The Bird Above the Well

The Bird Above the Well

by Areeba Abid Hussain

It was December in Abbottabad. Winter had wrapped the entire valley in a thick white sheet of snow. The world outside looked peaceful yet eerily silent. Snowflakes floated down like bits of cotton, and every now and then, the sound of cedar branches cracking under the weight of frost pierced the stillness. Inside a mud house, a fire crackled in the middle of the room. The golden light from the burning logs danced across the faces of those sitting around it.

We all sat close to our grandmother, who seemed lost in thought as she stared into the fire — her eyes reflecting memories of years long gone. After a long silence, she cleared her throat and began, “This happened when water was scarce in our village. Your Aunt Sanober and I would go every morning before dawn to fetch water.”

Sanober was older than her, strong-willed and fearless — while grandmother, then a young woman, admitted she had always been a little afraid of the dark. “She would come,” Dadi said, “sometimes before the call to prayer, sometimes right after, tapping her brass pot against our wall. My bed was always by that wall, so I would wake up instantly, grab my pots, and rush out.”

Outside, it would be pitch dark. The howls of jackals echoed from the nearby hills, each one freezing her blood a little more. Houses were few and far between, and the well stood far away at the edge of the forest. “We would walk slowly, clutching our shawls tightly, whispering verses under our breath,” she continued. “Every rustle in the bushes felt like eyes watching us.”

Sanober, however, was never afraid. She often reminded her, ‘No matter what happens, never turn around. Even if you hear something, don’t look back.’

“I etched her words deep into my heart,” Dadi said. “Each time I heard footsteps behind me — soft, deliberate, following me — I would close my eyes tight and start reciting Ayat-ul-Kursi until the fear passed.”

But one morning, something strange happened.

She remembered waking up to the familiar sound of pots hitting the wall. But when she stepped outside, the darkness seemed thicker than usual — heavy and unnatural. It didn’t feel like dawn. “I thought maybe the night was just darker than usual,” she said. “I could hear no birds, no wind — only silence.”

She called out Sanober’s name but heard nothing. Assuming her friend had gone ahead, she began walking toward the well. The jackals’ cries echoed again, closer this time, making her clutch her shawl tighter around her trembling body.

“I kept walking, my feet numb with cold and fear,” she said, her voice low. “But when I reached the well, Sanober was nowhere to be seen. And then, from below, I heard something — the sound of water splashing, as if someone was pouring bucket after bucket into the well.”

She froze. No one should have been there. The moon hid behind clouds, and the only light came from the faint shimmer of snow. She sat down on an overturned bucket near the well, hoping it was just her imagination. But the sound didn’t stop — the rhythm of splashing water continued, slow and steady, echoing unnaturally through the night.

“Something was wrong,” she whispered, staring into the flames as if she could still see it. “The air around me grew colder. I could feel someone standing right behind me.”

Her breath caught in her throat. She turned — trembling — but there was no one there. Only darkness. And silence.

Then, suddenly, she saw it.

On a high branch of a cedar tree above the well sat a creature — a bird, or something like one. “It wasn’t like any bird I had ever seen,” she said. “Its entire body was covered in black hair, and its eyes… its eyes were glowing red.”

The creature stared directly at her. She felt as though her body had turned to stone. Then, without thinking, she ran. She ran faster than she ever had in her life, the verses of Ayat-ul-Kursi spilling from her lips between sobs. The snow blurred her vision as tears streamed down her cheeks.

“When I reached home,” she said, “I reached for the door — and just as I was about to push it open, the door of Sanober’s house across the yard creaked open. She stood there, alive, holding her water pots.”

Dadi’s voice trembled as she continued, “I tried to speak but the world tilted. The next thing I remember, everything went black.”

When she woke up, four days had passed. She had been unconscious all that time, her family said. Sanober and her relatives were sitting nearby when she opened her eyes.

“I asked for water,” Dadi said, “and when they brought it, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.”

When she told Sanober what had happened, her friend’s face went pale. “If what you saw was true,” Sanober said, “then it was nothing short of a miracle that you returned alive.”

Even now, decades later, Dadi shivered as she finished her tale. “Sometimes,” she whispered, “I can still hear the sound of water pouring into that well — slow and steady — and see that strange, hairy bird with eyes as red as burning coals.”

Outside, the firewood crackled, and for a moment, everyone fell silent. The storm outside howled against the walls, and it almost felt like — far, far away — something unseen was still watching.