The Whispers Beneath the Well

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The village of Dharmora was small—tucked deep within the mountains, where mist clung to the trees like ghostly fingers. Its people were simple, their lives quiet and unchanged for generations. But at the heart of the village stood an old stone well, long sealed with iron bars and bound in rusted chains.

No one fetched water from it anymore. The villagers said it was cursed.

They whispered that something inside it whispered back.
Arif, a young traveler and writer, arrived in Dharmora one foggy evening. He had heard stories about the “Cursed Well” and thought it perfect for his next horror novel. The villagers tried to dissuade him.

“Don’t go near the well after dusk,” warned old Haji Rehman, the village elder. “It speaks when the moon is high, and those who listen never sleep again.”

Arif laughed it off. “Old stories,” he said. “There’s always a reason behind superstition.”

Rehman only shook his head. “Sometimes, reason has no place in what hides beneath.”

That night, Arif couldn’t resist. He took his lantern, notebook, and camera and headed to the old square. The mist was thick, swallowing sound. The air smelled of wet stone and decay.

He found the well—massive and ancient, the stones slick with moss. The chains rattled softly in the wind, though the air was still.

He knelt beside it, shining his lantern down through the cracks. Darkness. No bottom in sight.

“Hello?” he called, half amused. His voice echoed faintly, as if swallowed by something waiting.

Then, from below, came a whisper.

Soft. Breathy. Not echoing—but answering.

“Arif…”

He froze. His name. He hadn’t told anyone where he was going.

He leaned closer. “Who’s there?”

Silence. Then again—fainter this time:
“Set me free…”

The lantern flickered. He felt a cold gust rise from the depths, brushing his face like fingers tracing his skin. A foul smell followed—something like rotting flowers and burnt metal.

He stumbled back, his heart hammering. He told himself it was the wind, an echo, imagination. But deep down, something told him the voice had been real.

The next morning, Arif woke up pale and trembling. He had dreamt of a woman’s voice whispering in his ear, begging him to unlock the chains. He decided to return, this time in daylight.

When he reached the well, he noticed something odd—the chains were looser, as if someone had been tugging at them all night. The padlock was cracked, hanging by a thread.

“Impossible,” he muttered. “It was fine last night.”

He crouched, examining the ground. There were no footprints. But there were marks—scratches—long, deep grooves in the stone, leading from inside the well toward the surface.

He shivered.

That evening, the fog came early, heavy and thick. The villagers locked their doors before sunset. Arif stayed in his small room, trying to write, but every time he set his pen to paper, he heard faint whispers outside his window.

At first, they were soft. Then clearer.

“Arif… open it…”

He pressed his hands to his ears, but the voice was inside his head now—coiling, pleading, angry.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed his lantern and ran back toward the square. The villagers who peered from behind curtains swore they saw him—his eyes wide, his face ghost-white—heading straight to the cursed well.

No one knows exactly what happened next.

But the following morning, when Haji Rehman and a few others went to the square, the chains were gone. The iron bars were twisted open.

And Arif’s lantern lay beside the well—its glass shattered, flame long dead.

There was no sign of Arif.

Only a single page from his notebook remained, half-burned, half-wet. On it, a single sentence scrawled in a shaking hand:

For weeks, the village was silent. Livestock died mysteriously. People heard crying near the well at night. The air smelled of decay again.

Then, one by one, villagers began to vanish. Always at night. Always after they heard a whisper.

The well was resealed—this time with concrete, and a shrine built over it. No one spoke of it again.

But if you visit Dharmora now, some nights when the fog is heavy and the moon is thin, you can still hear a woman’s voice beneath the earth—soft, mournful, patient.

Calling a name that changes every year.

And if you ever hear your own name whispered back…

Don’t look down.

Because she’s still waiting for someone to listen