A Halloween In Glarus

By Nick Botic

In the town of Glarus, October 31st is a very special day, and not just because of Halloween. Every year on that day, the townspeople of Glarus all partake in a strange ritual, one that includes a few unwilling participants that are chosen throughout the year. For them, though, the horror begins long before the night of Halloween In Glarus.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781365958618

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A Halloween In Glarus

A Halloween In Glarus

A short story by Nick Botic

The Well - Part I

My sister Emma and I used to spend a lot of weekends at our grandparent’s house when we were younger. They lived about three and a half hours away from us in the residential area of a very small town, although they lived at the end of the block, and as such, they owned a portion of the large field that laid past it.. They had what was basically playground in their huge backyard, and we spent a handful of weekends a year going to movies in the next town over, playing outside, playing video games, and eating our grandma’s amazing cooking. It was truly our favorite place to be.

Nights at the farm could get a little creepy though. The town in which their house was situated was essentially in the middle of nowhere, so to be away from the lights and sounds of the city could be a little unsettling while my sister and I were trying to fall asleep. The sounds of cicadas and other insects permeated the night air, while almost pitch black darkness surrounded us in every direction.

There was really only one rule when we were at our grandparents, and that was to never go near the well. The well rests a short distance away from the house and around it is a rope that our grandfather put up as a boundary we were forbidden to cross. It was a rule that we followed very strictly. In fact, the only time I’ve ever seen my grandparents angry was when I made the foolish mistake to cross the rope.

Now until I was 11 years old, I had always assumed that our grandparents forbade us from going near the well for our safety, so we didn’t fall in. And I suppose, in some capacity, that was true. But there was a weekend we spent there that showed me what the real reason was for us keeping our distance from the well. I didn’t understand it until recently, but the actual reason was something so much worse.

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I was six years old when I first heard noises outside my room at my grandparents house. They would wake me up and I would think nothing of it before quickly falling back asleep. I would hear this same sound every few times I slept over at their house, but nothing ever made me think to investigate further.

I was 11 when the crunching of leaves outside my window woke me up from another night of light sleep. I sat up and saw my grandmother walking along the side of the house towards the front yard holding a duffel bag. With the aid of sunlight I could see the well from my window, but during the night it was too dark. I saw the unmistakable glow of headlights coming from an unknown source turning in towards the house before shutting off.

I pressed my face against the window in a failed attempt at seeing what was going on. My curiosity eventually got the best of me, and I exited my room and went to the front of the house to look out a window that I could actually see something from. When I did, I saw a semi-truck parked, mostly on the road but with the front turned a bit inwards. My grandmother was standing there talking to a man who I presumed to be the driver.

The two of them stood there talking for about two minutes by my guess, before the driver walked to the end of the truck and opened the back. He climbed into the trailer and walked out a short time later, with a child in each arm. They looked to be about seven or eight years old, but I couldn’t be certain, as it was dark. The man put the kids on their feet and my grandmother knelt down and put a hand on each of their shoulders, saying something to them. She then tossed the duffel bag to the man, who picked it up, opened it, and inspected its contents.

The driver then walked back to the front of his truck, climbed in, and drove off. Meanwhile, my grandmother led the children to the well, helping them step over the rope my sister and I dared never cross, save for my one foolish time. I went to a window in the dining room, the closest one to the well, to get the best view possible. All sorts of things ran through my young mind as far as what my grandmother was doing with two children she got out of the back of a truck.

My grandma shined a flashlight down the well, and it looked as if she was talking to whatever was in it. She then, to my horror, grabbed the young girl and threw her down the well. The boy tried to turn around and run, but my grandmother grabbed his arm, preventing him from doing so. She took the boy and threw him down the well too. She then raised her arms, palms up, and looked to the sky. She said something, but since I was inside I couldn’t hear what.

She stood there saying whatever she was saying for about 10 seconds, before looking back down the well while shining her light down it. She then shut off her light and began walking back towards the house. At this point, I ran as quickly and quietly as I could back to my room and hopped in bed, pretending to be asleep.

While facing the wall my bed was against, I listened as I heard my grandma enter through the back of the house, through a door that was located in the unused bedroom of the four-bedroom house. I listened as she stopped at my sister’s room, and then mine, looking inside to see if we were sleeping (I’m guessing). She then went back to her room, and that was the last I heard from her that night.

The next day, I woke up after getting only another 45 minutes of sleep to the smell of bacon. I walked out to the kitchen and found my grandparents and sister sitting in the kitchen eating breakfast. I was welcomed to join them, and my grandmother was acting perfectly normal. We left for the weekend and I was more curious than I’d ever been about anything. I couldn’t wait to get back to their house.

We went back about once every other month, and during two of those times, my grandmother would exit the house through the back door in the middle of the night, meet the trucker, give him a duffel bag, and throw two kids down the well. It went on this way until I was 15. By that point, I was only going there a few times a year, but the strange