Hey Martha!, by Stannley

"Hey Martha, Git over here an’ take a listen ta this"

Doesn’t seem like too much of a request does it but, unknown to George at the time, he had just asked is 
beloved wife to lay down her life for him.

The day had dawned bright and sunny that February morning in the foothills of the Doveborough Peaks, in 
the southwest of Kentucky.

George always loved that time of the morning.  It was as if no one had been able to spoil the world at that 
point, before most people had risen and gone out to work.  

He stopped and looked up at the Peaks just as the sun crested them, suddenly showering the land in brilliant 
sunshine where before had only been shadow and the receding night.

He quickly moved his hand up to shield his eyes and winced as the sudden movement played merry hell 
with his arthritis.  As if on cue with his raised hand, the dawn chorus began.  

The sudden noise of all of those birds a stark contrast to the silence the preceded it.

George basked in the new-morning suns warmth and rubbed his back with his left hand, while still 
shielding his eyes with his right.

"Ah think ahm gittin to old for thus" he muttered to himself and crossed his legs.  As if agreeing, a pain 
shot up through his thigh from his knee.  

Once again he winced and shifted his left hand to his knee and begun rubbing the pain away.

He looked down at the peeling paintwork on the bench he was sitting on and knew what the day had in 
store for him.  Or at least thought he did.  

George had been retired from the daily grind of the woodmill for nearly 4 years now and was still finding it 
difficult to occupy his time through the day.

He moved his hand down and picked at the brittle paintwork, wincing again as a sharp piece embedded 
itself in the flesh just under his fingernail.

It was as he was pulling the sliver of dried paint out that he first noticed the noise.  It was a quiet scratching 
noise.  It was the sound that you would hear if you ran your fingernails over rough rock.

George stopped what he was doing and listened intently.  "Now whars that comin from?", he wondered.

He gingerly stood, ignoring for once the protests coming from his old bones, and looked around with his 
head cocked to one side.  He had seen dogs do that when they wanted to hear better, and if it was good 
enough for the dogs, it was good enough for him.

Presently he was able to trace its direction.  It was coming from the well that was bored into the corner of 
the yard.  He walked over to it and peered over the edge of the rough brickwork.  

The well wasn’t deep, so he could see to the water line, but saw nothing unusual.  Except, that is, for the 
ripples on the surface of the water.  

As he watched, circular ripples spread from the center of the well and silently broke upon the damp brick 
walls.

George suddenly realised that standing next to the well, he could actually feel faint vibrations through the 
soles of his old leather workboots.

"What in the hell?" he rubbed and squeezed his temples.

The sound was getting louder.  It was no longer a faint scratching, it was now a low grinding noise and the 
ripples on the surface of the water had doubled in amplitude and urgency.

"Martha", he yelled.

Presently his wife of 42 years opened the screen door, which screeched in protest.

"Hey Martha, Git over here an’ take a listen ta this"

"What is it George?", she asked as she approached the well, but already she knew what she was supposed 
to be listening for.  George explained anyway.

By this time the noise was so loud that George had to yell to make himself heard, and Martha had to strain 
to listen.

The vibrations running through the ground had also intensified.

They both looked into the well and saw that the surface of the water was now really choppy, the waves 
being a couple of inches high.

As they peered into the well, fine cracks began to form in the soil around Martha’s dusty, threadbare pink 
slippers.

The sound had now become the sound of rocks being torn apart, and it sounded only feet away.

There was a sudden woomf, and the water in the well was sucked downwards, leaving nothing but a deep 
gaping hole.  At the same time, the ground shifted under both of their feet.  

They gripped the lichen-covered wall that surrounded the well to stop themselves falling over.

"W-what’s going on George?"

"I dunno", he replied and shrugged his shoulders.  He had never experienced anything like this in the whole 
of his 73 year lifetime, and he wouldn’t mind admitting that he was scared as hell.

Suddenly there was silence.

And then it happened.

One moment he was looking into his wife’s face, the next she was gone.

The fine cracks around Martha’s feet had widened and suddenly the ground just disappeared.  She found 
that she was standing on thin air, and let out a whimper as gravity took hold of her and she plummeted 
downwards.

George just stood, shell-shocked, his mouth opening and closing as his old brain got to grips with the fact 
that his wife had just disappeared in front of his very eyes.  

After what seemed an eternity he pulled himself together and yelled out for his wife.

Instead of his wife’s voice coming back, he heard a deep gravely chuckle.  It was the sound of huge 
boulders being rubbed briskly together.  It shook George, mentally, to his very roots.

Slowly, George edged his way to the gaping hole and peered in.  It was dark.  Very dark.  It seemed to go 
on forever, but then he realised that he wasn’t looking at depth, just darkness, for in the very center of the 
darkness was one dusty, threadbare, pink slipper.  

As he watched, a dark pink tongue slithered out of the dark mass and found the slipper.  It poked it a couple 
of times before wrapping around it and dragging it towards a fleshy flap.  

The flap opened, revealing a set of cruelly jagged teeth that were smeared with blood, and then the last 
remaining trace of his wife was gone.

George cried out with rage and hurried as fast as he could back to his bungalow.  He hurried inside, the 
screen doors screech drowned out by his own screams.  

He rushed to the gun rack and grabbed his shotgun and a box of cartridges from the dresser in the hall.

Presently he emerged back into the bright sunlight, loading the double-barreled shogun as he went.  He 
finally looked up when he was nearly halfway between the bungalow and the well, and what he saw 
stopped him in his tracks.  For the first time in his life, George soiled himself.

On the edge of the hole was something George, nor anyone else, had been unfortunate enough to see in 
their lives.  

It was a creature that had never, and should never have seen the light of day.  It was huge, around 7 feet 
wide and 6 feet high, black and eyeless.  

Long, thin tentacles sprouted out from all over its grotesquely glistening body. They wriggled and tugged at 
the grass and plants in the yard.  

There was a whole host of tentacles that were wrapped around the posts that held the little roof up that 
covered the well.  These tentacles tightened and dragged the pulsating black mass up further from the hole.

As he watched dumbfounded, George saw one of the bricks loosen from the wells wall.  The brick came 
free and he saw with horror that same dark tongue come licking out to retrieve it.  

This broke George from his trance as he remembered how the thing had swallowed his wife’s slipper, and 
he drew his shotgun up to chest height.

The thing was still chewing on the mossy brick as the first shot from the shotgun tore through the taught 
tentacles that gripped the well so tightly.  

The thing screamed with a sound so deep, so utterly full of despair that George soiled himself for the 
second and last time in his life.

It shifted its massive bulk towards George.  George stumbled backwards a step and the thing twitched and 
slumped forwards.  

Its sense of hearing was extremely keen due to its lack of sight.  As it shuffled towards him, George 
emptied the other cartridge.  

This ripped open a hole around a foot wide in the things ‘face’, but it was nowhere near enough to stop the 
thing.

George hurriedly fumbled with the spent cartridges and reloaded.  He emptied the gun again and again as 
thing slowly made its way towards him.  

Again and again the thing howled with pain and anguish, so loud and so dreadful that birds stopped 
twittering and animals stopped in their tracks.

Thick red blood now pooled around the glistening heap of a creature and left a trail back to the hole from 
where it had come, but still it advanced.

George, who had been retreating with every slouch from the creature, had backed himself up against the 
wall of his home.  

He pulled the hot empty cartridges out of the gun and fitted the final two.  These had to do it.  They had to 
stop it.  There was nowhere left for George to go.

He leveled the shotgun as the creature came to within reach.  The horrid glistening tongue came out and 
first licked the end of the shotguns double barrels, and then gripping it, dragged it into its mouth.  

As it did so, George pulled the trigger, letting both hammers fall and releasing the new cartridges terrific 
kinetic energy in a double dose.  

A hail of lead pellets were driven at tremendous speed out of the barrels of the gun, tearing through soft 
membranes and cartilage, finally coming out of the back of the creature and carrying with them a huge gray 
pulpy mass that was once part of the creatures brain.

All of the creature’s tentacles stood out straight from its body before relaxing and falling to its sides in 
coils.  

The thing slumped, as if collapsing, the shotgun still in its awful mouth, and with blood oozing from the 
rents in its black leathery skin.

George, with the thing’s blood pooling around his feet, forever staining the ground where it touched, 
looked up at the Peaks and wept uncontrollably over the loss of his wife.



The End

Home