A Mother’s Silent Cry, very sad story.

A Mother’s Silent Cry

By [Dr Nivara bloom]

The house had been quiet for too long. Not the peaceful kind of quiet, but the suffocating silence that wraps around your throat and doesn’t let go.

Mariam stood at the edge of her son’s bedroom, the door slightly ajar, untouched since the day he vanished.

Six months.

Six months of unanswered questions, sleepless nights, and dreams that bled into nightmares.

Her son, Yousuf, had disappeared without a sound, without a sign. One moment he was playing in the hallway. The next — gone. Not a scream, not a trace.

People said he ran away. Others whispered about something darker — about the woods behind the house and the old well that hadn’t been used for decades.

But Mariam knew better.

A mother knows.

She clutched his small, tattered blanket to her chest, inhaling the faint scent of his skin, tears streaming down her face in silence. The police had stopped searching. Her husband had left. But she remained — bound to the house, to hope, to horror.

It started on a Wednesday. Always a Wednesday. The static on the baby monitor, the cold gusts through locked windows, and the soft sound of small feet running across wooden floors.

But Yousuf was gone.

She had tried to ignore it — the soft tapping on the walls, the toys shifting by themselves, the lullabies playing from a music box that hadn’t worked in years.

Until she heard it.

“Mama…”

A voice. Faint. Raspy. From inside the closet.

Mariam froze. The room spun. Her blood turned to ice.

She turned slowly, heart hammering against her ribs.

The closet door creaked open by itself.

Darkness spilled from within — not the kind the light could touch. It pulsed, thick and alive, whispering her name in dozens of voices that all sounded like Yousuf.

She took a step forward. Then another.

Inside, there was no wall. Just a passage — narrow, breathing, and lined with photographs she didn’t remember taking. Pictures of Yousuf, but distorted. His eyes always black. His face always wrong.

At the end of the passage was the well.

The same well from the woods. But it was inside now. Inside her house.

She didn’t question it. Madness had become her reality long ago.

And standing beside it was her son.

Or something that wore his skin.

“Mama,” it said again, lips curling into a smile that didn’t reach the eyes. “I missed you.”

Tears poured down her face as she stumbled forward.

“Yousuf,” she whispered, reaching for him.

But the thing stepped back, its smile stretching too wide, bones cracking as its neck tilted unnaturally.

“You let me go,” it hissed. “You didn't find me. So I found someone who would.”

The walls trembled. The floor splintered. The photographs bled.

And then she saw them — hundreds of children, lining the walls of the well, silent, crying. Their eyes hollow, skin pale. Trapped. Forgotten.

She tried to scream, but the darkness poured into her mouth.

---

She woke up on the floor of the bedroom. Morning light peeked through the curtains, but it brought no comfort.

The closet was sealed shut.

The photographs were gone.

And Yousuf’s blanket was soaking wet, as if pulled from deep water.

The horror wasn’t a dream. It never had been.

Every Wednesday, the voice returned. Every Wednesday, the well opened. And every Wednesday, she tried again to bring her son back — to trade her soul if she had to.

But the well never took her. It only watched. It only listened.

And the children cried.

---

Now, neighbors pass the house and shiver. No one dares enter. They say at night, you can hear a woman’s voice singing lullabies through the trees. Soft, broken lullabies filled with sorrow and rage.

They say the well is back in the woods. And that it’s open.

Waiting.

And if you get too close…

You’ll hear a boy’s voice whisper from the darkness:

“Mama’s still crying.”