The Voice From the Old Well

I have decided to write about something that happened long ago. I hope I can tell it clearly.

I have always felt that places can hold memories, even when I was a child. My family thought it was just my imagination.

One afternoon, when I was eight, I was playing alone near the old well in our yard. My father was working in the garage. I was tossing pebbles into the water when I heard a man’s voice say my name. It was low and serious. I stopped and looked around, but no one was there.

Then I heard it again, more urgent this time. It felt like a warning. I ran to the garage to find my dad. He said he hadn’t called for me and told me not to worry. But I refused to go back to that part of the yard. I made sure my little cousins stayed away from it, too.

Later that day, our neighbor, an elderly woman, came over to talk.