Wish You May

Chapter 2

All of a sudden, I felt chills. Ashlyn assured me it was nothing, just a myth, but I couldn't help my curiosity.

I didn't have to wait long. After dinner, my dad pointed out the empty lot and said, "I used to love playing there as a kid."

I couldn't help noticing that the grass near the well was slightly taller than the grass everywhere else, almost creating a barrier.

Jordan chimed in, "Well, you don't want to do that anymore. That well is dangerous."

"What do you mean," I asked.

"It's been the stuff of legends since we were kids. That there's some weird spirit there," he said.

"No there's not, Jordan. Come on," said my dad.

"Tell my brother's friend that. Danny. He made a wish there when he was in college one summer and has been paranoid ever since," responded Jordan.

I met Danny once, but couldn't remember him that well. Whether he was paranoid was not something I picked up on.

"Danny has always been paranoid," said my dad.

"I just don't know if you want to go there," responded Jordan, as something inexplicable within me ached to know more.

...

An hour later, after the cake and presents, Ashlyn came to me and said, "I need some quiet time. You want to take a walk with me?"

"Sure."

After advising my dad and Jordan, we walked down the steps and several blocks further under a nearly full moon. I thought of how many towns in America looked like this, and how comforting the familiarity was. Strangely enough, it made me more acutely aware of how much I missed Italy.

The town was silently beautiful in the moonlight, and Ashlyn said, "I like it here. It's my home."

I thought of the idea of home, how that construct had changed in my mind since I had left many years earlier.

"Mine too, I guess," I said. I wasn't sure if I believed that: Italy felt like home too. But it didn't matter, Ohio was home, at least for now. "For better or worse."

"Then...welcome back home."

I couldn't help noticing how Ashlyn fit seamlessly into the scenery.

...

After about twenty minutes, we arrived at an empty public park. Ashlyn sat on the grass and invited me to do likewise. I remembered the town square in Italy, which I would often have to myself after the restaurants shut down.

"I come here a lot," she said.

"I had a place like this in Italy where I would go late at night," I admitted.

"It's a good way to think."

Her fingers brushed against mine.

"What was it like, living abroad? I know we talked about that earlier, but really, It seems so fun."

"It was awesome. I wish I could go back to the beginning, just to do it over again."

"That's incredible." She paused for a second.

"I know, I'm a boring romantic," she said.

"Why," I asked.

"I don't know. I guess I've only known this town since I was born."

"Makes sense. But I prefer having roots," I said, noting the irony that it seemed that we wanted to have each other's lives.

Now it was her turn to ask why.

"I just came back after a long time, and it feels so different. I think I would have coped better had I absorbed the changes as they happened."

"Right," she said.

"So, about the well."

I was eager, almost greedy, for more information. In Italy, my city was old, and seemed to have a lot of mysteries, but one right here in my hometown? That was a surprise.

"I have heard some stories, but I've never been there at midnight."

"Why?"

"I'm a chicken," she said.

"What makes you say that?"

"I am terrified of spirits."

"What gives," I asked.

"When I was thirteen, I messed around with an Ouija board and it told me I was going to die within a year. Obviously, I didn't, but I can't shake that experience."

This made me wonder. I have always had this weird feeling that the supernatural was this vast unknown that causes that which we know to pale in comparison. And I wanted to prove that somehow.

I finally asked, "But anyway, what stories have you heard?"

"I heard of a kid who tried to make a wish there in the sixties. He fell in and died, legend has it."

"So it's his spirit?"

"No. I think the legends are older," she said. I suddenly wondered why I was even interested. It was probably because I was always drawn to a good mystery. Even so, I felt like I had a personal connection to this one. I had passed by Jordan's house on Cooper so many times as a child - how had I never noticed this before?

...

It was getting late, and we didn't care. We laughed over our childhood memories that I had mostly stored in the back of my mind.

But soon, the conversation became more serious. She and I started talking about emotional highlights and lowlights of our lives, which led to the lessons we learned and then to vague yet meaningful questions about each other.

"What's your deepest fear," she asked.

"Haunted wishing wells," I said jokingly.

"Seriously?"

"No. I just felt like I had to say that. Besides, it was a very personal question."

"I gotcha," she said. "You're all right."

Suddenly, I felt the urge to answer her question honestly.

"But seriously," I said, lowering my voice. "I guess my biggest fear is being stalked."

"By whom?"

"Anyone. There are bad people out there."

"Real," she said. "I hope that never happens to you."

I nodded, and her eyes met mine, perhaps for a moment longer than necessary.

...

Back home, I woke up the next morning from troubled dreams. Normally the new day would bring relief, but I couldn't shake my anxiety about the secrets of the wishing well. I needed to understand this new mystery in the hometown I had just returned to. Even though I felt I could not comprehend the supernatural, I wanted to test the waters.

I walked to the main branch of the library, the card I borrowed from my dad in hand, and began asking for old records and newspaper clippings regarding "the well at 523 Cooper Street."

The librarian looked surprised.

"We have a few things on that," he said. "I'll get them for you."

He led me past rows of dusty shelves to the section on city history.

...

That afternoon, I brought the research materials back to my room and began my inquest into the story of the well. I didn't find anything concrete in the books and documents, but the most complete thing I did find was an article about a Caleb Smith, who in 1932 tried to go to the town paper claiming that the "532 Cooper Street property should not be sold because of the malign spirit in the brick well." It wasn't that groundbreaking, but it made me remember something: when Jordan's parents divorced, his mother went back to her maiden name of Smith. Were they related?

I shook my head. Smith is the most common family name in America. Then, I looked at a document describing the history of the property, which stunned me: it seemed as if Caleb Smith was believed. All of a sudden, I felt dizzy.