The Wells of Hell

by Graham Masterton

I was almost at the outskirts of the wood when I thought I heard something. It was a low, hoarse sound, like an animal grunting. A chilly spasm went down the back of my neck, and I froze, listening. I heard the sound again, and this time it was more distinct. It was low, thick and guttural. It was hardly human. But it had to belong to a human mind, because it twice uttered, with painful slurriness, the single word: ‘Mason. Maassssooonnnn.’ I stood there rigid. I was so shit-scared I didn’t know whether to run or to stay where I was. I couldn’t see anything or anybody through the darkness and the waving trees, but I thought I heard something. It might have been my imagination, fired up by fear, but it was too distinct, too plangent, too unusual. It was the sound of rain spattering onto a hard, hollow shell.