The Girl from the Well by Rin Chupeco Page B

wells, indicating that the man had not drowned in the swamps as originally thought. Police suspect possible foul play but possess few leads.
    2004— Gruesome Discovery in Queensland, Australia . Fully clothed body found washed up on the beach in North Narrabeen, Sydney, and soon identified as a Patrick Neville, fifty-two, local car salesman. According to witnesses, Neville was on a yacht with business associates when he “looked down into the water and gave this bone-chilling scream shortly before falling overboard.” Others claim Neville was yanked into the water—but they could provide no description of what pulled him in. Sharks and other large fish are not known to inhabit this particular coast. The medical examiner could not explain the several days’ worth of decay on the deceased’s face, despite the accident taking place only hours earlier. Two years before his death, Neville was one of five suspects questioned regarding the disappearances of several children in the northern Sydney area. Police have no leads.
    The young woman feels hair brushing against the side of her head and sees from the corner of her eyes tendrils of black, stringy hair and a white face inches beside hers. She whirls around, clutching at the table with her hands for support, but the apparition is gone.
    â€œYou’re here, aren’t you?” she asks the darkness, still breathing hard.
    Her eyes fall on several small piles of newspapers and binders, dusty from disuse. Her eyes widen for a moment before her face settles into a bright, almost calculating, expression. She rises from her chair and begins to lug stacks of these newspapers over by her chair. I count them.
    One stack, two stacks.
    Finished, she returns to her chair, though there is now an air of urgency and nervous excitement about her.
    Five stacks, six stacks.
    She takes a deep breath and then holds it. Her hands are clenched, and she is biting her lip.
    Eight stacks. Nine stacks.
    She waits.
    Nothing happens. Relief and disappointment fills her, and her hands lower.
    And just as suddenly, the ninth stack of newspapers begin to fold in on itself in front of her horrified eyes. Inch after inch it is crushed by unseen, powerful hands, until it is now a third of its previous size, the paper so heavily compacted that removing an individual sheaf becomes impossible.
    No
    nines.
    There is silence in the room, except for the sounds of the young teacher’s quiet, panicked breathing, fearful of retribution for her insolence.
    And then just outside in the hallway, something lands with a heavy thump.
    The young woman jumps, another scream leaving her mouth before she is able to stop herself. But the minutes tick by and nothing untoward happens and so, with shaking feet, she ventures to where the sound came from, out into the long hallway leading back into the library.
    There is no one else around. One of the books had fallen from the shelves, landing facedown on the floor.
    The girl picks it up, turning it over to see the page it was open to.
    The large volume is titled Popular Japanese Destinations , and the open page shows a picturesque view of a large, rocky wasteland dotted by majestic peaks and yellow hot springs.
    â€œIf you’re an adventurous traveler with a taste for the strange and the macabre,” the caption begins, “Mount Osore (fondly known as Osorezan by the locals) on Aomori, Mutsu province, may be right up your alley. Known for its Bodai Temple and peaceful, if rather desolate surroundings. A small road leads into the mostly uninhabited Yagen Valley, where visitors can enjoy an unusual mixture of uncivilized nature and uncrowded hot springs.”
    The young woman looks around. She does not see me but speaks anyway.
    â€œThank you,” Callie whispers.
    â€¢ • •
    The tattooed boy is hiding.
    It is night, and the lights have gone out in other houses. The only sources of illumination are the strange moon looking down