What I Can’t Say (Short Story)

I can’t tell you what I’ve been doing—not because I don’t want to, but because I think if I say it out loud… something in me will change.

It started a few months ago. Every night—same time—3:33 a.m. I wake up in the woods behind St. Augustine’s.

I don’t live near it. The place has been abandoned since the ‘80s. Rotting pews. Vines through stained-glass. Locals say it was condemned. Others say something worse happened there.

And yet, I’m there. Barefoot. Every time. Clothes on. No memory of walking. No tracks. But my feet? Always clean, like I was placed there.

There’s a stone well in the clearing. Deep, no rope and no bucket—just a hole that hums. That’s where I go.

Sometimes, I’m not alone. I’ve seen faces I know. People that should be gone: A kid from high school who vanished last autumn. My old piano teacher. Even my mom. All standing quietly around the well, heads tilted just slightly… too far.

Their eyes are hollow, but they smile like they’re forgiven. The first time the well spoke, it used Scripture: “You shall not take the name of the LORD your God in vain.”

That night, I looked at my hands. They were covered in ink. Not on them—in them. Burned beneath the skin. Bible verses, but… twisted. Like someone rearranged them, changing a word here, rewriting a promise there. I don’t remember writing them, but my fingers hurt.

I tried to stop. One night, I chained myself to the bed, wrapped my hands in duct tape, and even swallowed melatonin like candy.

It didn’t matter. I still woke up in the woods. Still barefoot, still clean, still ink-stained.

You want to know what I’ve been doing? I’ve been editing the Word of God in my heart.

Every night, the well pulls me closer. I think I’m almost at the bottom. And the verses… they don’t sound like warnings anymore. They sound like invocations.

I’m telling you this not to confess, but to warn. If you hear the hum in your dreams… If you wake up with Scripture that doesn’t quite match what is written… don’t read it out loud.

And for the love of God, don’t write it down.