Free The Kind Worth Killing by Peter Swanson

out here?”
    I ignored his question and led him across the meadow. I’d known about the well for years. It wasn’t too deep. With a flashlight you could see the bottom, nothing down there but pieces of rock, and sometimes standing water if it had rained. I wasn’t even sure it was initially a well, so much as a deep hole, maybe the beginning of a well that had failed. I had come across it when I was probably nine years old, running back and forth across the meadow. One of my footfalls had made a hollow, wooden sound and I pulled away dry, yellow weeds to discover the well cover, a rotted wooden square that looked like it had been put there just to keep someone like me from falling in. It barely covered the rectangular well hole and was easily pulled off. The sides of the well were lined with layered rock. I didn’t have a flashlight with me then, so I dropped rocks down to judge its depth. They hit something solid after only a second or so, so I knew it wasn’t that deep. At the time, I thought maybe it was a hiding place for treasure, or a clue to a larger mystery. I raced back to get a flashlight, but I ended updisappointed. The well hole was just that, a hole in the ground, collapsing in on itself.
    When I showed Chet the well, he said, “Hey, look at that. When did you find this?”
    â€œAbout a week ago,” I lied. “I spotted the rope first and then pulled off the well cover. It isn’t deep, I think, but I can’t pull the rope up myself. There’s something heavy on the other end.”
    Putting the rope down the well had been part of my preparation. I had found the rope, a weathered-looking length, in the cellar of our house, along with an old metal stake, and had brought both to the meadow days ago. I tied one end of the rope tightly around one of the larger rocks I’d unearthed from the meadow, and lowered that end down the well, then staked the other end deep into the earth. I didn’t think it looked particularly genuine but it didn’t matter. All I needed was for Chet to want to find out what was on the other end of that rope. That morning I’d gone into my parents’ bathroom and found something in the cabinet, a small tub labeled POMADE . I’d brought it with me earlier to the well and rubbed the hair goop all over the first few feet of the rope, making it hard to hold. I had been worried that the rope would be too easy to pull up and that Chet could manage it from a standing position. I needed him to kneel in front of the well hole. As it turned out, I didn’t need to worry. Chet, acting like an excited little boy, dropped to his knees in front of the well and took hold of the rope.
    â€œUgh, what’s on this?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “Some sort of muck.”
    He put his fingers to his nose and smelled. “It doesn’t smell natural. Smells like shampoo.”
    â€œMaybe someone doesn’t want us to pull it up.” I had moved so that I was standing directly behind him. He craned his neck to look at me. I could see one of his wet, puffy eyes stare at my chest. My skin tightened, goose bumps breaking out along my arms.
    â€œYou like butterflies?” he asked, his eyes still on the embroidered front of my tank top.
    â€œI guess,” I said, and involuntarily shifted backward. I felt a sudden revulsion, plus anger at myself, that I had brought this man with me to my secret meadow. Of course he wouldn’t care what was down the well. Of course all he cared about was sex. He’d want to stick his penis in me before pulling up the rope. I’d been foolish. I tried to think of something to say, but my brain had emptied out and my mouth had gone dry.
    But then Chet asked, “You didn’t tell your parents about this?”
    â€œNo,” I said. “They’d just get mad at me, and if they found anything cool down there they probably wouldn’t let me keep