vengeance, I lie in unusual states of hibernation.

Some days I curl up in attics and abandoned sheds. I do not sleep, so instead I exist in a period of dreamlessness, a series of finite instances where I think little of things and dwell on the wonders of nothing. It lasts for hours or days or years, or the time it takes for a bird to flap its wings, or the time it takes for a deep breath. But soon the rage curls again, the quiet places inside me that

whisper, whisper whispering find more find more

and so I rise, driven to seek out, to

devour, to make to break to take.

I have ridden on ships and sails. I have taken to the air on steel wings. I have schooled myself in the languages of those I hunt, their culture of contradictions. I have burrowed into the skins of those who know the dark ways, those who welcome the trespass of body. I have crawled out from the thickness of blood, from the salt of the dying.

I can possess, however briefly, those close to death, or those who have known death intimately and escaped. I have learned to move among people in a hundred different ways, to linger in numerous places at once and still keep my sense of being. But today I am drifting, aimless in this moment, basking in the afterglow of the night before.

And when there is nothing else, I count.

I allow the whim to carry me farther down the street, where a lone peddler sells food from a metal stand (one). A cat on the other side of the road (one) arches its back and hisses at me, yowling its temerity, though its tail quivers and the hairs along its back bristle. People walk past, eating and tossing empty wrappers into bins. I count them: thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.

A young man in a tan suit stops in mid-bite to stare directly at me. Slices of bread slide unnoticed to the ground, and he begins to tremble. I move, retreating as a group of students run past (seven), laughing and giggling, and flicker out of his vision. I am occasionally seen by those cursed with a peculiar sight they themselves are rarely aware of, but I have grown skilled at evading their scrutiny once discovered. I have no quarrel with the young man, who dashes away pale and frightened, though I am sorry he sees more than he ought.

But something else commands my awareness. It is a teenage boy in a car driving past this intersection of roads. He is of average countenance, perhaps fifteen years old, with bright blue eyes and straight black hair that shoots out unnaturally from his head like spikes. He is staring out the window with a surly demeanor I have found common in many boys of this time.

But neither his features nor his behavior arrest my attention. There is something that throbs and moves from inside his clothes, restless movements both repugnant and familiar. An unnatural glow sets around him. And in his mind I taste the sweetness of

Reviews for The Girl from the Well

[bonniemarjorie · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

You want to get my attention? Compare a book to Dexter. Just, you know, make sure it lives up to that comparison. Unfortunately it did not. The Girl from the Well is not scary. There are moments of creepy descriptiveness but that does not make a creepy story. Especially when they occur briefly and inconsistently. Like this sort of creepy goodness:'Something is rising out of the boy’s back–something with terrible, burning eyes, yet are not quite eyes at all, preserved behind a bloodless, decaying mask that hides its face from the world.' But as I said, it was far too inconsistent and the rest of what the story contained didn’t make the wait worthwhile. Like the style of writing: First person and then 3rd person omniscient all in one paragraph? Talk about wordy whiplash. But seriously, pick one style of writing and stick with it. And if you were going to change it up, at least make it a different section so the reader doesn't have to backtrack in order to figure out what the hell is going on. It was unnecessarily confusing. Even if the intent was to make the narrator seem all crazed seeming since she’s a deranged ghost, it still didn't work for me.Speaking of the deranged ghost. Not only is she deranged but she’s got an obsession with numbers and proceeds to spend the entire novel counting shit. Counting plates. And people. And seconds of silence. Girl needs to get herself a hobby.'I spend the rest of the day counting. There are two janitors roaming the school grounds. There are sixteen rooms in the building. There are thirty students in the tattooed boy’s class [...]' It wasn't thrilling to read about I’ll tell you that much. And then we find out about her obvious dislike for a particular number.'Seven, eight. Nine. Nine. Nine bulbs, all bearing strange little fireflies. [...] No nines. Not-nine. Never nine.' So creepy chick doesn't care for the number nine. Ten is totally cool and her absolute favorite but number nine makes her go all Limp Bizkit on shit. Honestly, since we have no idea the reasoning behind her dislike of the number nine those passages end up being funnier than I think was intended.As far as other characters go, we've got Tark whose mother is in a mental institution after she tattooed him when he was a young child. Pretty nuts, and I’d be more likely to feel bad for the guy if he wasn't such a pretentious poser full o’ emo thoughts who goes around being snooty to everyone because he’s full of angsty goodness. He sees things too, but naturally worries about being thrown in with dear old mom."And then my mom had to… well, she went bonkers, excuse the political correctness." This kid is 15. No 15 year old is going to mention politically correctness, or even give a shit about it. He would say mature stuff like that and then turn around and act like a complete moron the next."What is it about me that she hates so much, that she can’t even stand the sight of me?" Well, gee, let’s think about this. Your mother doesn't get all crazy until she sees you, screaming to ‘get away from him’. So clearly she’s not talking to you. You know there’s this creepy girl in a mask that follows you, staring at you, that you can only see in a mirror. Golly, could she be seeing her too? By Jove! I think we’re on to something!Bottom line: this could have been a creepy tale of ghosts that hunt down child murderers. It was unfortunately brought down by unnecessary side stories, a horribly jarring writing style and terribly dull one-dimensional characters.

[adilinaria · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

As far as YA horror I think this is the best I've seen in a long time. I enjoyed the setting, I'd have to read more reviews to see if her cultural references were correct, but if they were they were great. I also sincerely loved the narrator's voice. Very creepy, very unsettling at times.It definitely pulled and played with traditional horror tropes, especially those from the eastern sources, but it was still a very fun read. I managed to gobble it up in a sitting.

[angiestahl-1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Ehhh...a Japanese ghost story. Neither particularly scary, not particularly atmospheric. I kept thinking the pace would pick up and/or I'd start feeling unease or a sense of dread. Never did. Life's short, head for greener pastures.

[alexys tabarez · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Okiku has my heart ♥️ it’s a very good read!

[manonfire WY · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Originally posted on The Poetry Novelist's Goodreads page.

Okiku is one of the most dichotomous characters I've encountered in a story, both in her behavior and her physical appearance. She undergoes an amazing amount of growing up throughout the course of "The Girl From The Well", as her story begins quite some time before page one.

I still hold true to the opinion that the alternate cover was more apropos. I completely misread the tagline when I first looked at it, but it turned out to be perfect in a way that I never anticipated.

A splendidly frightening and powerful read. The Girl could easily have you jumping at the sound of the wind. It left me very much on the fence about reading the sequel, however, as both books are in the first person but through different characters without any self-evident need for it. I may have to wait some time to allow book one to seep from my veins or risk some sincere confusion in the first couple chapters of "The Suffering".

[david · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Me and my 14-year-old loved this book. We couldn't put it down. A must-read for anyone craving a thrilling adventure into the unknown world of supernatural.

[Erlin Amir · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Such a page turner. Very supernatural + gore. It’s interesting as it’s POV is that of the powerful 300 year old ghost.

[Lisa Gabel · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

It’s an amazing book! I would recommend it you need something spooky to read or just need to pass some time.

[Tim Jones · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Good young adult and adult novel. The writing is well paced, character development is solid, and the plot is interesting.
If you like mysteries and ghost stories, you will enjoy this book.
Well worth the read.

[colie77 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

An intriguing story, but a poor execution.

[lynnmpk · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I don’t know why but this book just didn’t grab me the way that I thought it would. I love books about myths and legends so I should’ve loved this book. I liked all the characters and the plot was interesting, but it just felt like an OK book to me.

[pardamustang · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Girl from the Well by Rin Chupeco is an atmospheric horror novel that will leave readers with a sense of unease. The story follows Okiku, a vengeful spirit who haunts those who harm children. The author’s writing style is hauntingly beautiful, with vivid descriptions that bring the story to life. The novel is told from Okiku’s perspective, giving readers a unique and fascinating look at the world of Japanese folklore.

The author's use of sensory language is particularly impressive. The characters are complex and well-depicted, each with their own quirks and motivations. Okiku is a particularly intriguing character, as she is both frightening and sympathetic. The author balances horror with emotional depth, exploring themes of revenge, grief, and redemption.

Overall, The Girl from the Well is a well-crafted and engaging horror novel that will appeal to fans of the genre. Highly recommended!

***Purchased and read for my own enjoyment

[out1and1about · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The best kind of creepy. 3.5 rounded up. Read on a long road trip and had to download to finish in the dark, a very nice accident. Read for the bookriot read harder challenge, a retelling of a classic fairytale by an author of color, and it probably also counts as a horror book from an indie press. The characters could have been better rounded, I didn’t care as much about the human characters as I’d have liked. But I was captivated by the main character, a soul trapped on earth to seek revenge on deserving criminals. Nice explanation of the original myth intertwined throughout the narrative so you didn’t feel like she was just telling you the history.

[meh-g · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A breath of fresh air in the YA Horror subgenre. Told from the Spirits point of view rather than of those being haunted was such an interesting choice. While some of the dialogue in this book felt unrealistic I found myself unbothered because of its fast pace and the way it opened up my interests to the Ghost Stories of Japan and related topics.

[vickimarie2002 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I loved this book! It was unlike any others that I have read before. It is narrated by Okiku, who is dead! I mean, what more could you want in a book? She has an incredible narration style and it kept me wanting to read more and more. It's a good story with a lot of folklore from Japan and I found that incredibly interesting. It's not really scary, but there are lots of creepy/suspenseful parts.

[bibliovermis · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I really enjoyed the Japanese folklore and history references, and the explorations of how stories change depending on who tells them. The horror elements were, in fact, pretty horrific, and I loved our terrifying point-of-view ghost. Whenever the American teen(s) showed up though I thought the dialogue was very stilted and awkward, with people speaking in a very confusing, old-fashioned sort of vernacular, while apparently having cell phones.

[elizabeth_foster-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This horror story was more character driven than most, which slowed the pace but made for a more memorable read. I loved the way the author played with language to heighten the suspense. A ‘dead girl’ narrator and Japanese mythology were the perfect mix and the ending was great - truly terrifying!

[mrs.soule · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I'd love to see this movie! I enjoyed seeing everything from the perspective of the ghost instead of the people being haunted.

[shahnareads · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

It’s okay. Not the best, not the worst.

[quantum.alex · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A more effective third rather than first objective would've created a more emotionally satisfying story.

[roses7184_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The Girl From The Well started out phenomenally. As promised, Okiku's story was dark, full of vengeance, and yet oddly beautiful. I was caught up in the afterlife of a spirit who wasn't able to move on. One who filled her ceaseless existence with revenge, blood, and the small spark of warmth that came from delivering a violent, yet fitting death. Had this book been simply about Okiku, I could have read for ages. I understood this troubled girl. I took pleasure in watching her captors squirm. She and I? We were connected. Then Tark entered the picture.

In all fairness, I was too enamored with the cover of this book to really pay attention to the synopsis. I had no idea that Tark's story was actually the main focus of this book. Or that Okiku's dark existence would soon be set on the back burner. At first, I didn't mind so much. Tark, a boy with mysterious tattoos that writhed on his body, was an interesting character. I felt like his story was somehow connected to Okiku's. That he'd soon be caught up in the blackness that surrounded her. Alas, this wasn't to be. While I loved the first third of the book with all my twisted little heart, it started to go downhill from there.

I think one of the biggest issues I had with The Girl From the Well was the writing style. The flowery, descriptive, writing held up well against the backdrop of Okiku's story. She was an old ghost, and I felt like it complimented her character. Once Tark's story line came into play, that same writing style started to feel disjointed. See, one of things that sets Okiku apart is the way that she counts things. Cars, buses, people, plants. It ties in well to her story, which I won't spoil for you. She also has a habit of interjecting violent outbursts in between thoughts. While I was following only her, I didn't mind these quirks. Once there were multiple points of view? It just felt jumbled, and messy.

I should stop here to let you know that I desperately hope someone fixed this narrative for the finished version of the book. I was under the impression that, despite being ARCs, most early copies are still somewhat edited. Sure, I've seen a few misspelled words before. Maybe even a small amount of issues with tense. This ARC had so many instances of incorrect tense that I was horribly distracted. Towards the end, I was more involved in fixing the problems, while reading, than actually enjoying the story.

Which brings me to the ending, which I still won't spoil, and how unfulfilled I felt. As I mentioned before, I loved Okiku's story. I loved her character, her motivations, and the gory endings her victims met. I didn't mind Tark, or his story, but it never really felt fleshed out. Once he took center stage, nothing ever felt complete. I had no strong feelings for any characters. No deep need to keep reading on. I was disappointed, and sad. For the enjoyment that I was originally given, and for the Japanese mythology I fell in love with, I'll offer up three stars to this book. I wanted more from The Girl From The Well. I really did.

[theyodamom · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

4.5 Japanese ancient myths & horror blend vey well in this modern tale. I am so happy to have found tis author and this series. The characters fit their rolls, they had believable reactions, it was easy to care about them and nobody was TSTL. Ding Ding winner. I already ordered box 2 in the series.

[buttonholed · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Okiku kicks! What an evilicious read. It is a story of a young girl that had died 300 years ago by a man who tossed her body down a well. Okiku has wandered the world for centuries, freeing the innocent ghosts of the murdered-dead and taking the lives of killers with the vengeance they are due. She hunts murderers - child killers. When a young boy named Tark with very strange tattoos that carry an evil secret moves into a new neighborhood, he gets her eye. As the story moves along, they travel to a remote valley in Aomori, Japan where doll rituals and exorcisms claim.... Great YA thriller and I loved the Japanese myths/folklore that were added. Rin knows how to vividly portray the settings so the reader can actually taste the book and all of its gore. Excellent job Rin! Looking forward to the sequel. Thanks for your imagination!

[jadedog13 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book is fantastic. It was scary, bloody, and suspenseful. It is told from the point of view of Okiku and is a bit disjointed at times. It combines the troubles of teenage life with a Japanese ghost story. There is a lot of Japanese culture throughout the story, especially towards the end when the family returns to Japan.

I liked Okiku and Tark and their relationship. Okiku really knows how to deal some bloody vengeance. It's cool that Tark and his cousin are some of the few people who can see Okiku and she is able to communicate with them. I liked hearing her backstory. And the ending was perfect.

[kwadyko · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I really liked this book...it was hard to put down. I liked the historical details the author included, as well. I am excited to begin "The Suffering"...right...now.

[empressreece · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

"I am where dead children go." ....3.5 stars

When I first started reading this, I didn't think I was going to like it at all. I think because the POV alternates from 1st to 3rd it was a little awkward reading at first, but once I got use to it, I started getting into the story more. There were times though even toward the end, that I wasn't sure who was speaking at first because there wasn't any break really to announce transition.  

The story itself is basically about possession and one of the main characters, Okiku, is based off of an old Japanese ghost story. The characters (and ghosts) also travel to Japan so I really did enjoy learning about some of the Japanese traditions and seeing the culture in play throughout the story. Was it very scary? No, not really. There were a few suspenseful parts but I didn't have to leave the lights on or anything. : ) If you like ghost stories or stories about possession, I would say give it a try. I am going to read the next book, The Suffering, because I did like the characters a lot too, especially Okiku, Tarquin and Callie and would like to see what happens with them. 

[cinachilders · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The Girl from the Well is primarily about a spirit named Okiku who wanders the world to free the spirits of murdered children, while also killing those responsible for their deaths. She soon comes across Tark, a teen who has troubles of his own with a nasty spirit trapped within him. The scariest part of this book was the creepy, gut-wrenching feeling of dread when you see innocent, unsupervised children and know that someone out there could be watching and waiting to steal them away to satisfy their sick twistedness. There are a few other slightly creepy scenes involving the spirit Okiku and the malicious spirit within Tark, but for the most part the creep factor is hindered by its predictability.

Despite being really similar to many other horror movies and books related to Japanese ghosts, The Girl from the Well remains fun and quick to read for anyone who has a taste for this kind of horror and easy to read style. Some sentences in the book are written into separate lines (if I’m explaining it correctly). I found it to be a little off-putting at times, however it did grow on me towards the end.

An example of this is:

“I

cannot

follow.”

Overall, I liked The Girl from the Well enough to seek out the sequel The Suffering.

[jennifer35k · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A girl from prior centuries takes her revenge on those who would hurt the innocent in the present. Finding no solace in rest she rips the throats out of those who would assault the innocent and strangle the speechless. She is Okiko, an onryuu, which has transferred all of her black rage and hate into avenging the lost souls of other dead children. While out on a nightly stroll she stumbles upon a person that confuses her. It is a boy that is neither good nor evil, but is the host to a powerful demon. Curious of how he came to be in this position, she chooses to follow him and quickly learns his story. His name is Tark and he is a son to a mother that is both insane and beautiful. For at one time she loved him, but now upon his glance she attempts to kill him. Sad and isolated from his peers, Tark spends most of his time hiding from the world and from himself. Concerned for his future Tark’s father decides to move him near his cousin. However, his mother is also close to his cousin in the mental hospital and Tark wants to see her.

This book was very interesting and had a lot of history scattered throughout the pages. I enjoyed the spiritual references the author provided and I liked the premises for the book. I thought it to be original and fascinating to read. I liked all of the characters and thought each was well developed. I was sad that there was not much about Okiko as their could have been. I thought she was a very interesting character and she could have used a little more back story. Overall there is not much more else to say. This book is just great overall and I am happy to have read it! I highly recommend it to anyone.

[sparemethecensor · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A solid effort, especially for a debut novel. I liked the strong Japanese folklore element. There were several scenes that would be terrifying in a film but weren't in the book; not sure if that was just me. Recommended for horror fans and those who like Japanese history.

[madamewho · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I have to imagine that the pitch for this book was something along the lines of "What if The Ring was a love story?"

The result is a gory book narrated by a vengeful spirit. There's some cool Japanese folklore and culture, if you're into that sort of thing. The narrator is difficult to approach, however, and the writing style often veers into something more like poetry. Not bad, but not really my cup of tea, either.