My Dearest Maria

The house was empty without her. The kitchen was robbed of laughter. Our room had stolen comfort. Nothing was the same. She was my everything. My flower, my Maria; how do you expect a man to live his life without the woman he had devoted it to? That's why I stand here, teasing fate, and wishing on my life.

The well lies on an old estate. It was once owned by a noble family who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere centuries ago. They had risen to power to run our small town for generations before the incident. By the incident I mean the death of a family by the hands of the father, by an old well that had been there longer than they. A mother watched her children's massacre before being fated to her own. After the man had finally realized what he had done he took his own life by sacrificing himself to the old well. Following the incident the manor slowly fell to ruin leaving only a vast garden of overgrown weeds and a crumbling home. But around the well is said to be a beautiful grove, safe from the decay around it. Seemingly not changed despite the years of not being tended to. 

Decades later we tend not to think of the tragic events that occured on that day in October, but the stories of the well have not left our town’s history. Some say it’ll grant you any wish you desire; others say it’s nothing but bad luck. But most, and probably the most reasonable, say that I'll grant your wish, but consequences follow. My wife, Maria, did not believe in magic. She was a smart woman, rational and sensible in every way. So what I’m doing today is something that would make her call me silly and hopeful.

I step over vines and stumps while I gaze upon the mansion before me. The roof has caved in on one side and the windows are all shattered. The front door lies flat on the ground with noticeable scratches in the old dark wood. I keep walking in hopes to find a beautiful garden like the stories say, but there is nothing but overgrowth and mud all around the mansion. A sigh leaves my body as I sit myself on one of the stumps and I feel myself begin to cry into my hands. What am I doing here? I should know better than to trust old wives' tales and children's stories. I am a grown man.

When I look up again I see what appears to be a small stone well, covered by vines and branches. Maria is all I can think before jumping to uncover the stones. The well is dark. I can't see more than 7 feet down, and I can't tell if it's because of the light or the way I am looking at it. The well is roughly 4 feet in diameter and the stones stack up to just below my waist. I kneel beside the well, pull a coin from my pocket, and hold it between my palms as I bring my hands together in a prayer. 

“My wife Maria, I miss her dearly. I cannot fathom the idea of living life without her for any longer. Please. I beg of you. Bring her back to me. Give us more time.”

John. I hear her. Her voice. No. That's not possible. John. I’d recognize her voice anywhere. The slight accent she inherited from her grandmother. The smooth tone of it. John! It's a cry. A scream. A call for help. My Maria. Where is she? 

John. I look down the well. The soft curves of her face appear at the bottom. She reaches up to me and screams. John! Help me! Please! “Maria!” I cry and hold myself over the edge of the well as I reach my arm as far as I can. I reach and reach but her hand is still too far. I lean over the edge a bit more and continue to stretch out my hand for her. I feel the brush of her fingertips against mine and my heart flutters with the familiar warmth of my wife. She wraps her hand around mine and I can't help but cry at the joy of holding Maria's hand again.

Then she pulls. And I fall down the dark well.