[The 1 & Only Aqub]

I keep having the same dream. I see the old well on the hill at my grandparents farm. It's dark. It's dark because of the well. Shadowy arms writhe from its depths, twisting and seeking aimlessly, grasping blindly at the rough stones of the well, the wooden frame, even each other. They are inhuman, with too many joints and too many fingers, or not enough. One finds a purpose. The rope that the bucket hangs from, stretching upwards toward the vast blackness of the night sky. Is the well upside down? The sky moves like the ocean, the stars catch light that isn't there like broken glass. The paint bucket at the end of the rope cries the sparkling liquid as the shadowy hand draws it closer to the void in the well. Why do they need it?