The Whispering Well

The old well sat at the edge of the woods, its stones covered in moss and ivy, forgotten by time. Legend had it that anyone who leaned over its edge and whispered their darkest secret would hear the well whisper back. Most dismissed the tale as nonsense. Emma didn’t.

On a cold October night, she stood before the well, her breath fogging in the frigid air. The full moon bathed the clearing in pale light, and the forest was unnervingly silent. She gripped the edge of the well, peering into the black void below.

“It’s just a story,” she whispered to herself.

“Then why are you here?” a voice replied, soft and lilting.

Emma gasped and stumbled back, her heart pounding. She looked around, but the clearing was empty.

“Who’s there?” she called, her voice trembling.

No answer. Only the sound of her own ragged breathing.

She swallowed hard and stepped closer to the well. The voice must have been in her head, she reasoned. The stories had made her jumpy. But as she leaned over the edge again, the darkness below seemed to shift, as if something were moving deep within.

“Tell me,” the voice said, louder now.

Emma froze. The voice was coming from the well. It was soft, almost soothing, but there was an edge to it, like a blade hidden beneath velvet.

“I don’t have a secret,” she lied, her voice barely audible.

The voice chuckled, a sound that echoed eerily in the stillness. “Everyone has a secret. Let me hear yours.”

Emma clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. She did have a secret, one that had haunted her for years. But this was madness. The well couldn’t speak.

“I don’t—”

“Liar,” the voice interrupted, sharp and cold. “Do you think they don’t know? That they don’t whisper about you behind your back? Tell me, and I will silence the whispers. I will take it from you.”

Emma’s knees felt weak, and tears pricked at her eyes. The voice knew. How could it know?

“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

The well was silent for a moment, and then the voice spoke, low and satisfied. “Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. Go on.”

Emma squeezed her eyes shut, the memories flooding back. The fight with her younger brother, the push, the way he had fallen. How she had stood there, frozen, as the stream carried him away.

“I didn’t mean to,” she repeated, her voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to.”

“You didn’t mean to leave him,” the voice said. “You didn’t mean to watch him drown. But you did, didn’t you?”

Emma screamed and stepped back from the well, her hands over her ears. “Stop it!”

The voice laughed, a chilling sound that echoed in the night. “It’s too late. You gave it to me. And now I’ll give it back.”

From the darkness of the well came a sound—a wet, dragging noise. Emma turned to run, but a cold, slimy hand clamped around her ankle, pulling her to the ground.

As she was dragged toward the well, she heard the voice one last time, whispering in her ear.

“You should’ve kept your secret.”