"The Witch Who Waits in the Well"

Startriting

The Witch Who Waits in the Well

Subtitle: Don’t Look Down, She’s Looking Up

In the forgotten village of Thornevale, surrounded by skeletal woods and blanketed in perpetual mist, there stood an old stone well—long abandoned, shunned even by wild animals. The villagers called it Mira’s Mouth. They said it was cursed.

Two hundred years ago, Mira Eldwyn, the last witch of the vale, had been dragged from her cottage at dusk. They bound her with chains of cold iron and hurled her into the well on a moonless night. She never begged for mercy. She simply whispered one sentence before the splash echoed:

“I’ll wait beneath, and I’ll look back.”

Children were warned never to go near the well. Not because of danger from falling—but because something waited at the bottom, always watching. And should you look down, and should she catch your gaze, the world above would forget you ever existed.

Seventeen-year-old Elsie Calloway, newly arrived with her grandmother to Thornevale, laughed at the tale.

“A haunted well? Seriously?”

“Don’t mock what you don’t understand,” her grandmother snapped, the usual warmth in her voice gone cold. “It’s not a joke, Elsie. Stay away from it. Promise me.”

Elsie shrugged and nodded—but only half meant it.

She couldn’t resist the lure of the forbidden.

The next night, flashlight in hand, she wandered the winding trail behind their cottage until the old stones came into view. The well was smaller than she imagined, ringed by moss and age, with vines draped over its side like dead fingers.

“Hello?” she called, amused. “Mira? You still waiting down there?”

She chuckled to herself and leaned over, shining her light down the shaft. It barely pierced the darkness. Water reflected faintly far below. Nothing stared back.

Disappointed, she turned to leave—then froze.

Behind her, something creaked. A whisper, just a breath, like someone exhaling her name.

She turned slowly. No one. Just trees and fog.

Then her light flickered. She looked down again.

That’s when she saw them—two pale, glassy eyes far beneath the surface, staring straight up at her. They didn’t reflect her light—they swallowed it.

Frozen in place, her breath hitched. A thin, pale hand slowly emerged from the water below, not rising, but reaching... as if the well had no bottom. Her vision blurred, her balance shifted—

A scream tore through the air.

Elsie ran, flashlight clattering behind. She didn’t stop until she was inside, behind locked doors and drawn curtains. Her hands trembled as she explained to her grandmother what she saw.

But her grandmother didn’t look surprised. She looked terrified.

“I hoped you’d never go near it,” she whispered. “That’s how she starts—by catching your eye. She watches. She waits. If you ever look again, it’ll be the last thing you see.”

Elsie wanted to believe it was just her imagination—but that night, something knocked on her window.

Not tapped—knocked, with the slow, deliberate rhythm of knuckles on glass.

She didn’t look. She didn’t dare.

The next day, the birds were silent. A fog hung low and cold, even at noon. Her grandmother didn’t come out of her room.

When Elsie entered to check on her, all she found was an empty bed—and a trail of wet footprints on the wooden floor, leading toward the back door.

No one ever found her.

The village whispered that she returned to Mira, the way many had over the years. Some claimed the witch calls only the curious. Others believed she feeds on those foolish enough to mock her.

Elsie stayed inside, curtains closed, mirrors covered. But it didn’t stop the dreams.

In them, she stood before the well again. Her reflection stared back, smiling with Mira’s eyes. The voice always whispered the same words:

“It’s not the fall that kills you, child. It’s what rises to meet you.”

She started hearing that line during the day—while brushing her teeth, walking to the market, sitting in silence. At night, she could hear the sound of water dripping from somewhere just outside her window.

And worst of all?

She felt eyes on her constantly—from below.

Then came the final night.

A knock at the door.

Slow. Patient. Rhythmic.

She didn’t answer. But the lock clicked open anyway.

Fog rolled in across the floor.

And from the darkness, a voice whispered, “Look down, Elsie.”

She couldn’t help it.

Her body moved without her. Step by step, she walked through the house, out the door, across the field. Fog curled around her legs as she approached the well.

The stones were wet, and the air smelled like old bones and lilies.

She leaned over the edge.

This time, she smiled first.

And below, Mira smiled back.

They say Elsie vanished that night.

But sometimes, on still evenings, you’ll see someone standing at the edge of Mira’s Mouth.

If you call out, she won’t answer.

She’s waiting.

For someone to look down.

Because now—she’s the one looking up.