There's a Body in the Well

By ActiveVertex

The crimson lights bled through the blinds. They pierced the old mans frail eyelids. His eye's slowly opened from a restful slumber. His belly was full of food, and his drowsiness ate away at his consciousness. He pushed himself from bed. He could hear the popping of dirt and gravel, muffled voices contemplating. He shuffled his way towards the window, placing two large fingers on the folds of the blinds. He peered into the lit night as shadows moved in and out of the lights glare. He couldn't make out what was happening, the red and blue was far too nauseous. He closed the blinds flap and made his way towards the coat rack.
His dull walkway was suddenly lit by saturation as he opened the front door. A cool chill slithered up his spine as the beginning of Fall nights ate away at the soundless landscape. He took a shaky step down his porch step, being careful to not trip like the last time. The sheriff heard his struggling breathe, and made his way to the weary man, grabbing his arm to help him down the concrete path. "What are you doing out here Gerald?", the sheriff asked, guiding his foot down another step. "Yall flasha's ain't dim enough" The old man said through shaky breathes, his country draw thick on his tongue. They reached the last step and the Sheriff let go of the old man, letting him stable himself. The Sheriff cleared his throat, "yall really shouldn't be out here, it's really nun of yer concern." Gerald looked up at the sheriff, brow furrowed, "now boy, I have a right ta know what's goin on when yalls lights wakin me in my sleep." The sheriff was used to Geralds attitude, he long since dealt with it from his younger years, when he had the strength that matched his anger. Now he was a weak old man who was far too nosey in business he had no right being in. But the Sheriff couldn't bring himself to get mad at the old man, he had a sort of soft place for him. Maybe it was childhood regret that has caught up to him, or maybe it was that unwillingness to argue with the old bat. Whatever the case may have been, the Sheriff took in a sharp breathe of the midnight air, and placed his thumbs in his belt. "Welp, we found a body in the well-" He started when Gerald cut him off, "who's?" Gerald was calmer then the Sheriff expected, but really how did he expect him to react? He was a worn veteran, another body wouldn't dent a man who has caused worse. The Sheriff started again, "we're not sure yet, haven't gotten it out. From the looks of things, though, they're pretty torn up." Gerald looked past the cruiser too see a few silhouettes still at the well, a beam of light piercing through the gaping maw of stone. "I wanna see it", Gerald said without waiting for the Sheriffs go ahead. The Sheriff began walking beside the man, "now Gerald I don't-", but Gerald wasn't listening. He made his way towards the well, the black figures becoming more clear. He walked along the edge of the well, the officers eyeing him, but never breaking the beam of light. He looked down it's endless cavern. There, at the bottom, lie a torso. It's head had been removed, along with it's arms. There was no lower half, only the end of the abdomen. It floated on the low, scarlet water. Meat was riding the waves along with entrails that had slipped from the stomach cavity. Gerald grimaced at the gory sight, and backed away from the well. He turned slowly and began to hobble back towards his home. The Sheriff watched him in silence. Watched as he climbed his stairs, with a hitch every step.
Gerald hung his coat on the rack, and waltzed towards his room once more. He pushed up his covers and slipped under its warm embrace. He closed his eyes, but he was no longer tired. Instead he played the events over in his head, again and again. When he bashed that hammer into that poor mans skull. When he drug his body up his porch stairs, slipping on the blood leaking from the wound. He bruised his hip bad, but gripped the mans collar with a newly found anger. When he lifted that hitchhiker on to his table and stuck his saw in him. The delicious pop of bone, the moist squish of organs slipping through the blade. The torso was far too hard, a rough, raw piece of flesh that was more of a shell for the delicate pieces inside. He wrapped and placed all the desirables in foil, slipping them in his outside fridge, alongside the venison from earlier that week. He then dragged the remains towards the well outside, hauling them over it's concrete side waiting for the splash at the bottom before moving. His mouth watered at his upcoming meal as he scrubbed the soaked cement, bleached the stained floor, wiped the red counters. When he was done, his mouth was practically begging for a sweet taste of food. His stomach roared in his ears as he made his way towards his prize. And he feasted, quenching his stomach's insatiable screaming. His mouth tasted every morsel of this sweet game. Gerald lay there thinking of his dinner. His stomach beginning it's triumphant march again, desiring more. Maybe he would make himself a midnight snack.