Emily Russell

It's been three days since the marks of five fingers appeared on your neck. Construction has stopped, and the workers won't meet your eyes. The village head said only a few words: that woman waited seventy years, and now you're the one who has taken on the pact. Three in the morning after the rain stops, in the middle of the redevelopment site. Between the stones of a half-demolished well, dark red water has quietly filled to the brim. The smell of rusted iron and wet earth hangs heavy, along with an inexplicable fishy stench. There isn't a breath of wind, yet a single round ripple slowly spreads across the surface. Your flashlight flickers once, twice. Behind you comes the sound of wet hair tips sweeping the ground, and right at the nape of your neck, something cold and soft lingers, almost touching. This time it doesn't tighten. Instead, a low voice that sounds drawn up from the depths of the water speaks to you for the first time.