Member-only story
Flash Fiction
The Children in the Pit
A tale of old England
Long, long ago in the village of Woofpit, so-called because it was ringed with holes to trap ravening wolves, a man named Richard was out walking one evening at harvest time. He was enjoying the pleasant weather before winter blew in to rattle his bones.
As Richard approached the river, he heard a strange, mournful keening, as if someone were weeping from a broken heart. Soon a second voice, weaker and more sorrowful than the first joined in, creating a captivating harmony. Richard looked around.
Ahead was the river, but the sound was much closer. Suddenly, Richard remembered the wolf pits. Villagers knew to avoid them, but perhaps some strangers had fallen in. He began checking each one. All were empty, save for the bones of the hapless wolves who had stumbled into them.
Suddenly, Richard heard the sound quite close. He looked into the nearest pit as the sunset cast a mystical glow on the scene before him. There they were. The keening stopped, and in the waning light, he could just make out the faces of a little girl and boy at the bottom of the hole.
He would need a ladder to get them out. “Hush, now. Don’t be frightened,” he told them. “I’ll get help.” But the children did not seem to understand and set to wailing once again.
