Midnight Narrative - Episode 11 - "The Wanting Well"

Midnight Narrative - Episode 11 - "The Wanting Well"

Episode 11: The Wanting Well
00:00 - Intro
00:19 - In the blink of an eye, I forgot everything about myself

Tonight on Midnight Narrative, we plunge into the terrifying chasm of lost identity, where the memories we fight to recover might be better off buried forever. We follow a young woman who, after losing sixteen years of her life in an instant, discovers that her missing past—and the phantom leg she can no longer feel—are bound to a sinister entity known as "The Wanting Well". As she navigates a bizarre foster home haunted by a toothless boy who shouldn't exist, she is forced to confront a horrific truth: some family bonds aren't made of love, but of a desperate, parasitic struggle to claw their way back into the land of the living.

Stories featured in this episode:
In the blink of an eye, I forgot everything about myself (u/unalloyedSaintTrina)
https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1fjp5p8/in_the_blink_of_an_eye_i_forgot_everything_about/

If you would like me to narrate your story, please submit to: midnightnarrative666@gmail.com
Art Credit: Instagram @unexpectedspecter
Support the channel: Like, subscribe, and hit the bell icon to be notified when the next narrative drops into the midnight hour

#horrorstories  #nosleep  #midnightnarrative #creepypasta  #scarystories  #urbanlegends  #thewantingwell

Permission has been obtained from all original authors, please follow and support them!

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:19

In the blink of an eye, I forgot everything about myself. In the blink of an eye, I forgot everything about myself. Those memories are hidden within something called the wanting well, and I'm going to do whatever it takes to get them back. The disorientation was mind breaking. Sixteen years of memories, gone, vanished without a trace. One second I was me, whoever the fuck that was. I still don't really know, and the next I was no one. It was like being born standing up. The sun was blinding, there was a slight tremor in the ground, but I could only feel the vibrations in my left heel. I scoured my surroundings, hunting for a shred of familiarity, a buoy to keep my head above water. I saw thick pine trees, a sprawling but ancient two story home, a red barn with no animals, prepubescent kids inching closer, palms out, pupils dilated, concerned but fearful. I could label it, but it was all unfamiliar. None of it was mine. I crumbled. By the time I'd collapsed onto the dirt, the small earthquake had subsided. I curled into the fetal position. That only made things worse. My own touch felt cold and alien. Most of the kids were running around like mad, hollering for Miss McDaniel. The only one standing still was a short boy with a shaved head and a jaundice skinned. He glared at me, clenching and unclenching his hands, spit building at the corners of his mouth as he whispered to himself. At first the panic was manageable. That changed when I realized I couldn't feel damp earth against my right calf. I reached down. From the thigh on, all I felt was plastic. I slam my eyes shut and feverishly tried to remember who was I? Where am I? How had I lost half of my goddamn leg? But there was just nothing. Finally I screamed. Things become blurry from there. I remember bits and pieces, the flashing lights of an ambulance, the metallic odor of a cramped triage room, the bite of an IV entering my arm, and then eventually a doctor. Someone who could help. The tests were normal, all of them. Probably best to just move on. Silence. Miss McDaniel placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, but I bucked my alleged foster mother off and yelled. That's it. The man in the coffee stained lab coat narrowed his wrinkled eyes. He scoffed. Yep, that's it, young lady. My vision swam. Panic dragged its hot barbs against my skin. He paced towards the door, twisting the proverbial knife as he threw it open. Must be other, cheaper ways to garner some attention, no? It was a long, painful drive home. When we got back, I planted myself in the living room and patiently waited for this fever dream to abate. I commanded myself to wake up. Miss McDaniel sat down next to me. Memory is a fickle machine, Allie. Sometimes it just breaks down, and that's all there is to it. She slid closer. The rusted springs with the antique sofa groaned like a pig in heat. Up close the old woman smelled equally a butterscotch and manure. Well, um would you like something to eat? I didn't respond, didn't move a muscle, just stared straight ahead, tracing an S shape cracked in the wall with my eyes, up and down, up and down, until I noticed that same boy spying on us from the top of the stairs. His shaved head squeezed between the banister splintered posts, one of the widows, many other fosters, I figured. My head whipped towards him. We locked eyes, his were mud brown with sickly yellow sclera, and they seemed too big for his face. A ring of jagged pink scar tissue encircled the top of his shaved head, like a crown had been pressed into a scalp until it bled. He appeared intensely angry at first, but after a second he smiled. His gums were red and empty, completely, utterly toothless. What the hell you looking at, kid? I leaped from the couch, but only felt my left heel connect with the floor. I toppled over, my torso thudded against the hardwood. Oh, Allie, Miss McDaniel shuffled to a nearby closet and swung it open. She yanked a metal pole string. A small mountain of sneakers flickered into the dim light. I fought back tears as she rustled through the pile. I know you hate it, but you need it, poppy seed. The thing is, I didn't hate my prosthetic. I just forgot I took it off. I did hate the nickname, though. Miss McDaniel was remarkably spry for her age. She knelt beside me, rolling a beige sock over my stump with one hand and snapping the prosthetic into place with the other. I peered up at the stairs. The boy was gone, but he didn't feel gone. I felt like he was just watching me from somewhere else. I went to bed that night, hoping something would be different in the morning. If my memories had departed spontaneously, I figured they would return in a similar fashion. I woke up disappointed, disappointed, anxious, and painfully hollow. Muted thumps and giggles reverberated through the floor. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, threw my left leg over the bed frame, and strapped on my prosthetic. Miss McDaniel had offered to teach me how it worked, but I told her that wasn't necessary. I still knew how. My muscles did anyway. That was the most vexing aspect of the whole damn thing. The memories I'd lost seemed unnaturally specific, just my identity and my personal history, but nothing more. The fragrant crackle of cooking bacon enveloped me as I stepped out from my bedroom. I paced down the hallway, following the smell, marveling at the strangeness of the house's design. The second floor of that farmhouse seemed more like a barracks than a foster home. I counted fifteen small bedrooms, seven doors on each side, and a single room at the very end. My room was the last room to the left, and it naturally, that odd one out, belonged to the strange boy. I caught him peeking at me from his doorway as I descended the rickety stairs. Breakfast was good, but chaotic. The fosters outnumbered Miss McDaniel twelve to one. I looked to be the oldest. The youngest was still in diapers. There was a definite recklessness to the arrangement, but as long as Child Protective Services found Miss McDaniel's orphan Armada well fed, clothed, and happy, I suppose they hadn't preoccupied themselves imagining what could go wrong. The strange boy tiptoed into the kitchen, plopped himself in a corner, and began drawing weird little shapes on the floor and chalk. He never ate with the rest of us. Miss McDaniel didn't appear to mind, or she didn't notice. I figured he was embarrassed to be seen mashing his food with those red, toothless gums. Over the next few days I learned about my life. It's assumed that both my parents were killed in the Northridge earthquake of ninety four. I was found on the streets of LA, dust caked, dehydrated, missing my right leg from my knee down, but otherwise intact. The Red Cross worker didn't hear me crawling up behind them. Apparently I damn near gave the poor sap a coronary when I tugged on their pant leg in the dead of night. I told them my name, Allie. They asked about my family, where I'd grown up, and who they could call to claim me, but I didn't answer their questions. They figured I was concussed and couldn't remember, because if I knew, why wouldn't I tell them? Weeks passed. The damage was tallied, the city was rebuilt. I was never reported missing. No family ever came looking for me. They estimated me to be tennish years old, but that's all it was, an estimation. My entire existence was a fucking estimation. Miss McDaniel began fostering me in the spring of ninety five, back when Mr. McDaniel was still alive. What'd he die of? I asked. We were lounging on the porch, watching the others play tag in the nearby field. She stopped rocking in her chair. A pang of regret squeezed my heart. Why would I ask something like that? My head fell into my hands. Sorry, sorry. God was I always like this? I was relieved to hear her laugh. It was a warm, tinny cackle, real beautiful noise. Yes, you've always been sort of indelicate. I think that's the first time I ever heard you apologize for it, though. She paused. A cold wind whistled through the field. Technically, Mr McDaniel passed from hypothermia, but it was the Alzheimer's that caused him to wander into the woods in the middle of winter. Like I said, memory is a fickle machine. Easy come, easy go. I ran my finger along the crease where my stump met its prosthetic. Can't think of anything I wouldn't do to get mine working again. Be patient, who knows what tomorrow will. A high pitched sob interrupted her. One of the kids was on the ground, clutching their arm against their chest, while another stood above them. Shrugging in Miss McDaniel's direction, she began pacing towards the ruckus. Well don't just stand there, Jacob, help your sister up. I rested my head on the chair's handle and watched the mayhem unfold. It was nice, a bittersweet grin slinked across my lips. Without warning, goosebumps exploded across my skin. Then a voice slurred and breathy. Ps Hey, Allie, come here. I flipped around. Nausea slithered up my throat. The strange boy was crouching behind the front door with his upper lip lying on the door's edge. Saliva was streaming from his mouth and down the frame, cascading around the copper latch bolt like a boulder in a river being pummeled by rapids. I launched myself from the chair, landed on two feet that time. What is wrong with you? His upper lip slowly curled into a fleshy smile. He ripped his mouth from the frame and scuttled backward on all fours. I heard what you said, he yelled from inside. And I can help. I can help you remember. Night was falling overhead. I stared into the shadow cast doorway, seething with a rage I couldn't begin to comprehend. My gut pleaded for me to stay away. God, I should have listened. Instead, I charged into the farmhouse. Silence greeted me. I scoured the muddy darkness for the strange boy, but couldn't locate him. My heart raced. I took a step back, the front door creaked shut of its own accord. A sharp whisper cleaved through the silence. You want to remember? I can bring you through the wanting well. It's the only way. My gaze darted to the top of the staircase, yellow eyes shone in the blackness with a glassy lustre that made them glimmer like Christmas ornaments. You want to remember right? This only works if you want it. Air caught in my throat. A barrage of defiance rolled across my tongue, but the insults dissolved before they arrived at my lips. Against all logic I knew he was right, I knew I needed his help. I can't explain how. The feeling was deep and inseparable. The truth seemed baked into my genetics. Reluctantly, I nodded. Well, come on then. The yellow eyes vanished. Scuttling movement reverberated through the walls, a stampede of erratic taps and thumps, then a click. Hazy light spilled into the second floor hallway. I stealed myself with a long, shuddering breath, and started up the dimly lit stairs. Sweat poured down my legs, collecting in the space between my thigh and the prosthetic. I grit my teeth. My stump was chafing by the time I reached the landing. I peered around the corner. The light was leaking from my open bedroom door. I crept down the hall and entered with unnecessary caution, sliding my prosthetic over the frame and quickly jerking it out, expecting to spring a trap or ambush. I stepped inside. The boy was sitting cross legged in the corner below the window sill. He was bent over, sketching strange insignias on the floor with white chalk. You can come closer, he said, patting my bed without looking away from his work. Takes a little patience and some elbow grease to attract the wanting well. I lurched forward. A harsh chill surged through my body. My room was twenty times colder than the hallway, and the air was suffocatingly damp. Felt like I was inhaling slush. The boy dropped his chalk and stared gleefully at the tableau. A crosshatch of elliptical lines, intersecting with each other at random, crooked angles, just looked like a haphazard pile of ivory colored worms to me, but he seemed quite proud. His head shot up. Hey, you know what? We've never gotten time like this before. He reached into his pocket and rolled a handful of thin black needles onto the chalk line. What what do you mean? I asked, teeth rattling from the otherworldly cold. He licked his lips, dragging his wet tongue around the perimeter with a deliberate sluggishness. I mean we don't get to talk much. Anything you want to ask me? I felt my rage building again. What the fuck was he expecting me to ask? Uh how old are you? His brow furrowed, causing his halo like scar to dance. I'd say six ish. Without warning, his hand rocketed up and onto the wall behind him. He slammed his palm onto the design, keeping his hand cupped. A muted buzzing emanated from within. Then with a precision that bordered on elegant, he quickly lifted the cupped hand while his other flew down and skewered a beetle with one of his thin, black needles, nailing it to the floor. The sorry thing thrashed, jerking its legs, twisting its thorax, but it was futile. The needle had pierced the insect right where its head met its wings with enough force to drive it a half inch into the hardwood. Anything else? My heart stuttered. I thought about begging him to stop. He brought down another needle with a vicious thump, and another, a fourth, a fifth. Don't got much time left here, Allie. I can feel it getting closer. His assault didn't waver, not for an instant. He just kept bringing the needles down in different places at different angles, but never through the head. He needed it alive, just barely alive. Thump, thump, thump. Why do you know how to do this? Because, ten ish years ago, I arrived here in between, so I can see the in betweens like the wanting well. Found out how to use it. I had in order to live. The insect turned pincushion wasn't struggling anymore. He took a deep breath and placed his fingertips on the rounded ends. In betweens don't get to live, not unless they're willing to figure out how to extract some life for themselves. He began delicately manipulating the needles, pushing some away, pulling others closer. The movements were tiny and exquisite, like he was playing a noiseless instrument. Reality bent to his flow. He expanded his fingers, the temperature surged, icy to scorching in an instant. I stumbled back. Pressure built in my skull. He pulled his fingers to the right, the walls bowed inward, as if a black hole had materialized in the center of my bedroom. I fell forward, my chest came crashing into the floor, knocking the air from my lungs. I flipped onto my back and peered up at him. His scar was pulsing. The arteries in his yellow tinged eyes were burning bright red. He crawled over the impaled beetle towards me. I heard the front door open, distant chatter graced my ears. I tried to scream for Miss McDaniel, nothing came out. I couldn't speak, I couldn't move. His head appeared over mine, his toothless mouth was wide open, hot saliva dripped onto my paralyzed face, it smelled like rot. My name would have been Alfie, by the way. Very rude not to ask. He scampered out of the room and slammed my door shut. I heard his door open and close and turn. My eyelids grew heavy. Rabid fear couldn't even keep them up. The world blackened. I drifted off, but not to sleep, to somewhere else. Somewhere in between. There's a whoosh, like water rushing through a pipe, louder and louder, a deafening swell, and then unseen fingers rip my eyes open. I'm still lying on the floor in the dark, but there's something above me, something that can't be there, a circle of stone with a wooden arc, and a deep black pit at its center. A well is jutting from the ceiling. I should be afraid. There's plenty to be afraid of. The stone is squishing against itself, quivering like an intestine. The whoosh is reverberating from inside the well. A hand is beginning to descend from the black pit, stretching to an inhuman length in order to reach me. But I'm not afraid. I feel blissful or numb. It's hard to tell the difference. I smile because I know the answers are in there, my answers. Who I am, where I came from, what happened to my leg. Everything I want is in the well. My arm feels weak, but I'm able to lift my hand off the floor. The hand from the pit is only inches away. I hear something. My smile falters. It's Miss McDaniel's voice. She's not saying anything, her voice is just floating through the atmosphere, humming like the wind. My numbness melts, unparalleled horror takes its place. The well convulses, the hand becomes violent, swatting the air, grasping for my neck. I don't want to know, not like this. The whoosh fades. I sprang up, clutching my chest, gasping like I haven't inhaled for hours. It was dawn. I surveyed my room. The impaled bug was missing, but a fine layer of white dust coated the floor below my windowsill. The pattern had been smeared into obscurity. It was still proof though. None of what happened the night before was a dream. I latched on my prosthetic and stormed into the hallway. I wasn't thinking, I had no plan. Blind fury guided me forward. I battered Alfie's door, pummeled it until my fist began to ache. I twisted the knob, but it was locked. I threw my hands over my head in frustration. The faraway clatter of breakfast curled into my ear. Miss McDaniel, she'd give me answers. I stomped downstairs. In my haste I tripped on a loose nail, skipped the last few steps, and landed nose first on the dirt caked entry mat. There was a visceral snap. Blood poured down the back of my throat. The floorboard shook as everyone came to investigate the commotion. Allie, oh my god, are you alright? Miss McDaniel tried to help me up, but I slapped her hand away and scrambled to my feet, panting like an animal. Who the fuck is Alfie? I growled. The other profosters took a step back. Cowering Miss McDaniel cocked her head. Alfie? Yes, he's one of your fosters, you senile bitch. Scar around his head, toothless. Sleeps in the room. the room at the very end of the hall, the one after mine? Lord help us, how could you possibly forget him? Her brow furrowed. The room at the end of the hall? I nodded furiously. My posture loosened, silent tears dripped down my cheeks. The pain in my sinuses was ramping up quickly. Miss McDaniel instructed the others to wait in the kitchen. Then slowly with patience and warmth, she approached and pulled me into a hug. I sobbed into her shoulder until it hurt too much to cry. She tilted my head up and inspected the injury Well, I think we got to return to the hospital. I'll give Betty a call. She'll come look after the others, while we wait for her to drive over from church. Can I show you something outside? I nodded. Miss McDaniel led me around to the back of the farmhouse. Which window is yours, poppy seed? I put my hand up to shield my eyes from the sun and pointed. My mouth went dry. She didn't say anything else, she didn't have to I imagine the realization was written all over my pale, mangled face. My window was at the very edge of the second floor. There wasn't enough space for a room at the end of the hall. The second trip to the hospital reshaped my life for the better. The doctor who examined my nose wasn't some surly, holier than thou chavantist he was a young man overflowing with nervous energy, talking like a machine gun, sipped around the exam table like a coked out housefly. He was certainly odd, but he got the job done and then some My nose wasn't broken, thankfully. We were about to leave when the doctor started digging into exactly what caused me to trip in the first place. I hesitated, but his slapstick quirkiness was disarming. I trusted him. So I told him everything the memory loss, the wanting well, Alfie. He listened intently, so much so that he didn't say a word throughout the whole protracted explanation. After I was done, he admitted me to the inpatient floor to run additional tests. Turns out I'd been suffering from atypical seizures. I didn't completely explain the memory loss and complex hallucinations aren't usually the sole manifestation of a seizure disorder. But the evidence was undeniable. The young doctor showed me the electrogram findings my brain waves looked like a radio frequency gone haywire. I was sent home with anti-seizure meds. Whenever Miss McDaniel asked I told her things were improving. My memories hadn't resurfaced but I felt much better and I wasn't seeing Alfie anymore. That was only a partial truth. First off I didn't feel great I was pretty depressed. Day by day the emptiness I experienced seemed to fester and made life taste like ash. But I think I hid my misery pretty well. That said I never stopped seeing the door at the end of the hall. It was blurry but it was there. Sometimes I thought I heard whispering behind it, incensed muttering that I couldn't make heads or tails of, I tried to ignore it. More importantly though, Alfie did seem to be gone. There were a few occasions where I could have sworn I glimpsed his glassy yellow eyes in the darkness of my bedroom, but it would end up being headlights from a passing car reflecting through my window. Time marched on I rebuilt myself the best I could, but it was an act a show I put on for Miss McDaniel. She was such a kind, generous, beautiful person. She deserved to die believing I had recovered It was the least I could do. She passed six years after I lost my memories cancer, metastatic in her bones, her lungs in her brain. She seemed happy to know she wouldn't burden her fosters for too long. It took her quickly and without fanfare, per her request, I scattered her ashes in the woods around the farmhouse. She became fixated on the state of mister McDaniel's soul at the very end, worried that even in death he was still wandering the forest, lost and alone. She said she'd show him the way home if anyone could, it'd be her. My grief was crippling. Miss McDaniel was my rock, my anchor to the world. Losing her felt like losing my memories a second time. Without her I was no one. I had relationships with the other fosters yes, but it wasn't the same not by a long shot. So with no prospects and nothing better to do, I gave the whole apathetic mid twenties death spiral thing a try. If you've seen a movie in the last two decades, you probably know the drill whiskey with breakfast, harder drugs with dinner, sex with dodgy strangers to facilitate sleep, rinse and repeat. Whatever it took to distract myself from the terrible emptiness. One day it occurred to me that I hadn't taken my anti seizure meds in months. Far as I could tell nothing changed. That was pretty amusing for about thirty seconds. Then it was back to the status quo, but it was becoming harder to disregard the emptiness. My time worn tricks weren't fixing the problem. What's more, I began to believe my memories weren't lost because I could feel them inside my head, sequestered but not truly gone, and for a moment there was this minuscule glimmer of hope. That hope swiftly mutated into a constant unrelenting itch an itch that I couldn't possibly scratch. Sleep was the first thing to go I toss and turn at night, trying my damnest to ignore the itch, the feeling of an earthworm burrowing through my scalp. No booze was strong enough, no drug was potent enough. The memories were entombed somewhere deep in my skull, begging for release it was the purest form of torture imaginable. Then like a gift from the divine an ad popped up on my phone's internet browser amnestic backtracking clinical trial and the reversal of memory loss click here for details I was ecstatic to learn that the physician running the trial could see me that afternoon Please just call me Richter. I don't love the doctor title always felt vain to me We shook hands heat gathered in my cheeks Bashel wasn't ever my default setting but the man was undeniably handsome. Broad shoulders with a thickest jaw and chestnut colored eyes he motioned for me to sit I smiled and set myself down, buttoning up my flannel in the process The AC in this office seemed to be working overtime. How does this go exactly? He smirked It's all fairly straightforward, even more so in your case. Normally the study requires certain blood tests and brain imaging as a baseline before we can initiate the experimental therapy but I've reviewed your electronic record and you've already had all the prerequisite tests. In other words we can begin the amnestic backtracking today and patients who've responded we've seen positive results within hours and because this clinical study is hurting for participants it'll all be free of charge. My jaw dropped I was floored engrossed in a state of euphoric disbelief I surveyed his office. It was sparse and unadorned just a desk and a few chairs no futuristic machines or vials or medicine so is it something you sent to my pharmacy or he leaned over his desk chuckling No, Allie, amnestic backtracking is more of an in house therapy. Richter stood and gestured to a nearby door If you feel ready, if you want our help, go on ahead, I'll meet you in there. I used the edge of his desk as a fulcrum, pushed myself upright and paced over the door, beaming with hope. My hand hovered over the knob, apprehension crackled down my spine. A laundry list of red flags began accumulating in my brain. Richter looked exceptionally similar to the young doctor who diagnosed my seizures, someone I trusted. The air in this room was cold and damp, and I could barely feel the itch in my skull. He chuckled with taut lips, like he didn't want me to see inside his mouth. My body trembled. I closed my eyes and I heard something a horrible noise, a desperate animalistic wail. It wasn't growing louder, it wasn't growing closer. It been there the whole time, but I couldn't appreciate it until now it'd been concealed. I glanced over my shoulder. There was a small bloody deer writhing in the corner. A bouquet of long black needles had been driven through its torso. Its movements were twitchy, sporadic and languid. It was nearly dead but not quite an incomprehensible mass of chalk lines besieged the sacrifice from every direction the floor the walls the ceiling I think I could have run, but I didn't but what would be the point? I had nothing to run back to I placed my hand on the knob, twisted it, ran my shoulder into the door and plunged myself into the patient darkness lying in wait on the other side Whoosh unseen fingers rip my eyes open. The air smells of blood and smoke I can hear the faint tapping of rubble falling around me. A cracked light bulb flickers overhead weak bursts of golden static outline the devastation a woman crushed down the middle bisected by a massive wooden support beam a man buried beneath chimney bricks, his dead hand peeking out from the debris, immortalized in the shape of a claw, fingernails digging into the dusty rug, and a young girl missing the bottom half of her right leg. She's alive, but for some reason she's not moving she's sitting upright, still as a statue This is it me as a child, my mother, my father, the Northridge earthquake of ninety four This is my history My answers Everything starts moving, ghostly and autonomous. Shattered picture frames converge and hang themselves neatly on the wall a mahogany armoire rebuilds itself piece by piece. The bulb's light becomes brighter, other bulbs reform completely the damage is reversing. I'm backtracking through memory suddenly the younger me tilts backwards and begins convulsing. Her skin ripples, thousands of narrow white threads seep from her pores. Once the last one is out her spasms stop. The threads congregate above her in a entangled cluster they jettison through the room like the tentacles of a man of war jellyfish drifting through the ocean. The beam that killed my mother begins to shake blood soaks into her body her flattened bones crack and expand. As the beam rises, the white threads reenter my mother and she takes shape I clutch my chest my throat tightens I grasp a tiny fragment of understanding. Her belly is round it protrudes far from her waist. My mother was pregnant she was about to give birth before she died. I feel my eyes becoming magnetized to one of the reform pictures on the wall a black and white ultrasound image with a small handwritten label at the bottom of the frame Alfie he arrived here in between dead and alive. I remembered what he said at the farmhouse in betweens don't get to live not unless they're willing to figure out how to extract some life for themselves. When my mother died my unborn brother invaded me, commandeered my body, stole my life. That day at Miss McDaniel's farmhouse he lost control, took his hands off the wheel and I regained my sovereignty but he's still locked inside of me and somehow he's concealed my memories he's been using them as a bargaining chip leverage a way to take back control. The chimney bricks covering my father begin to rumble just like the rest of the debris they rebuild themselves but they build something new a circle of bricks with a black pit at its center the wanting well one by one I watch them climb in, my father then my mother then young me. I can't see any of their faces clearly they're crackling with static. I walk across the small, quaint home and peer over the side of the well into the black depths everything I've wanted, all the memories that I've pined so desperately for they're in there. My palm grips the edge it feels like flesh wet and squelching pulsing faintly something stopped me from throwing myself into the well before right yes it was Miss McDaniel's voice. I perk my ears listening to her tender hum but there's nothing it's deathly silent because she's gone, dead and buried no longer with me I'm nobody who I am is in the well I have no choice I prepare to descend, lifting my prosthetic and resting it on the edge of the well but I pause it's all a lie isn't it knowing the truth won't make me whole and even if she's not with me I'm still somebody I pull my prosthetic away from the pit and turn on the opposite wall the door I entered through is still there. I force myself to move the gravity around me becomes weaponized, resisting me, pushing me back. I fight forward I need to leave not for Miss McDaniel, not for anyone for myself The knob is warm to the touch What the hell are you doing? I glance over my shoulder, Alfie's looming near the well, horribly amalgamated. One arm is a newborn's, the other's Richter's his skull is bulging, uneven, cancerous an umbilical cord the width of a fire hose droops from his stomach, wrapping around his feet and into the wanting well I'm offering you everything, a perfect catalogue of your life, who you were before I took the wheel, who your parents were, how you lost your leg, all of it. Hell I can even give you your real name. You realize Allie is just a placeholder right you can hide inside those memories until our bodies finally gives out he points into the black pit with his adult arm. Now get in he's attempting to look threatening but his resolve is faltering. His amalgamated body is trembling It was never supposed to be like this I was distracted for a second one second and you spring up like a goddamn weed. Tears are welling in his jaundiced eyes I'm sorry Alfie I turn and twist the knob he screams with twenty separate voices and begins sprinting towards me. I can feel him grasping for me. I slam myself into the door my body collapses into an abandoned office. I see chalk dust and bloodstains in one of the corners but the dying deer is gone. I resume my anti seizure medication the next morning things have been quieter since, but I know he's still there, waiting patiently, watching my every move, vying for control. There might come a day where Alfie overtakes me, a day where I'm forced into the wanting well but until that day comes I refuse to exist in between I've given myself a name and for the first time in my life I will live