It’s a shame my uncle isn’t still alive. He told the story best; he always said I made it sound too much like a film. He was more of a man of words; he could tell the legend so it made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. And it’s all true, every word of it, at least as far as we know it…
It’s become a sort of a family tradition; all of us know it off by heart. We’ve all been down to where the house stood, seen where the well once was… visited the graves…
My family have owned land here for generations. There was a time when Bullham Brook was a bustling, busy, growing town, but that was when the mine was open. Some people connect the closing of the mine with what happened with the well – all the accidents, though my father was of the mind that it was more to do with corner-cutting and corruption. But superstition might be what’s kept it closed…
My father was the first in the family to really study the story, try to separate fact from fiction. I’ve got it all here, all his papers and it’s all borne out. Well, most of it... we’ve got death certificates, and parish records, testimonies and diaries. And crucially, the police report. Whether it happened exactly how it’s supposed to have, who can say? But did something strange, awful and wicked take place on that hillside that night? Of that, there is no doubt.
It was my father’s ambition to dig up the well, see if he could find bones. Of course, the money it costs to maintain the estate meant that he could never get the funds together. There was a time when this estate used to make money, but those days are long gone.
It’s surprising the story isn’t more well known, but I suppose this is an odd corner of the country, not much here. But now, when we have heritage tourists coming up to the house, the Trust like to wheel me out to tell it every so often. My uncle was the master; he relished a chance to tell it. Milked it for everything it was worth…
They called him the terror of Bullham Brook!
From the end of the family estate to the Cliffside tin mine, he ran and roamed, tucked and rolled, tore and trod. He brought chaos to each sleepy corner, to each garden and house from one end of the village to the other. No one was safe.
Ladies cried his name as their well-kept gardens were trodden through; shopkeepers rushed to prevent the chaos of his clumsy fingers; farmers reached for their forks when they heard the squawks and grunts that signalled the terror was near and their livestock needed protection.
Yes, Benjamin Morris was a little monster; precocious, hyper-active and mischievous; forever in and out of trouble. But who could blame him? Bullham Brook had so little to offer a young boy with a fertile imagination and energy to burn. The town was so quiet; he had no brothers or sisters to play with, and there were so few children, and fewer close to his age. Perhaps he merely craved attention; his father was always so busy helping old Parson – Zachariah Parson, my great grandfather – and his mother was so fragile, so highly-strung, so vulnerable, and with her spending so much time in her bed, she could hardly care for the boy and see to all his needs.
Whatever the cause, Benjamin Morris somehow, someway, always seemed to be close to trouble. Yet it must be stressed that Benjamin Morris was not a bad boy. He had not an evil bone in his body. But if it had not been for him, Bullham Brook might be a thriving, bustling town, instead of the ghost town it is today. You can see, if you look down into the valley, where many of the houses used to stand. Though small, this community once thrived. The busy tin mine brought workers, the promise of industry. But within a decade, all that would be undone.
Benjamin Morris would uncover a secret so terrible, so shocking, that it shook this town to its very foundations. When the tin mine closed, beset by accidents and misfortune, the court records would state it was due to carelessness, neglect and corruption. But for those who lived in the town, every accident, every act of unpleasantness was as a result of what Benjamin Morris discovered. People can be superstitious, especially back then, and over time they would leave and desert Bullham Brook. Which is why today, as a village, it is less than a handful of houses and little else but ruins.
The year was 1890. Benjamin was a boy of eleven; he was independent, spirited, and an unwilling student. The law required that he should go to school, which was carried out in the village hall – which is still there – adjoining what was once the church, which is not. His father thought his schooling a waste of time, that he should be learning a profession. If not on the farm, with him, in the mine; a good man, but a little backward-thinking.
When not in school, the fields and hills were Benjamin’s stomping ground. Where he ran races, hunted rabbits, fished, made secret hideaways, leaped hedges and climbed trees. He had the lay of the land; he could do virtually as he pleased. There was but one rule – he must never go to the well.
It was his mother’s rule, a rule which she imposed with absolute strictness. He had heard it first when he was only five years old. His mother was taking his father his food for lunch when they crossed the hillside field where the well lay, the only mark on the otherwise unspoiled landscape.
Already a keen explorer, the young Benjamin ran toward the otherwise unremarkable stone ring, but his mother screamed for him to come back to her. Prone to hysterics, she shrieked at him and made him swear that he would never go near the well, that he must promise to her that he would never, ever, go to the well.
It was foolish of her. Had she merely warned him that a well was no place for a child to play, then he might simply have never thought to go there again. However, her overbearing insistance that he must never, ever, go near this otherwise ordinary landmark instilled it with a sense of mystique. And although he obeyed his mother, he would never forget that spot and over the years it must have preyed on his curiosity many times.
But he obeyed; whatever havoc he might have wreaked, he was at heart a good boy. His mother’s warning was severe enough for him to fear the consequences he might face if he were to visit the well.
He kept his promise to his mother; he kept it until he was eleven years old. As I’ve said, he was not a good student, and at school he was the bane of the school mistress, Miss Claxton, to all accounts a nasty, rather spiteful old spinster. The children are said to have called her Miss Bones because of her emaciated, sinewy frame. She had under her tutelage about 20 pupils, all of different ages, which one imagines would not have made her job simple and might well have contributed to her legendary temper.
Miss Bones was one of the three people Benjamin hated most in the world. He hated her boring lessons and the way she appeared to pick on him. But there was one person in class who he hated even more, one person who haunted him and persecuted and bated him more than anyone else.
That was Penelope Lucinda Revile. Penelope was the daughter of one of the mine owners, a new wealthy breed who had come to town. She saw herself as above the other students in the class and Benjamin particularly, who was roughly her age and therefore a kind of, shall we say, competitor. Now we’ve all known a Penelope at some point in our lives, usually as children; the sweetest of sweet girls – butter would not melt in her mouth. But when backs were turned, a different creature entirely…
Now, the situation, as told, is that during one of the school break times, the children were playing in the yard. Benjamin was playing alone with a ball and Penelope decided she wanted to play with the ball to. He did not want to, but Penelope insisted and Miss Claxton forced him. But he could not play well enough for her; he wasn’t throwing the ball hard enough or he was throwing it too hard. And Miss Claxton, being well disposed to the spoilt young Ms Revile – perhaps giving deferential treatment to one she saw as being of a better class – kept telling off young Benjamin, though all he wanted to do was play alone.
Penelope tormented him all through play time. He was giving up too easily; she wasn’t having enough fun with him. He wasn’t responding as fiercely as she’d hoped. So, as the children queued to go back to the classroom, she waited behind Benjamin. And when Benjamin went back into the classroom, she took the ball from his hands and threw it across the classroom, smashing one of the teacher’s potted plants and spilling soil onto the classroom floor.
“Benjamin!” his teacher screamed – now she’d done it; he was in for it now. The shrill, shrieking Miss Bones decided that his behaviour was so bad, so intolerable, that he must be taken to the vicar for punishment.
Now Benjamin might well have hated the strict Miss Bones and the brat Penelope, but they were nothing compared to the vicar. Of him, we know a great deal. He had been a soldier before he had become a man of God. He had been in the first Boer war, where he is said to have killed more than 40 tribesmen, although that seems like hearsay. Nevertheless, he was proud of his war service and his rooms were full of tribal relics, animals and various foreign curiosities. He himself was a big hulking brute of a man – there is a photograph in the archive – 6ft tall, with wide shoulders and a slanted face, with a small scar on his cheek and a larger one across his forehead.
A certainly frightening vision for anyone, never mind an eleven-year-old boy.
On seeing the young Benjamin enter his office, the vicar threw down his pen and exclaimed, “What has the accursed boy done this time?”
Tugging the boy by the ear into the middle of the office, Miss Claxton spoke hysterically of Benjamin’s supposed transgression. Apparently the plant pot smashed was a gift from the vicar to Miss Claxton, who doted on him and treasured this return of his affection. Benjamin protested his innocence: “I haven’t done anything, she’s lying.” The vicar struck him: “You’ll speak when you’re spoken to!”
Refusing to admit to breaking the plant pot, and for calling his teacher a liar, there could be only one punishment – the cane! The vicar is said to have been merciless in his use of the cane, but in Benjamin’s case, he would’ve been even more severe. For the vicar was in fact Benjamin’s uncle!
“To think that the same blood flows through our veins!” is what he’d say to Benjamin. And not only would he deal the severest of physical punishments, he would also be sure to convey all that had occurred to his sister – Benjamin’s mother.
Yes, there was no one Benjamin hated more than his uncle.
He quivered and cried as he pulled down his trousers and leant over the vicar’s desk.
“Don’t blubber,” The vicar commanded. “You know full well what happens when you’re brought into this office. I live in eternal hope that one day you’ll learn to behave yourself and do what you’re told. But until then you will be made to suffer the consequences of all the terrible things you do.”
He ruthlessly gave Benjamin six whip-strokes of his cane, causing the boy’s knees to buckle as he squealed in pain. But the vicar heeded none of his cries, and waited promptly for the boy to quieten down and straighten his legs before unleashing each following stroke.
Benjamin could barely contain his tears when he was led back to the classroom, returning to his seat with his bottom burning and forced to continue his lessons and then stay after school as further punishment. If the stinging pain was not enough, he now dreaded returning home and facing his mother, who could well unleash further punishment.
Desperately he waited; Miss Claxton made him clean the desks and sweep the floor and clean the blackboard as further punishment. He would ask, “Can I go now miss?”, and she would clip him around the ear and tell him to wait…
Eventually she let him go – and then he bolted for it. The vicar would take a long walk in the afternoon; if he was at least to have a chance to give his mother his side of the story first, he had no time to lose. He raced over cobbled streets, leapt over walls, bounded through bushes, desperate to reach his home before the vicar.
He thought he’d made it. When he reached his home, all was quiet. He walked through the front door and called for his mother and she did not answer. He went through the living room, into the dining room and into the kitchen and there was still no sign. He thought perhaps he had been lucky; perhaps the vicar had come while his mother was away and had not had the chance to tell her.
He felt a rush of relief. He had escaped yet another thrashing.
But his relief was short lived; moving slowly past the kitchen window he saw the vicar – back on his bicycle! And then entering from the back garden was his mother, fresh from picking apples in the garden. Her face was taut and twitching.
“You’ve been at it again haven’t you!” she said.
“I didn’t do anything!” Benjamin pleaded. But he knew she would never believe him. Who would believe – at least back then – the words of a naughty boy over that of the vicar, especially one who is a member of the family?
His mother had a temper; she picked him up and she shook him. “Albie says I should send you away” – for that was the vicar’s name. “Send you somewhere where they’ll teach you some respect!”
This idea was more horrifying than any other to Benjamin. He was lonely out in the country, but it was his home and a place full of adventure. And however he might feel about his mother’s temper tantrums, he had no wish to be taken away from his family.
“I won’t go,” he shouted.
“You’ll do as you’re told,” she shouted back.
“Father won’t let me go.” Benjamin insisted. “He hates the vicar and I hate him too.”
His mother slapped him: “Don’t you speak that way about a man of God!”
His mother rarely struck him, not with her hand. For her to take her hand to him meant that she might be on the verge of one of her bad episodes. Frightened and upset, he felt he had only one course of action to take and that was to go for his father.
He ran from the house, down the driveway and leapt over the stone wall at the other side of the road – that wall is still there, should you want to see it. His mother shrieked at him to come back but he stayed crouched down behind the wall until he heard his mother slam the door shut behind her and it was safe to come out.
From there, Benjamin made his way into the woods, the place where he felt the most safe. That might sound strange to you and I, but there he was away from bad tempered parents and teachers and punishing men of the cloth. He had the freedom there to do as he pleased with no one to tell him otherwise. He probably knew the woods as well as anyone who lived in Bullham Brook. He knew the best places to fish, the best places to hide, the best trees to climb, the place where couples might meet to avoid the prying eyes of others – or so they thought.
He had little time to take in his surroundings; he was still going as fast as he could to reach his father, though he was by now naturally very tired, having already run so far to reach his home earlier.
Benjamin’s father worked long hours on the farm; my great grandfather Zachariah was old, but a generous man of benevolent nature. He was good to those who worked for him and he inspired great loyalty in them. That was good for most, but for a boy with a highly-strung mother, it meant long absences and too much time spent alone with a parent who could be difficult to handle, especially for a boy of that age.
At some point during his journey to see his father, he got so tired he had to stop and rest. He approached the river, which runs through the forest.
He would’ve stopped to catch his breath, perhaps washed his face in the water, taken a drink to quench his thirst. He waited for some short time to recover; but he was not to have much peace in what was normally his sanctuary.
At some point he was approached by one of the last people he would’ve expected to see out there in the woods. His childhood nemesis, Penelope!
“What are you doing here Sourface?” – that’s what she used to call him.
Benjamin wanted to get revenge on Penelope. Her turning up was a pain, but out here in the woods there was no teacher to protect her.
He said he would hit her.
“You’d hit a girl would you?”
“You’re not a girl, you’re disgusting!”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she goaded him. “You’re a coward, a yellow-bellied stinking coward!”
Benjamin protested, but Penelope wished to prove to him that he was a coward and that he was not as brave as she was…
So she told him that she had been to the well – the only place in the valley she knew he had never been to.
Benjamin insisted she was lying, but she would not back down: “I have so been up there. I know you haven’t because you’re such a coward. A little yellow-bellied coward.”
“I am not scared,” Benjamin cried.
“I go wherever I like,” she cried. “I’m not afraid. I think I might just tell my mum that I saw you up there, so she can tell your mum and get you into more trouble.”
Angry, Benjamin chased Penelope away. If he had not been so tired he might well have caught her, but she got away.
Everything was going wrong for him that day. If Penelope’s taunts were not enough, he also slipped on the stepping stones that he used every time to take him from one side of the river to the other. His trousers were soaked through to his knees, nothing it seemed, could go right for him.
It was quite a trek across the hillside to reach his father. A straight path would take Benjamin up to a high road which would take him to where he might expect to find him. But he was too tired to face the steep climb and ended up walking off course, gradually up the side of the hill, forcing his way through the tall grass, thick and heavy – it was an unwise course and even more tiring for him.
He was only eleven, not yet so tall. Lost amongst the tall stems he drifted further off course than he expected. But the grass thinned after a while and he found himself unable to quite gather his bearings. How far had he drifted…
He soon found out. As his eyes drifted across the landscape they found a landmark he had not expected to find…
…The well...
He had not seen this patch of land in years. He had never been this close to the dreaded place his mother made him swear he would never go near.
He was – unimpressed. Looking upon the dull stone ring he could not help but feel a sense of anti-climax, what was all the fuss about? Parts of the river, the wood, the mine – they were much more dangerous looking than this unremarkable landmark. What was so special about this place?
This stoked the fire of his curiosity once more. Why would his mother make him swear off going to such an ordinary place? He stopped to think for a moment. He had sworn to his mother never to go near it, that was true, but he was angry at her for striking him and for always taking the word of the vicious vicar. Also, there had been Penelope’s threat. She made such threats often; she liked to toy with him. But she might follow through, tell her mother who might then tell his own mother. But would Penelope admit to going to the well too? Surely she wasn’t allowed to go up this part of the hillside? If he wasn’t, why should she?
If he was to be blamed for going to the well, he might as well have a look. And if Penelope didn’t say anything to her mother, well, there was no one to see him out here. No one else to tell on him.
So he went to the well. It was not so far for him to go, but he was so tired by then. When he reached the stone wall, he slouched tired against it. The wall was still strong, it held his weight without strain. He felt the stone; it was cold and riddled with moss.
It was getting late in the afternoon now. The sky was beginning to darken. He wondered whether it was worth continuing on to his father; he might already be on his way home.
After applying some force to the well wall, to see if indeed it was strong, he put his head over the top to look down into its depths. Unsurprisingly, it was dark, and deep. It was hard to tell from where Benjamin was standing just how deep it went. To find out, he rummaged amongst the grass for a stone. When he found one, he went back to the well and dropped it down.
It fell without a sound and disappeared. There was no splash, no thud – no noise whatsoever except for the whistle of the wind in the air.
Benjamin was disappointed and thoroughly unimpressed. The well was such a let-down, what on earth could all the fuss have been about?
He wasn’t sure what to do now. Go home and face his mother, or go on up the hillside and hope his father had not already left for home and that he could get his side of the story across first?
Tired as he was, he felt it better to take the chance and see if his father was still there at the farm. It might at least help him to avoid further recriminations from his mother.
He turned away from the well, taking but a few steps, when he heard:
“Is someone there?”
He froze cold on the spot. He had heard a voice, very loud and clear. He turned around, swept his eyes across the hillside. He could see no one there, although it would be easy for someone to hide amongst the tall grass. Yet the voice had come from someone near, and surely he could’ve spotted someone hiding so close. But he could see nothing.
Scared and unsettled, he dared to say “Hello,” not too loud and not too quietly.
“Down here,” said the voice. And then Benjamin realised – the voice had come from the well! He walked slowly to the well’s wall and looked down within.
“There you are,” said the voice. “I can see you now.”
Benjamin was panicked: “Have you fallen? I must get help.”
“No, no, that was a long time ago. I live down here now.”
“You live down there?”
“Yes, it’s my home.”
Benjamin was confused. “You can’t live in a well.”
“I can, I’m special.”
“But, it’s so dark down there.”
“I like the dark,” said his new friend. “Do you?”
“I don’t like the dark.”
“There’s no need to be scared of it. Not when there’s strong walls around you. What’s your name?”
Benjamin was still a little scared. But the voice from the depths was friendly; it was the voice of a boy, just like him, only, maybe, a bit older.
“My name is Benjamin. What’s yours?”
“That’s a good question Benjamin. I don’t think I’ve ever had a name. I’ve been down here such a long time…”
“But what shall I call you?” Benjamin asked.
“Oh – nothing,” said the voice. “I’m just the boy in the well. Can I ask you something Benjamin, my friend? I can call you that can’t I? I don’t have any friends you see, no one ever comes to the well.”
“Yes,” said Benjamin, with a touch of uncertainty. “I’m your... friend.”
“Oh thank you Benjamin. I get so lonely up here. Do you have many friends?”
“No,” said Benjamin sadly. “No I don’t.”
“Well then, that’s even better. We can be friends together. I could tell you were unhappy, that’s what I was going to ask you. Why are you so unhappy Benjamin?”
Had anyone else asked how he was feeling, Benjamin might well have just said, “Fine!” and then refused to elaborate. But for a moment he was disarmed by the boy in the well’s friendly manner and he could barely stop himself from shedding a tear.
“Because everything’s so unfair,” he said. “I’m always being shouted at and beaten, and for things I didn’t do! And my mum’s always throwing tantrums and my father’s never there to stop her. Then there’s the vicar who hates me. Everybody hates me and I’ve done nothing wrong, nothing, nothing wrong!”
Benjamin cried. The voice was silent for a moment.
“You’ve had a rotten time haven’t you?” it said after a moment.
Benjamin nodded; he wiped the tears from his eyes.
“Do you want to know something?”
“What?” he sobbed.
“I hate the vicar too.”
“Really?” Benjamin cried. Everyone seemed to love the vicar, especially all the town’s women.
“He’s horrible,” said the boy in the well. “I may live in the dark, but I can see so much Benjamin, more than you could ever know. I know what he’s like, he’s been terrible to you hasn’t he?”
“He’s always causing trouble. Father hates him too, he doesn’t want him to come to the house, but he comes anyway, because he’s mother’s brother. I try to avoid him, but Penelope Green’s always getting me in trouble.”
“Penelope Green... she’s that little blonde girl that everybody likes?”
“She’s horrible, horrible! I hate her.”
“Oh I know. I told you, I can see all kinds of things you wouldn’t even know about, there are no secrets from me.”
Benjamin had started to cry again.
“Don’t cry Benjamin. Do you want to know a secret? A secret about Penelope Green.”
“What?” Benjamin’s eyes became bright for a moment.
“She’s a little thief. She steals from Mr Wittle’s shop!”
“From Mr Wittle’s?” Mr Wittle was the grocer, a fat, jolly man who Benjamin actually liked and who was kind to him and always gave him a few extra sweets when he bought them.
“Every week, her mother lets her spend the change from the shopping and she buys sweets. But while Mr Wittle turns to get them, she takes a bar of chocolate from the shelf in front of the counter and slips it into her coat pocket.
“Mr Wittle’s such a nice man; stealing’s such a horrible thing to do isn’t it?”
“You shouldn’t steal.” Benjamin was deep in thought.
“You’re going to catch her aren’t you? Catch her in the act. That would be a just revenge, wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah. I can make everyone see what she’s really like”. Benjamin could barely contain his excitement.
“That’ll show her, won’t it?”
“Yes!” Benjamin was suddenly full of energy again. He was practically jumping with excitement.
“You feel better now don’t you?”
He nodded vigorously.
“Good. I knew you would. You see, this is what friends do. They help each other out don’t they? I mean, if I needed you to help me with something, you’d do it wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, of course I would,” Benjamin declared.
“You’re such a good friend Benjamin. We’re going to be really good friends you and I. But you should get a move on. Your father will be leaving Parson’s farm soon.”
“How do you know?”
“I told you, I can see all kinds of things from down here. Who knows, Benjamin? Maybe one day I might show you how to see in the dark too.”
Benjamin turned and began to run.
“Thank you so much.”
“Don’t forget to come back and visit me soon,” said the boy. “Don’t forget…”
It was as if from that very moment, things started to look up for poor Benjamin. His father was still there at the farm and he told him all that had had happened, or at least a close version of the truth. Even his father was taken in by Penelope Revile, so he had to alter the facts accordingly. His lie was that he had thrown the ball in class, but had meant it for one of the other children. He had not meant for it to knock over Miss Claxton’s plant. That was just an accident…
His father might not have believed him in full, if it were not for his mention of the vicar, for whom his father shared a similar enmity. This swayed him to Benjamin’s side. When they went home that night, Benjamin waited in the kitchen while his father calmed his mother and seemed to rectify the situation. Benjamin was sent to bed with only an apple and some stale bread for his dinner, but at least he was spared another beating.
The next day was a Saturday and Benjamin could not wait for his chance to see if the boy in the well was right about Penelope’s stealing too. He awoke especially early and snuck out to go down to Mr Wittle’s shop and wait for her, though he knew not when she would actually appear.
He loitered outside the bakery next door, until he was chased off by the baker. He then stood waiting across the road in front of the post office for his quarry to arrive. He waited a long time before Penelope finally came skipping along, happy as pie. Benjamin watched as she went into the bakers before finally going into Mr Wittle’s shop, right into his trap.
He went swiftly across the road and peered through the shop window. Penelope was reading her shopping list to old Wittle and he was showing her where the right wares were, or retrieving them himself for her.
Benjamin snuck himself into the shop quietly, not wishing for Penelope or Wittle to see him. He hid behind the end of some shelves waiting for his chance. Wittle rang up Penelope’s bill and she calculated how much change she would have from the money her mother had given her. When she worked out how money sweets she could have, she asked Wittle for some sweets so conveniently placed on a high shelf. The shopkeeper reached for his stool, stood on it and reached up to the jar.
It was at that moment that Benjamin saw it; he saw Penelope silently lift a bar of chocolate from in front of the till and slide it behind her coat buttons into her inside pocket.
Benjamin leapt into action, screaming “Thief, thief!”
Penelope screamed at him, denying it. But she was caught red-handed…
Mr Wittle was horrified. Who would’ve thought it? Good little Penelope Lucinda Revile, stealing from him. He sent Benjamin to fetch her mother – stealing was a very serious crime. With his nemesis crying, Benjamin skipped to her home positively triumphant. Penelope’s mother didn’t believe him, but when she arrived at the shop, she had no choice but to accept her little angel was not so angelic.
Benjamin watched with satisfaction as his goody-two-shoes enemy was dragged away. He had won an important victory, and what’s more, he had found a new friend. A very special friend…
So excited was he of his victory over Penelope he ran straight back to the well, to thank the mysterious boy: “It worked, it worked!” Benjamin cried.
“I knew it would,” said the boy in the well. “No one is going to look at her in the same way again. Her disguise has been uncovered; she was not what she seemed.”
“No, she’s horrible and I hate her and she got what she deserved.”
“Yes Benjamin, many people are not what they seem. They hide behind disguises and pretend to be what they’re not. But we’ll uncover those disguises won’t we? Show the world what those people are really like”.
Benjamin was so excited, but the boy told him he must run on home because his mother was looking for him. Benjamin asked the boy in the well how he could see beyond his home, but the boy said it was a secret he couldn’t tell him yet. But soon he would. Soon he would show him the world inside the well…
In the meantime, Benjamin still had more scores to settle, and the boy promised he would help him to settle them. After horrid Penelope, the next on the list was Miss Bones, his horrid teacher. The boy had an idea how he could get his own back on her too, and Benjamin positively couldn’t wait to put the plan in action.
It was but a few days after he had caught out Penelope that he put in practice the boy’s new plan. It was on a rainy Wednesday afternoon that Miss Claxton was doing multiplication revision – barking sums at her assembled pupils, insistent that they must deliver the answer back to her almost instantaneously, or receive a ruler strike across the knuckles. That very afternoon, we know that a boy named Richard Price, a mere boy of seven, had his hand turned red from the merciless teacher – she did not alter the punishment, regardless of age.
Fortunately, Benjamin had a good memory, and like most of the class, he knew his tables well to avoid any punishment. Benjamin was fortunate that day that the rain was falling, otherwise he might not have been able to see Miss Bones get what she deserved. Because of the weather, they would not have to eat their sandwiches outside, or cross to the church hall. They sat indoors, eating their lunches quietly, permitted only to play the quietest, calmest of games.
As Benjamin opened up his lunch, he did not take his eyes off of his teacher, waiting impatiently as she fiddled around her desk, adjusted her hair, tidied away some of her papers…
Finally, she reached for her bottom drawer and lifted out the tin box where she kept her own lunch. Benjamin raised his head, gripping the desk in his palms with anticipation.
She opened the box distractedly, and placed her hand inside. But almost instantly, afterward, she withdrew it, and then her jaw dropped open. She stood up abruptly, scraping her chair against the floor behind her. She started to scream and gasp for air simultaneously, warming up for an almighty screech, one that raised goose bumps on all the children’s skin.
She tried to climb out of the window behind her; she started to scratch at the glass, screaming “Get away, get away.” She kicked at the desk from her place on the window’s ledge, knocking it over. And then the children saw what she so afraid of: the lunchbox slid across the floor, and from its inside hopped a great big toad!
The girls in the glass screamed, scattering the desks and chairs as they ran away from the creature. Of course the boys were not afraid – they thought it was so comical. Still, none of them wished to take hold of the toad and they had to send for the caretaker to remove the slippery creature.
Benjamin tried not to get involved, but he must’ve struggled to hold in his glee. Her reaction was better than he could’ve possibly hoped for. He thought that Miss Bones wouldn’t like finding a toad in her lunch box very much, but her absolute terror was something he could not have predicted.
But the boy in the well had told him so, said that she had been terrified of toads and frogs and lizards ever since a frog had jumped into her pram as a child and hid beneath the blankets. It had taken Benjamin two days to find one near the river, and it was no easy task to catch and keep hold of him once he had found him.
He relayed his delight to the boy in the well that very evening. “You should’ve seen her face!” he said.
“I heard her scream,” said the boy. “I think half the valley did.”
“How did you know about her fear of toads?” he asked.
“I told you, I can see all kinds of things from down here. See all and know all. It’s amazing what you can see in the dark. There are no limits, or walls.”
“Can you teach me? I want to see in the dark.”
“One day Benjamin, one day. You must be patient; there is still much work to be done.”
“But we got Miss Bones and we got Penelope – they really got it.”
“What about your worst enemy? What about the vicar?”
Suddenly Benjamin was quiet. Getting his own back on Penelope and his teacher was one thing, but the vicar, he was something else entirely.
“I said I’d help you to get revenge on all those that had done you wrong. And he’s the worst isn’t he? The nastiest and meanest of them all.”
“But what if he catches me?” cried little Benjamin. “He’ll thrash me, beat me.”
“Brave heart, dear Benjamin. You needn’t worry about the vicar. In fact, he’s the easiest of them all. All it will take is a letter.”
“A letter?” said Benjamin, surprised.
“Yes, just a short simple letter. Have you got your school things with you my friend? A pencil and paper?”
Benjamin reached into his satchel and pulled out some paper and a pencil.
“Write this down for me,” said the boy. “It’s all you need to get your revenge on your uncle.
All you have to write is, ‘I know what you did’.”
Benjamin scribbled it down.
He looked at the words and then he looked at the well.
“Is that it?”
“Trust me my good chum. That’s all you need to write. Everyone has secrets, the vicar more than most.”
Though he trusted his new friend, Benjamin still felt nervous and unsure.
“I was right about Miss Claxton and Penelope Green wasn’t I?”
Benjamin nodded.
“Then trust me again on this. Just write these words down, put them in an envelope and drop it off at his cottage. Then all you have to do is watch what happens.”
Benjamin didn’t understand what the boy expected to happen, but he did what he was told, trusting that his new friend knew what he was doing. He took an envelope from his father’s desk and wrote down the message on a sheet of writing paper. He sealed the envelope and took it to the vicar’s house early the next morning, being as careful as possible not to be spotted on the way there or back, should the vicar later enquire if anyone had been seen going up the path to his cottage. He posted the letter, feeling not too confident that it would produce the effect he desired.
As it turned out, he did not have to wait for long for the effect of the letter to be felt. That very afternoon, he returned home from playing down near the stream when he noticed the vicar’s bicycle leant up against the wall by the front door.
Benjamin was canny – he knew that if he were to announce his return, he might well miss what the fuss was. He instead crept inside, and sure enough, heard raised voices coming from the kitchen. Instead of going straight there from the hall, he crept around into the living room and into the dining room, where he could listen without being seen.
His mother sounded distraught; “Someone could just be playing games with you!”
“It’s blackmail, pure and simple,” said the vicar. “You swore you would say nothing to anyone.”
“I have told no one. Why would I want anyone to know such shameful things?”
“It was a long time ago. I was possessed of some evil. I was a different man, lost and confused.”
“So I’ve heard you say, so many times. But it never goes away, does it?” Benjamin’s mother started to cry, but rebuffed any attempt by her brother to comfort her. “Putting on a collar and preaching the Lord doesn’t make it go away!” she shouted at him.
“Why shouldn’t it?” he cried. “I have given him my repentance; dedicated my heart and soul to the church, I have done everything I can.”
“But what you did after…”
“It was the right thing to do. Nothing good could have come of it, you know that.”
“Benjamin!” his mother cried.
He had leant too far into the doorway to listen and had been spotted. Both of them marched towards him; he backed away into the dining room.
“Eavesdropping now,” snapped the vicar. “Another sin to add to your growing collection!”
“How long have you been there?” said his mother, shaking fearfully.
“I only just got home,” said a frightened Benjamin.
“You’ve gone too far this time boy…”
“Albie, don’t!”
The vicar charged towards him and Benjamin ran.
“What did you hear?” the vicar demanded, knocking his way through the dining room furniture to pursue him.
Benjamin went through the sitting room into the hall, the vicar just inches from catching him, when they both stopped all of a sudden. The front door hung open and there stood Benjamin’s father watching them. His face stern and serious: “By thunder, what is going on here?”
The vicar took a step back and tried to compose himself. “We were just playing a game,” he lied feebly.
“Doesn’t look like any game I know,” Benjamin’s father said slowly. “I had no idea you and my son were such firm friends.”
“Water under the bridge,” said the vicar. “Like God, I always prefer to be forgiving.”
After an aching silence, the vicar said: “Yes, well, I only stopped by briefly.”
“All your visits seem to be brief,” said Mr Morris. “It’s funny, every time I see you, you always seem to be on your way out.”
“Well I’m a busy man, the parish does not run itself. But perhaps sometime soon you could come around for supper. I feel that we hardly get a chance to talk you and I.”
“Perhaps.”
“Let me show you out, Albie,” said Benjamin’s mother.
“No need Emily,” said Mr Morris. “I think he probably knows the way by now.”
Emily passed the vicar his hat. He snatched it from her and walked swiftly to the door.
“You’re home early,” Mrs Morris hissed.
“Young Harry can round up the sheep by now I think. I’ve taught him well enough... I think you should go to your room Benjamin. Me and your mother, we need to talk.”
This was not what Benjamin had expected at all. For hours and hours his parents seemed to argue. Benjamin tried his best to listen, but he could not make out much, except that his father seemed to think his mother was keeping something from him. It was the first time Benjamin thought his father seemed more angry than his mother. It ended, as it often did, with his father slamming the door and going to the pub. Sometime later his mother shouted for him; he went downstairs to eat a cold, miserable supper she had left for him. She was outside, sat crying beneath the old apple tree in the garden.
No, this had not been what he had expected at all, and the next day, when he visited his friend in the well, he expressed his displeasure.
“It was supposed to upset the vicar,” he cried. “Now my mum is throwing tantrums again. My dad is furious, he doesn’t want to even calm her down.”
“Secrets are dangerous things, Benjamin,” said the boy. “If they weren’t, they wouldn’t be secrets now would they?”
“You knew that was going to happen didn’t you?” said Benjamin angrily. “You knew he was going to come over and upset Mum!”
“Benjamin! How could you say that! I thought we were friends you and I? I didn’t do this for me, you know. I was trying to help you get your own back on the vicar, but if you don’t need my help...”
“No, no, I do,” Benjamin said quickly. “I was just sad to see her upset.”
“She doesn’t mind upsetting you though, does she? The day you first came up here, she struck you after you had been told off by the vicar. I’m surprised you don’t want to get your own back on her as well.”
“I don’t want to get my own back on her,” Benjamin said, almost in tears. “I just want her to be normal. To be happy, so me and Dad can be happy too.”
“Then you must trust me Benjamin,” the boy snapped. “Once this secret is out in the open, the vicar won’t be interfering anymore. You’ve said that he causes the arguments, causes the trouble. Once he’s gone, everyone will be happier.”
“I suppose so. But what is their secret? What was all the shouting about?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
“But why can’t you tell me now!” Benjamin pleaded.
“I’ve done so much for you Benjamin,” said the boy, raising his voice. “I’m upset that you’re so ungrateful.”
“I’m not ungrateful; I just want to know what it is.”
“I only have my suspicions,” snapped the boy. “I don’t know everything! The only way to find out a secret for sure is for those who keep it to tell the truth.”
“But what about my mum?” the young boy pleaded.
“Don’t you think that a lie, a secret, is a heavy burden to bear? That your mother might be relieved, grateful even, to be unburdened from it? Have you not been taught about these things at school?”
“I don’t know,” Benjamin pouted.
“Of course you don’t. You haven’t thought this through. You need to be strong, Benjamin. I can only help you so much. Trust me my friend, when we are done, all will be uncovered. And you won’t have to worry about your mother, the vicar, or anyone else tormenting you ever again.
Can you be strong for me Benjamin?”
Benjamin wasn’t sure; the boy from the well had always helped him before, but now he was scaring him too. After a moment, he just said yes so that he would not be shouted at again.
“Then we have work to do. What I’m going to ask you to do next may sound a little strange. But it will be the icing on the cake!”
With hesitance, Benjamin listened as the boy in the well told him the next stage of his plan – he wanted Benjamin to go to the grocer’s and purchase a birthday card.
“A birthday card?”
“Yes, a birthday card. It’s quite simple. You can spare some of your pocket money for a birthday card can’t you?”
“Yes… I think so.”
“Good! The timing must be so precise for this to work. It should be a child’s birthday card. Something you might like. Then you must deliver it to your mother on this coming Saturday.”
“But I thought we were out to get the vicar…
“I told you to trust me!” yelled the voice, showing its impatience. “Once she has the card, she will give it to the vicar.”
“But why don’t I just give it to him then?”
“Because he’ll be on the look-out at his home for any new messages! Why all these questions? Have I ever steered you wrong before?”
“You did upset my mother.”
“Only as a means to an end. But if you don’t want my help, then fine. Just go home as normal, go back to your life as it was with foul Penelope, horrible Miss Bones and enjoy your beatings from the vicar. That’s if you don’t need my help.”
“No, I do, I do,” Benjamin begged.
“Then do as I say – it will work!”
Benjamin nodded. “I’ll do what you say.”
“Good, you won’t regret it, my friend.”
Just as Benjamin was about to leave, something suddenly occurred to him.
“What shall I write in the card?”
The boy in the well was silent for a few moments. Eventually, he said: “You’ll know what to write when the time comes. Just put down whatever comes to mind.”
Frightened now about what would happen if he disobeyed the boy in the well, Benjamin went back to Mr Wittle’s shop, telling the shop keeper he needed a card for a cousin of his. He had just about managed to scrape up enough coins to afford it, though he had to search the whole of his bedroom for each last half-penny. The card he bought was colourful and had the picture of a clown on the cover.
He walked home with the card, looking at the blank inside page, wondering what to write. Why had the boy asked him to write the message? Why was he even sending it to his mother? He knew that the boy’s requests were odd, but he feared disobeying his instructions. Besides, if the card did what he said, and finally got rid of the horrible vicar, it was probably for the best.
When he arrived at his home, an idea suddenly appeared in his head. He went straight to his father’s desk in the living room, reached for his pen and wrote very quickly:
“It’s my birthday today. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. Come and visit me, I miss you xx”.
Benjamin looked at what he’d written. He didn’t understand why he’d written it, in fact, he didn’t really remember even writing it. One moment the card was in front of him, the next, the words were there.
He wasn’t sure what they meant, but somehow he knew they were what was needed; that they were the right words and that the boy in the well would approve of them. So he placed the card in the envelope and waited to deliver it in the morning.
The rest of that day seemed to disappear. Benjamin awoke the next morning, barely remembering how he had come to be there or even what he had spent the rest of the day before doing. He could just about remember eating supper with his father and mother and the two still not really talking. Besides that, he could remember very little.
It wasn’t until he was dressed that he even remembered the card. And then he couldn’t remember what he had done with it. But as he stood on the landing, he spotted his mother collecting the post from the carpet under the front door. Could that be his card, there? There were two letters; she took them both into the living room. Benjamin was confused, what had happened to the card? Could that really be it?
Benjamin crept after her, trying his best not to be heard. His mother walked over to his father’s desk and pulled out a letter opener from the drawer and opened the first envelope.
It was his card – now he knew it! His mother cut open the envelope and pulled out the card. She looked at it curiously before opening it up. It seemed to take a moment for the words to sink in. She seemed frozen, motionless as she looked it over and read what was inside.
Then, suddenly, she fell. Collapsed down to the carpet with an almighty thud.
Benjamin ran across the floor to her, screaming “Mum, Mum!” He shook her, but she wouldn’t come around.
Benjamin’s father heard the commotion and stormed into the sitting room.
“What happened?” he demanded.
“She just fell over!” Benjamin was in tears. “She read the card and fell over.”
“What card?” His father was shaking her now too. After a moment she came around and started shrieking and screaming.
“What happened?”
“My baby,” she yelled. “He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead!”
She started to cry, but more than that, she started to wail: “My baby, my precious baby!”
“Your baby’s here,” his father shouted. “He’s safe, he’s right here.”
He pulled Benjamin towards her, but she wouldn’t even look at him.
“He’s wasn’t evil. He was my baby, my little baby. Don’t take him, don’t take him from me...”
It was as if they weren’t even there. Benjamin was terrified, frozen to the spot in terror – what had he done…
His father commanded that he fetch the doctor and Benjamin wasted no time in obeying. He ran faster to the house of Doctor Jenkins than he’d ever run before. He was fortunate because the doctor was at home and was able to come straight away to the cottage. He took Benjamin back immediately on his trap, questioning him all the way about what had happened. Benjamin could not bear to tell him about his role in his mother’s condition; he said only that his mother had collapsed after reading a card in the post and had become hysterical, more hysterical than she’d ever been.
When they arrived at the house, his mother was still writhing, crying tears of torment. She had purged into the waste paper basket. Benjamin’s father was standing over her, helpless as to what to do.
“She’s gone mad, doctor,” he said. “I cannot calm her down.” As the doctor came in, Benjamin’s father ordered him to his room, uttering ominously: “I will deal with you later.”
Those words sent a chill down his spine. He ran up to his room and dived in amongst the sheets, crying his heart out for what seemed like hours. He was overwhelmed now with guilt, if he’d have known what would happen, he would never have done it. His mother was in agony and it was his fault!
But of course it wasn’t really his fault. It was the boy in the well; it had been his idea – it was really his fault! He should never have listened to him. They were supposed to be getting the vicar back, how was this hurting the vicar?
After his mother had stopped crying, Benjamin waited tensely for his father to come to him, and in time, the moment came. He heard his father’s heavy footsteps on the stairs and he trembled as he came in through the door.
“Is Mum all right?” he asked in a panic.
“She is sleeping,” his father said. He held up the card and all Benjamin’s hairs stood on end.
“Where did this come from?”
“It came in the post; she picked it up from the doormat this morning with another letter.”
“This writing,” with one hand he held open the card in front of Benjamin, and with the other, he grabbed hold of Benjamin’s hand. “This writing looks to me to be a lot like your writing. Did you write this?”
“No, I swear, I swear. It was on the doorstep this morning, I never saw it before. I never saw it.” Tears poured across his cheeks. He shook free from his father’s grip and buried his head in his bed sheets.
“What did she mean? About her baby being dead?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Benjamin mumbled in amongst his tears.
His father was calmed somewhat by the sight of his son’s tears, but only for the briefest of moments.
“I know you know something about this,” he said through gritted teeth. “If you know something you had better say so now young man or else there will be hell to pay later. I’ve been patient with you, by God, I’ve been patient. But if you are mixed up in this, whatever it is, you will be banished from this house. Do you hear me? I will be through with you once and for all.”
Benjamin didn’t say a thing as his father slammed the door behind him. Though he was still crying, in his head, he was already making plans. He would need to be patient; he knew he might have to wait hours. He waited restlessly and hungrily. He kept creeping out to the top of the stairs, listening in to hear the sounds of movement, of stirring. He listened carefully until he heard the sound he had been waiting for – the sound of his father snoring.
He walked carefully down the stairs and into the sitting room, and sure enough, in keeping watch over his mother, who was passed-out on the settee, his father too had fallen asleep; his head hanging over the back of his old arm chair.
Now he was sure he could get away, Benjamin took his chance and darted sharply to the back door and made his escape.
Tired, but determined, he made his way back through the fields, through the woods and back up to the hillside where his friend, the boy in the well, would be waiting for him. Or at least, it would normally be so. As he approached the stone circle, the boy offered no greeting. Just as well, as Benjamin was in no mood for pleasantries.
“You lied to me!” he cried. “You said I was out to get the vicar, when all the time you were trying to get my mother!”
Benjamin waited for the boy to answer, but there was no sound, no response from the well.
“Do you know what you’ve done? Do you know what you’ve done to her?”
There was still no answer. The well was silent. There was no voice.
Or was there… at that moment Benjamin suddenly heard a voice, not from the well, but inside his very own head. And that voice said to him: “Me? I didn’t do a thing. You did it all. You did it to your mother. You did it all yourself.”
“You’re a liar.” Benjamin screamed. “I hate you! I’m never coming up here again. You’re not my friend. I hate you!”
He turned and began to run back down the hillside, when suddenly the boy in the well finally spoke. “I’m not done with you yet Benjamin,” he cried.
Benjamin ignored it and did not turn back.
“You’ll see me again!” the boy cried out to him. “You will see me again!”
Benjamin ran as fast as he could back into the forest. He did not turn around and did not stop until he was home. His father was still asleep; he awoke when Benjamin arrived, but fortunately he did not realise his son had been outside. Nevertheless, he was still unhappy with him and ordered him straight to bed.
Benjamin slept poorly that night; restlessly tossing and turning, reacting to his ambivalent feelings of anger, guilt and fear, constantly awaking and falling back to sleep.
He woke abruptly the next morning; his father was shouting for him from downstairs. Benjamin rushed down, still wearing his night clothes; he entered the living room and was horrified at what he found.
There was a message written across the living room wall; scrawled in big dark red, frenzied letters; the words still wet and dripping down the wall.
The message read: “No present? It’s my birthday come visit.”
Benjamin almost screamed himself. He had been here – the boy in the well had come to the house. But how? What was going on?
His father was looking at him, staring down hard at him. “Did you do this?” he asked, barely able to control his anger.
Benjamin was speechless, then his father pointed at him: “Look at your hands”. Benjamin looked down; they were red – covered in blood!
His father grabbed his hands. “You did do this!” He slid up the sleeves of his night shirt and saw two long, bloody cuts on his forearms.
“It wasn’t me!” his son swore.
“What is wrong with you! Why you did do this?” he began to shake him. “Why did you do this!”
“It wasn’t me,” Benjamin said weeping. “It was the boy!”
“What boy?”
“The boy in the well!”
The front door burst open; the two of them spun around to see the vicar standing in the doorway. He hadn’t seemed to have expected them; he cried out “Emily” before even noticing them there.
“I must speak to Emily,” he demanded, walking towards them.
“Why are you here?”
“I must speak to her on a matter of great urgency.”
It was at that moment that Benjamin’s father noticed that the vicar was carrying an envelope, an envelope and a card that he quickly recognised.
“What is that you have?”
The vicar mumbled, saying that it was a private matter. Benjamin’s father struck him, hit him square in the jaw. He was taken by surprise and fell back into the hallway. He took the card from the vicar’s grip and opened it, finding it to be exactly the same card his wife had received the day before and in the same writing.
“Where did you get this?” he roared. He wasn’t taking any chances; knowing that the vicar was a soldier, he went quickly towards the fire place and picked up a poker. As the vicar rose to his feet, he stood before him again, poker raised and ready to strike at him.
“I want to know what this is all about. For years and years the two of you have kept secrets from me. And this will be the end of it! There’s always been something between the two of you and I will know what it is. I swear to God, I will be told!”
“You are imagining things,” the vicar snarled.
“Liar – what does this mean?” he said showing him the card again. “And what does that mean? The vicar had not seen the message on the wall; he recognised immediately that it was written in blood. “My God,” he said, stricken with panic.
“I will know the truth from you, even if I have to beat it out of you!”
“No wait,” he cried, as Mr Morris swung back the poker. “You don’t understand; years ago, while you were away, at sea. Emily was…” He struggled to say it. “She was taken against her will by another. A brute, a monster; he forced himself on her and she... she became with child.”
Benjamin’s father began to shake. His anger was so intense, he couldn’t even speak. The vicar knew that his life was in the balance, that the man had it in him to kill him if he so desired it.
“She wanted to keep the child,” the vicar continued. “But our parents wouldn’t allow it. This man; he was despicable, evil; his issue would’ve been abhorrent and they would not allow it in the family. So he was taken away from her...”
Benjamin’s father scoffed. “Well, well,” he said, “That explains plenty. They didn’t want me near her when she was pure. But suddenly when I was back from the sea they were ready to foist her on me. Damaged goods was she?”
The vicar took a chance and tried to take the poker from him. But Mr Morris had firmer footing and forced him back, causing him to fall once again to the ground.
“You killed the baby, didn’t you? Drowned it in the well!”
“It wasn’t my choice.”
“You took her baby and you killed it. No wonder she was so changed when I came back. She never was the same old girl I used to know. I knew it, but I was too glad to have her be mine.”
“It had to be done, it needed to be done.” said the vicar, before he realised: “How did you know that? How did you know about the well?”
It was at that moment that Mr Morris remembered his son and what he had said. But when he turned his son was nowhere to be seen.
“Benjamin!” he cried. “Benjamin, where are you?” He yelled throughout the whole house, but his boy was nowhere to be found.
“What does Benjamin know?” the vicar demanded.
“He said the boy in the well did it. He said he did it all, the letters and writing on the wall.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Where is this well?” Benjamin’s father demanded.
“You must know the one. The hillside well, near the south-end of the farm.”
Both took off for the well almost instantly, running out the door and through the woods after Benjamin, shouting for him as they went.
Despite their years of living in Bullham Brook, neither the vicar or Benjamin’s father knew the land the way Benjamin knew it and both struggled through trees and unkept fields surrounding the village and Parson’s estate. Benjamin’s father proceeded quicker than the vicar, the two becoming separated as they ran on.
When Mr Morris arrived on the hillside and started to climb, he found that the sky was dark. Clouds were blocking out the sun and the wind was racing into a gale. The tall grass rumbled as it was swept from side to side in the fierce gusts. He found it hard to look ahead, to walk forward against the wind’s unrelenting force. But he marched on; he could see the well, and to his horror, he could see Benjamin, standing upon the stones, stood precariously facing him, teetering over the open well.
He shouted to him, but Benjamin gave no sound of recognition, though it would be hard for him to hear over the roar of the wind. He climbed higher, his son still stood motionless there, looking vacant down to the dark void below.
Mr Morris got himself to within just a few yards of the stone wall when there was suddenly a crack of thunder. And above that rang out the words: “Do not come any closer or your son will become mine forever.”
“Don’t hurt him, please,” cried his father, frightened almost beyond his wits and looking around, desperately hoping the voice had come from somewhere else, and not deep within the well.
“Shut up and listen to me,” hissed the voice.
But Benjamin’s father kept on: “If you must hurt someone, hurt me. Do not harm him, he has done nothing.”
“I’m not interested in you; you mean nothing to me.” And then after a pause and another roar of wind the boy cried out: “He on the other hand, means everything.”
Benjamin’s father was confused until he saw that the vicar had caught up and was now with them on the hillside.
“You’ve finally come to visit me. And after all this time…”
“By God,” he cried. “What are you?”
“You know who I am,” roared the voice. “You of all people should know me!”
“Please!” Benjamin’s father begged. “Whatever he did to you, please, leave Benjamin alone. He’s done nothing, he’s just a boy.”
“I’m just a boy,” raged the voice. “A lost boy, forsaken by his mother and his father, the two people who should’ve loved him the most! What’s the matter? Are you ashamed of your son!”
“I do not understand you,” cried Benjamin’s father.
“I am not talking to you,” screamed the voice.
It took a few moments for it all to sink in, for Benjamin’s father to realise the horror of what the boy in the well was saying. The boy laughed as Mr Morris looked to the vicar, his face a picture of disbelief, horror and disgust.
“He didn’t tell you did he?” the boy laughed. “The monstrous brute, the man possessed of some evil walks amongst you, disguised as a man of God!”
“I am a man of God.”
“You’re a filthy disgrace. You disgrace the clothes you wear, you insult the almighty with your stinking fawning words.”
“I repented,” said the vicar, falling to his knees. “I have sought forgiveness and given myself to the Lord.”
“You’re a liar and a coward! And you don’t deserve forgiveness.”
Lightning struck, thunder rolled amongst the clouds.
“I give you one chance to redeem yourself,” roared the boy in the well. “The life you chose for me has been agony. It has been lonely, it has been cold, it has been full of pain; but you can help me now Father. You can redeem yourself by giving yourself to me. Come into my world; join me in my unhappy home in the well so that we can be together forever…
Or else I take the boy. I will not be alone any longer.”
The vicar was speechless. He looked to the ground open-mouthed.
“No. No!” he roared, as he rose to his feet. He pulled his cross from beneath his clothing; he raised the silver icon out in front of him: “I will fight you evil spirit, be gone! I cast you out, be gone!”
The boy merely laughed at him. Struggling to go forward, the vicar began to chant, “Our Father” – he struggled to be heard against the wind – “who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name...” He tried so hard to shout out the words that he did not even notice Benjamin’s father come up behind him and grab him by the back of his cassock. He dragged him forward and flung him towards the stone wall, with the vicar landing just a few feet from it.
Before he could get back on his feet, Mr Morris had grabbed him once again and forced him up against the wall, his chest and head now hanging over the darkness within.
The vicar screamed; as Benjamin’s father tried to force him over, he could see his son, hanging over them, lifeless and limp, as if with the slightest movement he would topple down into the abyss.
The vicar got his grip on the wall and pushed himself up, forcing Mr Morris off him. Benjamin’s father fought back; as the vicar turned to move away he charged him back against the stones again, the two now face to face in their struggle. Benjamin’s father raised his fist and hit him once, twice, three times. The vicar’s feet scraped against the ground; he was losing his footing. Mr Morris grabbed his cassock with one hand and reached down with the other, hoping to sweep the vicar’s legs from under him and push him over.
The vicar cried out; trying to strike back at him. Benjamin’s father roared; he swept up the vicar’s legs. The vicar screamed as he felt his centre of gravity tip – he grabbed desperately at Mr Morris’ shirt sleeve, pulling Morris towards him and against the wall. But it wasn’t enough to save him. He felt himself slip and fall.
The sleeve tore. With an almighty scream, the vicar disappeared into the darkness of the well; his screams echoing until ceasing, abruptly, leaving only silence. A sound of impact was never heard. He just disappeared.
Benjamin’s father fell on his back, gasping for air.
“You should not have done that,” said the boy, with almost a hint of regret. “I would have had him give himself to me.”
“You got what you wanted,” cried Mr Morris, rising back to his feet. “Now give me back my son.”
“I wish you had been my father,” the boy said. “You were the only innocent amongst them. But I would have had him give himself to me of his own free will; now you too have sinned.”
“I just want my son,” Benjamin’s father was in tears. “Take whatever you want, just please, don’t take my son!”
The wind roared and the boy was silent.
“I have no wish to harm the innocent. But there will be a price to pay.”
There was a flash of thunder. Benjamin fell. His father cried out…
…But he did not fall – he leapt! His father caught him as flew from one side of the well to the other.
Mr Morris fell to the ground with his boy in his arms. With the wind so fierce, they were forced down the hillside, falling and rolling down the grass. The roar was incessant; Mr Morris could not get to his feet. Yet amongst the noise, he managed to hear, for one last time, the voice of the boy in the well.
And it said: “Father, I’m coming for you. Time to play…”
There was the most tremendous crash of thunder. Benjamin’s father held his son to his chest, afraid to move.
They waited there, on the hillside, hidden in the long grass, waiting for the maelstrom to pass.
But as fast as it had come on, so did it go away.
It seemed after only a few moments, Mr Morris was able to lift his head and found that the sky was clearing. That there was little or no wind, and most importantly, that the sun was beginning to shine on the hillside again.
Benjamin was out cold. His father felt his pulse, placed his hand on his forehead, felt his breath. He was alive, but unresponsive. His father spoke to him and shook him a little; he stirred but he did not wake up.
He was about to race down the hillside, get away from there and find help as soon as possible, when he suddenly thought to look back. He scanned his eyes over the landscape. Where the well had once stood was now just a pile of stone. The walls had caved in; the well was now sealed.
He started off down towards the woods, moving as quickly as his battered body would allow. Benjamin seemed unharmed, but he would not feel safe until he was back within the walls of his home.
He was dripping with sweat when he finally made it back home. The front door was lying open as he had left it. He struggled upstairs and placed his son down softly on the bed and pulled his blankets over him
Exhausted, his father let out an almighty sigh of relief. Despite the most extraordinary of circumstances his son was going to be all right.
“Emily,” he cried.
There was no answer.
He walked slowly into their bedroom, expecting to see her still lying in a drug-induced sleep. She was not there. Suddenly he panicked – the writing on the wall. It was still there, what if she had seen it!
“Emily,” he shouted, dashing down the stairs and into the living room, where the message remained.
He cried for her again and dashed into the kitchen where he found the back door wide open.
He ran out into the garden – and that’s where he found her. Strung up and hung, from the old apple tree.
…Sounds wild doesn’t it? When I tell people the story, they don’t believe it. Why would they? Yet, when they see the police report, the transcripts from the inquests, the photograph of the writing on the wall – yes there’s a photograph – then suddenly it doesn’t seem quite so crazy.
The reports that do survive, they make for interesting reading. The authorities were dumbfounded; they didn’t believe the man’s story, yet where was the vicar? What about the words on the wall? The cuts on Benjamin’s arms and the baby… yes, with some investigation they found out the truth; that Emily Morris did indeed have another child. It could well have been a real scandal, perfect food for the growing tabloids. But it was kept quiet, probably because of the involvement of the vicar. I daresay even my ancestor did what he could to keep it quiet, for a time at least.
So they see the proof and then people ask me, well how do you know how this happened or that happened? They question the detail. What they forget is that Benjamin Morris did not die that day and neither did his father. They both lived many years more and they both told the tale more than once, Benjamin especially.
They left Bullham Brook – understandably. His father died working at the docks in Bristol, trying to start a new life. As for Benjamin, we believe he grew up into a rogue, a drunk and a thief. He spent time in prison for theft, public disturbance and vagrancy. But he also tried to profit from his misfortune; he began to tell the story of what happened that day for profit, performing on-stage recitals of the terrifying tale. That’s where the legend comes from, his performances, his scripts and notes, and the words passed from one person to another over the years.
It was never a popular act, people didn’t believe him or worse, they ostracised him for the inclusion of a man from the cloth and the acts of murder and incest. The people of Bullham Brook didn’t take much kindly from it either – he never performed it in the village. In the end he would tell it just for coins in the street or just for a pint. He was last known to be in Portsmouth, arrested for vagrancy about the time the war broke out. Perhaps he died in the war, no one knows. Such an unfortunate boy; fate was forever cruel to him.