Chapter four: Whispers In The Dark

His heart was pounding fast, almost as if it wished to burst. Frodo stood silent holding his breath, listening. Icy shivers ran down his spine, his body was trembling violently. His heartbeat echoed in his ears, but still he listened intensely. He was sure he hadn't imagined the voice, the laughter, though now everything was silent. Every stone, every drop of water seemed to listen with him. Listen and wait.

There had been something; something cold, something terrible. Once he had heard the voices from above it had been with him. Shivers running down his spine, a cold breath of wind. It had taken hold of him. It had gripped him tightly, stopping him from crying for help. It had been with him and it was not fear. Anxiety was what he now felt. Strong hands tightening their grasp about him, compressing him, scrunching his heart. It felt terrible, made him cry, but it was not the same as before.

Slowly Frodo began to breathe again, his blind eyes still searching the well for any movement. His body was tense, his brow creased.

"Hello?" he whispered breathlessly.

Silence, except for the gurgling of the water beneath him. In some sort of way he was glad that he got no answer, at least not from any voice close to his ears. Relieved he crouched down again, his heartbeat slowly going back to normal.

But his fear lingered. He was alone, caught in a well that wouldn't be opened until spring. It was getting dark. The few sunbeams which had still broken through at the edges of the flagstone were fading. Now Frodo was barely able to see though his eyes got accustomed to the darkness quickly. He looked about anxiously, clasping his knees with cold and wet fingers as if they were the only things to keep him grounded in the heavy blackness that was sinking down on him. Water was dripping from his curls. Frodo felt for his forehead. The wound there was hurting slightly. With trembling fingers he freed some strands of hair that were sticking in the crusted blood.

His thoughts drifted to his parents. Did they miss him by now? Maybe they were already looking for him. Frodo could almost see his parents searching all the way from Bywater to their home. His mother would be worried, accusing Lotho of being the reason why he wasn't home by now. He was sure she was accusing him, for she was of the same opinion as he himself, namely that Lotho hadn't been so innocent when that glue pot got spilled on his hair. A sad smile was playing on the corner of his lips. He snivelled. How long would it take them to find him? Would they look for him in the well? What if they didn't? How long could he survive in here?

Seven days.

Startled Frodo lifted his head looking about frantically, his heart pounding fast. There it was again, the voice. The water splashed, as he clung to the edges of the bucket in a jerky movement. His breathing sounded terribly loud to his ears. He closed his mouth swallowing hard. Had he imagined the voice? Was his mind playing tricks on him?

"Who's here?" he whispered his voice trembling.

He waited, holding his breath, shivering all over, but there was no answer. His eyes glistened with unshed tears of fear. The bucket was spinning round in circles, but Frodo could see nothing, hear nothing except for the silent gurgling beneath his feet.

It took him a while to relax again. Sadly he looked up. He knew that far above him was the flagstone but he couldn't see it. All light had vanished. He was alone, alone in utter darkness. Sobbing quietly, he begged for his parents to find him. It was all Lotho's fault. If not for him he would never have thought of sliding down the well. His parents would have to act swiftly. They had only seven days to find him. Briefly he wondered where that thought came from but then…

~~~~~~

A cool breath of wind stroked his neck. His dark curls were swirling slightly as if someone was brushing his fingers through them. His body got tense as icy shivers ran down his spine. He would have thought it impossible to tremble more than he had already done before, but now he was shivering as if someone had thrown him into a basin full of ice cubes. He felt like weeping, like bursting, like crying out but nothing would work. His body wouldn't obey him. He was paralysed with horror. There were the strong fingers of fear still scrunching his heart but there was another feeling, similar to fear and yet all different: a ghastly feeling that took his breath away.

He felt cold, small fingers caressing his cheek and closed his eyes in terror. There was a silent laughter close to his ear and a whisper of: seven days…

"No!" Frodo cried out finally finding his voice again and lashed about in despair, almost toppling over. "Leave me alone!" Squeezing his eyes shut, he flung his arms around his head crouching to a small, shivering bundle of misery.

~~~~~~

The laughter didn't cease. It seemed to come from far away and yet it was near. It was so very close and Her voice seemed to pierce his heart. Yes, it was Her voice he heard. She was not very much older than he was and yet She was wise beyond Her years. Long ago She had played on the meadow now far above them, on a pleasing October day. It had been one of the last days where the sun would shine before winter would move in and darken the sky with clouds. She had sung to herself an old lullaby Her mother always hummed when She balanced on the edge of the well.

She could never tell what happened afterwards, but when She awoke She was floating in the water, Her dress tattered, Her arms scratched and Her dark hair sticky with blood. Above Her there was nothing but heavy blackness. A flag had been put on the well, like in every autumn. Only on its edge She could see a little light and the image of that shining ring burned itself into Her mind as She spend endless hours floating in the water, crying for help until Her voice failed Her, weeping bitter tears of despair. As time wore on and She slowly lost all hope of being found, She tried to climb the well, but the stones were too smooth. Still She clung to that last hope scraping and scratching until Her nails broke off. But She didn't stop Her last attempt to escape Her prison, not until all Her fingers were bloody and exhaustion took Her. And all the while the only light She saw came from the ring far above Her. Slowly all spirit faded and seven days after the tragic accident She died.

All these years She had been alone and Her heart grew cold and bitter. Being accustomed to darkness Her eyes were pained by the light that reached Her every time the flagstone was removed. She detested light and She hated everyone who could walk on the earth above, while She had to stay in the well never to escape its chillness, its dampness and its ferociousness. She didn't like to be alone and was delighted when the young boy came to Her. She observed him closely from the darkness. She heard the hobbits come, knew that they were bringing the flagstone with them. She saw the glimmer of hope in the young lad's eyes, but She didn't want him to leave. It was so long since She last had company so close at hand. She didn't want him to leave and thus She crept out of the darkness, whispering, holding him close so he would not shout. He shivered, beads of sweat glimmering on his forehead. He was anxious and She knew his fears all too well. She knew them and She wanted him to feel the same pain She had endured. She laughed at the hopelessness in his eyes as the flag was finally there and the only light came from the ring. He would stay with Her. She would keep him, never to escape the cruelties that lingered in the well.

~~~~~~

Frodo feared the voice. Now he was entirely sure that he was not going mad. The voice was there. It was the voice of a girl and yet it was cruel as no girl's voice could be. It was cold, raspy and frightening. He could feel Her. He could feel Her cold breath which he had mistaken as wind which had cunningly found its way into the well. Still he had his eyes closed. Tears of despair streamed down his cheeks as he silently begged for his mother to come. He was afraid of darkness, especially now that Her voice was whispering, laughing. Cold sweat covered his forehead and icy shivers ran down his spine.

"Leave me alone," he pleaded once more, blinking and finally daring to lift his head again, but seeing nothing. Still his fingers were entirely entangled for he felt that he at least needed to cling to something.

Whispers. Frodo seemed to shrink even more, his hands pressing to his breast. Silent humming. He knew the melody. It was a lullaby his mother sometimes sang to him. Though the voice that sang was cold, it was somehow comforting to hear the well known tune. But then the melody changed and the lyrics of the new song terrified him.

On the first four days you're fearful,

On the fifth day you will stop to cry.

On the sixth day life gets tearful,

On the seventh day you'll die.

"No!" shouted Frodo sobbing anew.

There was laughter close to his ear and a cool breath of wind surrounding him slowly. Frodo covered his face with his hands, telling the whispers and the wind to go away.

His thoughts drifted to his mother, to her soft, warm arms wrapped safely around him. Her loving voice was singing to him. He could smell the fresh fragrant of lavender. In the hearth a fire was crackling. His father was sitting beside them chuckling silently, brushing his fingers through his son’s curls. He had just lit a pipe for suddenly the fragrance of lavender mingled with the scent of weed. He snuggled deeper into his mothers embrace, sighing contently.

~~~~~~

There he was, floating on the water, feeling secure in his little bucket. Her eyes were always upon him, as his mind drifted from dream to waking to dream again. She knew that he didn't feel safe; he never would feel like this again as long as She was with him. She knew he could feel Her, even now that he was sleeping. Every time She came closer, every time she traced Her fingers over his cheeks he winced. Sometimes his eyes fluttered open, only to fall close again.

She detested everybody who walked freely on the earth above Her, but this one, this one was different. It was not that She liked him, no, She was unable to like anything. She had long forgotten how to love. But She felt lonely and he, he was a prisoner of the well like Her. He could be with Her, She just had to wait for seven days until he would be Hers forever.

~~~~~~

Frodo was shivering all over. The air was stifling, he felt sick and above all he was cold, hungry and thirsty. His eyes were swollen, red from crying as he lifted his head and looked up. Far above him he could now see a dim glimmer, like a ring of light. Anyway he could not tell how late or early it was for he had lost all sense of time. His hand slid into the water. Frodo jerked from the splash which seemed unbearably loud to his ears. Scared he shook off the water of his fingers. It still seemed to him that it was darker and oilier than it should be. He had not forgotten how nauseated he had felt because of the water and abandoned the thought of drinking it swiftly. Rubbing his hand at his breeches to get rid of the liquid he sighed sadly.

A silent laughter made him jerk.

"No," he breathed anxiously shrinking back into the bucket.

A cold breath of wind sent shivers down his spine.

Seven days, She whispered into his ear and laughed again. Frodo flinched.

On the first four days…

"Stop it!" he cried out desperately.

… you're fearful. On the fifth day …

A sob escaped his lips.

… you will stop to cry.

Frodo forced himself to open his eyes which he had shut in his terror.

On the sixth day …

He could hear her, but where was she?

… life gets tearful.

Who was she?

On the seventh day…

He turned round, looking about frantically but still seeing nothing.

… you'll die.

The bucket hit the cold stonewall. Frodo winced putting forth his hands to push away from the wall. As his hand hit the cold stone something crumbled and got stuck in his palm. An image appeared in front of his eyes. A girl of about twelve summers, her hair long and dark as the night with unusual few curls for a hobbit-lass. Her face was thin and pale, paler even than the sheets of his bed. Her dress was tattered and without any colour. Her arms were thin and peaky, showing many bloody scratches and cuts. She reached out her blood-stained hand, grabbing for him with bloody fingers with broken nails.

Frodo backed away crouching in his bucket, his eyes wide with fear. Red rings were under Her eyelids, Her face, framed by her dark hair, was a grimace of agony and yet an evil smirk was playing on the corner of Her lips revealing rotten teeth. Frodo could hear Her laughing, as She slowly opened Her eyes. He wanted to avoid Her gaze but found that he was paralysed, enthralled by Her pale face.

Then she looked at him, piercing through him with Her very eyes. Cold eyes, dead eyes, eyes of no definite colour; eyes full of fear, of loneliness, of hatred and of malignity;

Frodo gave a cry. Shrill it was, piercing his own ears as it echoed from the cold wall. Frantically he rubbed off the crumbled things that had got stuck in his palm stumbling backwards hitting his head at the bucket. Almost aggressively he rubbed his hands against his breeches to get rid of the fragile, thin and yet though things that he had touched. He could not see what it was and in fact he didn't even want to know.

He was sobbing again, crouching himself in the bucket, shivering all over. His head hurt, his ears rang. He had squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears with his hands but still he could see Her face before him, could hear Her laughing and singing that terrifying song of Hers.