MicroHorror

Two nights ago, I dreamt of the well once more. It has haunted my mind for some years now, always the same dream. I replay it before my eyes: in the middle of a forest, there is an old wishing well. A phobia of mine for as long as I can recall, and yet this one explodes into my sleep with encrypted vision. The well itself is decrepit and derelict, with its faint paint peeling off and the roof beginning to crumble. But, please let me explain, it is not merely the appearance of such a watery dungeon that scares me.

In my visions I can clearly see myself, looking no older than I am now, strolling through the woods. I come across this well, and slowly stop. All well so far. As if transfixed by the sight, my feet slip over towards the dark orifice (and of course the rest of me can only hope but to follow) even though since the first dream I have longed to be further away.

But there it persists, and I look into the shadows to see my own reflection. No, not my own reflection, but the reflection of a corpse. My own. It is lying exactly as I am now. Merely dead. A slight inconvenience. The continual apparition of these visions was leading me to despair, and until this morning I had no idea what it meant.

But then last night the dreams finally stopped. And this morning I received a most unusual phone call from a mutual friend. It transpires that an aged well has been discovered in the nearby Newton Forest. I never needed to see the pictures to realize it was the same well I had become quite acquainted with. So I shall go to give it a more permanent investigation. After all, who am I to argue with what is predetermined? And, as they say, all’s well that ends well.