The Whispering Well
Lena had never believed in ghosts. As a child, she had spent nights scaring her friends with ghost stories, laughing at their nervous glances. But now, standing before the abandoned well in her grandmother’s village, she wasn’t laughing.
The Whispering Well was a legend passed down for generations. They said that if you leaned over the edge at midnight, you would hear voices from the darkness below—pleading, warning, begging. Some claimed it was the sound of lost souls trapped within, forever whispering their sorrow. Others believed it was something far worse.
Lena didn’t care for village superstitions. She was here only because her grandmother, now frail and forgetful, had begged her to stay away from the well. “It calls to those who listen,” she had said, gripping Lena’s wrist with surprising strength. “Promise me, child. Promise me you’ll never go near it.”
Lena had nodded, but curiosity gnawed at her. She had spent the entire evening wandering the outskirts of the village, her eyes constantly drawn toward the forest where the well sat in solitude. When the clock struck midnight, she could no longer resist.
The night was thick with silence as she approached. The old stones of the well were covered in moss, worn by time and weather. A chill crawled up her spine, but she refused to acknowledge it. Taking a deep breath, she leaned over the edge.
At first, there was nothing—just an empty darkness stretching endlessly downward. Then, the whispers began.
Soft at first, like the rustling of leaves. Then clearer, unmistakable. Dozens of voices, overlapping, speaking words she couldn’t fully understand. Some were frantic, others calm, but one stood out—a voice so distinct it sent ice through her veins.
“Lena.”
She staggered back, her heart slamming against her ribs. The voice had called her name. The rational part of her mind screamed that it was impossible, that it was just her imagination. But then it came again.
“Lena, help me.”
She recognized it now. It was her mother’s voice.
Her mother had vanished when Lena was a child. No body was ever found, only whispered rumors that she had wandered into the woods and never returned. Now, the voice from the well carried the same gentle lilt, the same warmth that had once comforted her.
Tears blurred her vision. “Mom?”
Silence.
Then, a single phrase drifted up, chilling and desperate. “It’s coming.”
A low groan echoed from the depths, a sound that didn’t belong to any human throat. The shadows inside the well shifted, swelling, rising. Something was climbing up.
Lena scrambled back, terror taking hold. The darkness surged upward, twisting into an unnatural form—long, clawed fingers emerging from the abyss. A face followed, featureless except for a gaping mouth that stretched too wide, releasing a soundless scream.
She turned and ran, branches clawing at her skin as she tore through the trees. The whispers followed her, growing louder, more insistent. The air thickened, pressing against her lungs, slowing her movements. She could feel it behind her, gaining ground, reaching.
The village lights appeared ahead, a beacon of safety. But just as she reached the edge of the forest, the whispers ceased. The weight lifted. The night fell silent once more.
Lena collapsed onto the dirt path, gasping for breath. When she looked back, the well stood as it had before—silent, undisturbed. But she knew better.
She had heard her mother’s voice. And something else had heard her.
The well was waiting.
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