“The realtor, what was she, like somewhere between eighty-five and four hundred years old, what was it she said about this place being a vital link to the town’s history? She was kind of cryptic, if not down right creepy.”
“Oh, the old woman is just desperate for a sale, probably hasn’t sold property since the time of Noah, that’s why she encouraged us to stay here, see if it suits us.”
They had driven as far as they could up the brush-arbored lane and now walked towards the cottage that rested on the rise of land like weathered driftwood, taking in the railed front porch, the rusted old car a raft among the weeds, and further down the hill, what appeared to be an old well, its stone toothed maw muzzled with vines.
“There’s something about this rustic old place that I find appealing, especially that old style well.”
“Yeah, let’s get the sleeping bags and set up camp; after all what’s the worst thing that could happen?”
Written for Six Sentence stories, cue word link.
This is a link to the two Well stories posted earlier.