Chapter 12

Zeke picked his way along the bluestone path. The darkness wrapped around him like a wet cloak. After his mother died and he moved to his father’s home, he would lie in bed and feel this same eerie sensation prickle his spine. Nightlights were no longer allowed and the darkness pressed down on him. Exactly like tonight. He sensed something or someone waiting in the thick darkness. Terrifying shapes lurked in the black shadows. He scolded himself. It was only the shadows of wire-trained vines and the many bird baths he’d seen earlier. “Come on Clay. You’re a grown man.”

The cone of light poured from the Maglite. It was comforting as well as illuminating. He appreciated its slicing effect on the enemy of his mind—darkness. In the distance, the sound of crying resonated from the well. It could only be Rosa. The pain in her sobs tore at his heart. He found his mother crying like this once. She was bent over some papers and was writing some kind of a long letter. He didn’t know, at the time, why she was so sad, but it broke his heart and he cried, too. It was the last time he cried. Soon afterward his mother died and he shut all his emotions off. Why did this woman’s pain open him back up? Startling fear shot through him. Oh, God. Had she fallen in the well?

He pointed his flashlight in the direction of the well. The light engulfed it and cast a long shadow back toward the stand of birch trees. He rushed to the stones. At the edge of the shadow, behind the well, he could see a small foot. Zeke blew out a sigh of relief. She was sitting on the other side of the well.

“Rosa?” he called gently.

Black hair and two ice-blue eyes peered around the stone mound. Rosa whispered, “Paul?”

“Paul, Oh Paul,” she cried hoarsely as she scrambled to stand. “Our baby, Paul, he di...”

She shielded her eyes from the bright light. Fear replaced sadness in her voice. She stepped back. “You’re not Paul.”

“No, Rosa. It’s me, Zeke,” he tried to quickly reassure her. A cool draft swept from the dark cavity and sent goosebumps down his spine. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, Zeke.” Rosa cleared her throat and wiped her face on her blue broadcloth sleeve. “I ... What are you doing out here so late?”

“I was thinking about ... stuff ... and I wanted to, I don’t know, come look at the well.” A tingling sensation pricked his arm. “Who is Paul?”

“Paul?” Her eyes sought the ground and then stared at his flashlight. Her eyebrows knitted together.

Was she embarrassed? What was that reaction? Zeke watched her fidget. At last, he asked, “You said something about a baby?”

“Baby?” Her voice broke even though the word was barely audible. A faint whisper. Her eyes swept the ground but kept returning to his flashlight.

“Rosa, what’s wrong?” Zeke asked, stepping closer to her. He felt such compassion for this woman. Why? He hardly knew her. He sensed Rosa’s pain as if it were his own as if he had known her his whole life. “What can I do?”

“Nothing, dear Zeke. There’s nothing you can do,” Rosa said softly. “I ... it’s nothing you can do anything about. It’s all in the past and I have to face things as they are.”

That was exactly what his mother once said.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean, I’m a silly girl, sitting here crying over things that cannot be changed.”

“What things?”

“Oh, Zeke.” She sighed. “Look, a long time ago ... we called this a wishing well. I guess I was hoping it still was...” She glanced up at him, then at the stone sides of the well. “I ... I had a baby. And now I don’t. There’s nothing you can do to change that. A long time ago, I had a wonderful man, who wanted to marry me, but now I don’t. So that’s that.”

“Rosa. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you, Zeke. You’re very kind.”

He reached out toward her but she stepped back. What was he going to do anyway? Take her into his arms? Hold her as he had held his mother? His mom had stroked his hair and kissed his head. It was so like her. He had sought to comfort his mother but she had comforted him.

“I ... I need to go,” Rosa whispered. “You need to go home, Zeke. It’s late. You can look at the wishing well tomorrow when it’s daylight. Things are better in the daylight.”

“What does that mean?” he asked.

She did not answer. She blew him a kiss, waved, and ran toward the birch trees. The white opaque mist enveloped her dark silhouette.

He stood there, all alone, and watched the emptiness of where she once stood. Silence hung as thickly as the mist. He sucked in a deep breath and swiped his cheek. Then he turned the flashlight on the well. The beam disappeared into the depth of the well’s cavity. Ice-cold air pressed against his face. Very deep. A sharp pain pierced his right arm.

Blood smeared up his arm as he pushed his sleeve above the tattoo. Every point at which the tattoo appeared to penetrate his skin was no longer a red irritation but a bead of blood. His tattoo oozed blood.

Fear gripped his heart like a tightly wound rope. The flashlight tipped out of his trembling hand. He juggled it a few times before it fell into the dry dirt. The light snapped off. He scooped the flashlight up and darted back to the blue path. Frantically, he struggled to turn the light on as he ran. Adrenaline and blood pounded against his eardrum. His chest heaved for oxygen. His legs stretched out into long strides as his feet pounded the path.