There was a legend about the well in the garden. It was built over two hundred years ago when there was nothing here but forest as far as the eye can see.
Not long after in was erected, Christina the Tyrant, they called her, ruled the village on the other side of the forest, was out riding her horse one Halloween night. The horse got spooked and threw her off, and down into the well. She was never found.
Every October thirty-first, the story goes, she climbs out of the well, and walks around the garden leaving her initial, C, entrenched in the ground.
Watching outside my bedroom window that faces the well one stormy Halloween night, a lightning bolt lit the sky and a woman’s eyes were staring back at me.
I heard, “Get out,” whispered snidely.
I jumped out of my skin and fell back. I bounced up and looked around, but saw only darkness.
When I heard it once more, I ran out of the house and to the well. The air was cold and the wind howled.
I turned on the flashlight, I grabbed, and shined it down into the well. A gust of wind knocked me off balance causing me to drop the light.
It hit the bottom of the well, and flames shot high above it. A wicked scream rose and faded in the night sky.
The air warmed and the winds calmed. The legend of the well was no more.