Well of Endless Sorrow

The well’s weathered rock, crumbling mortar and sickly-green moss that extended down into the earth had seen the passage of over 250 years. No one knew how deep it was or even who dug it. It had simply always been there, even mentioned in Jackville’s town charter, written in 1756, serving as a landmark for the north-west corner.
Local legend said it was haunted by the spirits of an entire Indian village who had been slaughtered by the militia of a local fort. The soldiers didn’t feel like digging graves so they dumped the bodies into the well. On the one year anniversary of the carnage, a mist spewed forth from the well at sundown, blanketing the countryside. At dawn the following morning, after the sun had burned off the fog, some trappers, who were making their way down river to sell their furs, made a gruesome discovery. Every inhabitant of the fort was dead. Their clothes soaking wet and the bodies bloated as if they had drown.
Peter stared into the well, seeking answers to questions better left unasked.

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