East Sussex. May 12, 1879. Ruth Wingrove and her child, Graham Jr, were leaving the apothecary. Graham, a vivacious child, nearly 5 years of age, rushed ahead of his mother. Most days, they stop at a certain wishing well. And most days, they have nothing to make a wishful transaction. Today, however, Ruth handed her son a single penny. His excitement would soon be met with intrigue and more. Whenever the boy had the chance of purchasing a wish, he always wished for his father. His father, the man he never met. His father, a man lost to Greenland forever. Peering over the edge of the well. He gave the coin a simple toss. Her child listening cheerfully as the coin pinged the stone walls and eventually the water below. Surely, the well’s magic would work this time. There was a modest blip of water. The water stilled. But the quiet was interrupted by a loud splashy trickling, almost as if something had arisen from the bottom. Though the well was far too dark to observe, Graham’s eyes darted toward the sound. His heart raced. Aglow, below, the petrifying gaze of two yellow eyes.