Whispers from the Well

The village of Ghaabpur sat quietly between two hills, wrapped in thick fog for most of the year. With cobbled streets and fading lanterns, it looked like a page torn from an old storybook—except for the well at its center. No one used it anymore. Children were told to stay away. Elders would spit over their left shoulder if its name was even mentioned.

It was called “Chuppi Ka Kuan”—The Well of Silence.

Years ago, before the internet reached this sleepy place, people whispered of the well’s strange powers. They said if you stood too close, it would murmur your name. That it had swallowed a boy whole in 1978—just a boy who had gone to fetch water and was never seen again.

But as modern times crept in, memories faded like the paint on old temple walls. The well remained, moss-covered and sealed with a rusted iron lid, like a buried secret no one wanted to unearth.

Until the rains came.

In early July, the village was hit with the worst monsoon in decades. Crops drowned, roads cracked, and the power cut out for days. On the third night, a sound echoed through the streets—soft and rhythmic.

“Help... Help...”

The voice came from the well.

At first, no one believed the children who heard it. Then the grocer's wife heard it too. By morning, half the village had gathered around the well, their faces pale and breath held. The lid trembled slightly. And then, unmistakably, came a whisper:

“It’s not over.”

Some blamed the storm, the wind, the weight of collective imagination. But then the nightmares began.

People woke screaming. A farmer claimed he saw his long-dead sister standing near the well. The local teacher, Meena Bua, found muddy footprints inside her locked home. The whispers grew louder each night:

“You forgot me…”

Old records were pulled from the temple archives. A strange pattern emerged: every forty years, something unspoken had happened around the well. In 1938. 1978. And now—2018.

The village council met in secret. Some wanted to seal the well with concrete. Others urged prayer, rituals, anything. But a lone voice disagreed: Rukhsar, a college student home for holidays, daughter of the late historian Abdul Rahman.

“My father believed the well wasn’t cursed,” she said, standing in front of the crowd in the temple courtyard. “He said it was a memory—buried. It repeats because it was never acknowledged.”

Ignoring protests, Rukhsar descended into the village archives. In her father’s notes, she found something chilling: “1978—A Dalit family vanished. No inquiry. No bodies. Well sealed next day.”

She returned to the well the next night. Alone.

Under the moonlight, she whispered, “I remember them.”

At first, silence.

Then—a wind so cold it burned. The lid rattled and flung open. From its depths rose not a ghost, but a voice. Soft. Grateful.

“Thank you.”

The next morning, the well was silent. Villagers approached it for the first time in decades. The water shimmered. Clean.

Since that night, the whispers have stopped. But in Ghaabpur, no one forgets anymore. A memorial stone now stands beside the well, carved with seven names—those once erased.

And sometimes, if you listen closely, the well doesn’t whisper warnings.

It sighs in peace.