The old well at the east end of the village has taken three lives in thirty years. The last one to drown was my father. When he was fished out, his eyes were wide-eyed and his mouth was filled with black mud. No one dared to go near the well, except for the crazy Granny Chen, who threw a live chicken into the well every evening, chanting "Don't starve it." Until I saw a pair of wet footprints on the edge of the well, extending from the well mouth to the door of my house. My father's death was not that simple. And I could actually hear the sound coming from the well - it was calling my name.
