The Well
A Lovecraftian Tale of Dreadful Sacrifice
It looked as deep as it ever did, and I was as terrified as I ever had been when I peered over that familiar edge of roughly hewn stones that encircled the old well.
That seemingly endless darkness, that sweet and sickly odor, and the ever-unsettling sounds that echoed upward from the dark depths — they almost overcame my will, but I knew what had to be done.
With all of the strength I had remaining, I heaved the struggling bound mass onto the rough stones and out toward the far edge, being oh so very careful as to not lose my footing.
It would be ridiculous to fail now after all that I had done, after the sacrifices I had made, after the dreadful deeds I had performed.
Just why had he to be conscious? I quickly thought, surely he would die before he hit the rank waters below.
But I knew I had no time to debate the issue.
It had to be sated, a bargain had been made, I knew what I had to do.
I held the rope tightly for a second, shifting the weight between my feet, and pushed the still-writhing mass gently backward and away from me.
I convulsed with horror as our eyes met, locked together for that last time, and a look of utter shock flashed across his face. As he fell quickly and…
