The Shadows Beneath the Well

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In the remote village of Darosh, nestled deep in the misty valleys of northern Pakistan, there stood an ancient well. No one remembered who built it or how long it had been there. The elders claimed it predated even their grandfathers. The well was covered with a heavy wooden lid, its sides overgrown with ivy and moss. For as long as anyone could remember, the villagers were warned never to open it after sunset.

But rules have always tempted the curious.

Seventeen-year-old Amaan was not like the other villagers. He didn’t believe in ghost stories or old superstitions. He laughed whenever the elders spoke about jinns and cursed wells. To him, the tales were meant to scare children into obedience. He was restless, always seeking adventure in a place that had forgotten excitement.

One chilly evening, his friends dared him to uncover the well. “Just take one look,” said Faisal, grinning. “If you’re so brave, prove it.”

The challenge lit a spark of pride in Amaan. Under the pale glow of the moon, with only the whispering wind for company, he crept toward the old well. The wooden lid was heavier than he expected, but he managed to push it aside. A cold, damp smell rose from the darkness. He shined his flashlight down, but the beam was swallowed by the blackness within.

And then—he heard it.

A faint whisper. It wasn’t the wind. It was too clear, too human. “Help me,” it said.

Amaan froze. He called down, thinking it was someone playing a trick. “Who’s there?” he shouted. But there was no answer. Only a soft, wet echo.

When he leaned closer, something brushed against his face—like a breath. He stumbled backward, his heart racing. Suddenly, he felt as though dozens of unseen eyes were watching him from the dark. Panicked, he dragged the lid back over the well and ran home, not daring to look behind him.

That night, sleep never came. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard the whisper again. Help me.

The next morning, Amaan looked pale. His mother asked if he was sick, but he said nothing. He wanted to believe it was just his imagination. Yet, when he looked at his hands, he saw faint black stains—like wet ash.

Over the next few days, strange things began happening in Darosh. Animals were found dead near the well, their eyes missing. The air around the old square smelled of rot. At night, villagers reported hearing soft crying echoing through the mist.

And then, Faisal disappeared.

His mother found his phone near the well, but there was no sign of him. The police searched for days but gave up, saying he might’ve run away. The villagers, however, whispered that the well had taken him.

Guilt gnawed at Amaan. He knew this was his fault. If he hadn’t opened that cursed lid, Faisal would still be alive. One evening, unable to bear it any longer, he returned to the well—alone.

“Faisal!” he shouted. “If you’re down there, answer me!”

For a long moment, there was silence. Then, faintly, he heard the same whisper again: Help me.

This time, it was Faisal’s voice.

Trembling, Amaan tied a rope around his waist and lowered himself into the well. The stone walls were slick with slime. As he descended, the air grew colder. The light from above dimmed until it vanished entirely. His flashlight flickered, revealing strange marks carved into the stones—symbols that looked like eyes, mouths, and twisted faces.

The whispering grew louder. He could hear many voices now, crying, laughing, pleading. The deeper he went, the louder they became, until it felt like the darkness itself was alive.

Finally, his feet touched the bottom. His flashlight revealed a narrow tunnel filled with bones—human bones. Skulls, ribs, and torn clothes littered the floor. And then, from the shadows, something moved.

It was Faisal.

Or what was left of him. His skin was pale, his eyes hollow, and his mouth stretched into an unnatural grin. “You came for me,” he whispered.

Amaan stepped back, horrified. “What happened to you?”

“They wouldn’t let me go,” Faisal said, his voice breaking. “They’re hungry, Amaan. So hungry…”

Before Amaan could react, something cold and slimy wrapped around his ankle. He looked down and saw a dark hand emerging from the ground. Another hand followed. Then another. Countless hands—black as tar—crawled out of the earth, clutching at him, pulling him down.

Amaan screamed and tried to climb the rope, but it snapped. The last thing he saw before the flashlight died was Faisal’s lifeless eyes staring at him as the shadows swallowed them both.

Days later, villagers found the well open again. No one dared go near it. But late at night, those who passed by claimed they heard two voices whispering from the depths—one calling for help, and another laughing softly.

The elders sealed the well with iron and marked it as cursed. Yet the whispering never stopped. Sometimes, when the wind was still, it carried through the village—soft, pleading, and endless.

And now, when children ask why they must never go near the old well, the elders simply say:

“Because the shadows beneath it are always waiting for someone new.”