Motley's Mimicries: Stephen King

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
Jack and Jill went up the hill, and only one came back down.

Submitted: June 27, 2015

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Submitted: June 27, 2015

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A boy, Jack, and his devoted but simple sister Jill, climbed Lil’ Bitch Hill for the well.

 

 

The well was hundreds of years old, made of stone walls, mildewy and eroded to the white mortar quick; driven into the hill’s rolling bosom during the Puritan days of Salem. The wood was old oak and rotted.  The thick, abrasive rope slightly frayed. The wind’s invisible hand toyed with the rope crank, back and forth, as a cat malevolently paws its prey with apathy, sometimes disdain.

 

 

To Jack, the constant squeak carried by the wind sounded less every day like a trapped, doomed mouse.  And, as the days grew colder in the village, in his bed, in his dreams, more like, “Kill the bitch, Jack.” Squeak, squeak… “Kill them all.”

 

 

As Jack heard the voice of the well, he obeyed.

 

 

“Jack! Jack!” screamed Jill, as she was shoved to the cold well lip. Her voice echoed down the dark, descending tunnel. The cool humid air, a breeze on a summer day, rose from the black water below, flickering a stray glimpse of sunlight off the water's surface below, as if a golden eye witnessing the crime.

 

 

Jack heard Jill's echo, holding her head down the well, one of his sister’s feet off the ground as she fought. But, instead, Jack heard: “Back, back to the black, black, Jack, Jack.”

 

“Tii-ep the bi-etch, Jack,” the crank squeaked in Jack's head, moving in the wind. Reap, reap, reap…

 

 

Jack cackled, pushing Jill with his hips now, too, humping her, as he always wanted to do.  He hardened with her every cry, every flail, and her wiggling against his crotch. What power he had.

 

“I give you to the Gods,” Jack whispered in Jill’s ear, heedless of the strengthening wind.

 

 

Jill flailed her arms, her dress sleeves rippling, flapping in the wind. Her sleeve caught on the crank for just a moment--enough to release the latch. The bucket plummeted into the still water below, splashing violently, banishing the watchful eye of the well.

 

 

Jack laughed at that, as well. “The well is thirsty, too,” Jack told Jill, licking at Jill’s cheek.

 

Jack caught the wellstone on his forehead; the white-washed rock flying back up, breaking Jack’s skull from above the eyes to the crown with a wet crack.

 

 

Jack’s limp form fell back and rolled down the hill, to rest at its foot, lifeless.

 

Jill wailed all the way back to the village.

 

The blood-stained rock hung by its rope.

 

The well squeaked still, but there was no one to hear.

 

No one, yet.


© Copyright 2019 Jack Motley. All rights reserved.

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