Mr. Odenkirk's secret well

I need another glass of it… please!

Long arms didn’t answer.

What are you doing? You can’t take it away from me, not right now, I beg of you!

Long arms felt his grief but didn’t make one noise. It had the last bucket right in front of him.

You terrible monster, why are you doing this to me?

A cold thick mist came slowly upon the Odenkirk’s manor. Winter had arrived a little bit earlier than last year. 

Mr. Abraham Odenkirk drove parsimoniously towards the grounds that his father and his father’s father had use commonly for one sole purpose, writing.  

This man wasn’t ill or financially compromised; the family business was steady enough to bear with this arrogant old person. Everything he knew was how to  write novels and hate people. No one really liked him, no one really cared for him… not one bit.

He arrived that afternoon just like every year with a couple of dark brown leather bags and his creature pet, the one he thought was the closest soul to his dried rotten heart.

The hall which he used more often to write his pieces was huge, a classic mixture between wood and rock that gave a cold atmosphere to the place. At the end of the hall there was a very long staircase that led guests to the upper lever where all the rooms were. The staircase brought Abraham terrible memories.

His room was just as he had left it the year before. Long reddish drapes and the huge bed with white sheets perfectly set; two gigantic pillows and a small gas lamp on the floor. There wouldn’t be a sun ray that dared to enter that place for it would have died absorbed by the very grey abysm that roamed between those walls.

Odenkirk went down as usual holding on to the reel; cursing and cursing with every step. Getting down was a strange odyssey, his heart would pound with strength, going up and down was a very difficult task for a man who hated doing exercise.

Once sat in his old burgundy and dusty chair he would take out the Odenkirk’s pen, a tool that had gotten his forefathers to write novels of great reputation amongst literature enthusiasts around the globe. He would put his parchments down and start writing carefully, relentlessly…

The fireplace would be lit the entire night if needed, acompaining him until the end of his hours, but that night something strange happened. Something he had never experience or at least not since he was a young lad with nothing more that magical creatures in mind.

A mourn came from the outer part of the dying building. 

His bones shivered in fear.

Could that be possible? – He asked himself.

He remembered it perfectly… as if it had happened yesterday…

One dark night darker that rest of them, as a kid, he went out to the grounds in what meant a tremendous act of disobedience. He was after a very odd sound, at first he thought it was a wounded animal that was crying for help, but as the time went by he got himself lost in the mist.

Then he saw a figure coming out slowly from the thick night’s fog. It was a tall humanoid without eyes and mouth, his face was plain as a chest but still it managed to make that horrible noise. A mourn that sounded like a soul yelling a desperate cry for help.

 His body was absolutely pale but what he thought was the most brutal aspect of that monster was his arms. They were long, twice as long as its legs and his hands were full of blood and his finger were red pointy nails with a thirst for pain.

Young Abraham stood quietly behind a tree, everything he could do was try to handle his breath so the terrible creature wouldn’t notice his insignificant presence.

The monster seemed to be headed towards the manor. He never saw it again.

That memory…

That night…

That night his father disappeared from the face of earth without leaving any trail. Just like his father before him and the one before him as well.

Abraham was terrified; once again he went out to explore the grounds, to follow the mourning as if it had some kind of enchantment upon his mind and soul. Once again he was committing a tremendous act of disobedience but this time against his own, against a promise he had made himself long ago.

He walked and walked as the mist kept embracing him like a son and then… he found it.  

Amidst the manor’s backyard there was a small rock solid cylinder with what seemed to be a sophisticated mechanism on top of it.

A well? – He thought.

 Abraham got closer to the mysterious structure and started using the pump which brought a heavy bucket full of a strange liquid with an even stranger smell.  

The mourning stopped.

He went back to the mansion without really understanding what was happening. He had never seen such a thing; at least not in his very own backyard.

The bar had been covered with dusty sheets. 

 Odenkirk uncovered the bar for the first time in God knows how long and placed the bucket on top of it. The liquid was black and thick, it smelled not like something that could’ve gotten out of a pipe line, no. it had an earthly aroma, soft and elegant, seductive and secret.

He poured a small glass and saw it for a brief instant… and then he drank it all at once.  

The clock kept ticking with its regular cadency.

The mist kept coming upon the manor in a soft way.

His heart kept beating which meant he was not dead but something had changed…

He felt a sudden impact of inspiration.

Abraham Odenkirk then started writing words, phrases and complete pages of the unexpected. Everything seemed to be falling in place. He of course went bucket after bucket after bucket, and then…It happened.

The mourning came back.

He stopped for a second; he heard the steps outside…

The creature moved his monstrous arms and opened the manor’s wooden door. The wind came in like a thousand ballerinas, whistling and moving elegantly all around the house.

Odenkirk kept drinking, he kept writing…

Step by step long arms got closer to the disgraced sad writer.

It then stopped right next to the old man.

Abraham didn’t dare to look at the creature which had taken so many dreams away from him. Instead he kept drinking, he kept writing…

Long arms waited and mourned.

The bucket had only one drink left inside of it.

Odenkirk’s forehead was ripping with sweat; his eyes were filled with blood, red like his very own blood.

He kept drinking, he kept writing…

Long arms then stretched his enormous hand and picked the empty bucket.

I need another glass of it… please! – The old man shouted

Long arms didn’t answer.

What are you doing? You can’t take it away from me, not right now, I beg of you!

Long arms felt his grief but didn’t make one noise. That was the last bucket Abraham was ever going to take a look at.

You terrible monster, why are you doing this to me? – he started crying.

Ughh Ughhh – The monster enounced as if it was about to express something out of his mouth less face.

Abraham fell to his knees with a terrible pain in his chest.

Little black drops then started to come out of his eyes and nose.

No! no! plea… please! – He cried.

Mr. Odenkirk started puking what seemed to be an eery mixture of blood and ink. His lungs were expelling the very vice that had gotten him to be awake for four night straight out of his system.

He was dying.

Long arms was there, mourning.

A big chunck of solid ink came out of Abraham's mouth, he now was fighting for his life, trying not to choke in his own dark fluids.

It…it is a master… Piece….

He drowned in his own ink.

Long arms grabbed him by his feet and dragged him out of the mansion.

It then cried and laughed with a ghoulish delight and threw the old man’s body into the well. Just like he did to his father and his father before him.