The Weeping Well

It was the summer of 2021, and I was staying at my Aunt Marta’s farmhouse in the remote village of Ashwick. The place was surrounded by dense, ancient woods, and the only sound at night was the persistent croaking of frogs from the nearby swamp. My cousin, Leo, and two friends from the city, Sam and Julia, had come to keep me company. We were idling away the afternoon, sharing scary stories, when Sam brought up a local legend he’d heard from a shopkeeper: the old Carmichael estate, a crumbling manor on the edge of the woods, was said to be cursed. The story went that the Carmichael family was brutally murdered during a robbery gone wrong, except for their youngest daughter, who vanished without a trace. The townsfolk claimed to hear a child sobbing from the estate, and whoever dared to spend a night there would be found dead in the morning, with no apparent cause. They had tried exorcisms, but nothing worked.

Leo, eager to prove his bravery, suggested we explore the estate that evening. I hesitated, but the others were insistent, mocking my caution. We made a pact to go there at dusk, bringing flashlights and a camera to document our adventure. As the sun dipped below the horizon, we trekked through the overgrown path, the air growing colder and thicker with the scent of decay. The manor loomed ahead, its windows like hollow eyes, and the front door hung ajar, creaking in the wind.

We stepped inside, and the floorboards groaned under our weight. The place was a ruin, cobwebs draping every corner, and a thick layer of dust covering broken furniture. We split up to explore, but within minutes, we heard a faint, high-pitched sobbing coming from the back of the house. It was the sound of a little girl crying. We regrouped and followed the sound down a narrow hallway, which led to a small, hidden door barely visible behind a torn tapestry. The sobbing grew louder, echoing from behind it. Leo, his bravado faltering, pushed the door open, revealing a stone staircase descending into darkness.

We descended, our flashlights cutting through the black. The stairs ended in a damp cellar, and in the center stood an old, stone well, its rim covered in moss. The sobbing was unmistakably coming from within the well. Julia, trembling, whispered, ‘We should leave.’ But Sam, driven by curiosity, peered over the edge and shone his light down. The beam revealed water far below, and then, a small, pale face looking up, with black, empty eyes. Sam stumbled back, screaming, ‘There’s someone down there!’

We ran, scrambling up the stairs, but the door at the top was sealed shut, as if glued. We were trapped. The sobbing grew louder, more mournful, and we felt a chill that seeped deep into our bones. Then, a voice, barely a whisper, rose from the well: ‘Come play with me.’ One by one, we felt an irresistible pull toward the well. Leo tried to fight it, but he was the first to climb onto the rim, looking down with a vacant expression, and then he simply fell, silent, into the depths. Julia and Sam soon followed, their bodies moving as if they were puppets, until I was left alone, fighting the overwhelming urge to join them.

I grabbed a broken chair leg and jammed it under the door, but the force pulling me was immense. I could hear the children below, laughing now, and I knew that this entity, this ghost of the murdered girl, had found new playmates. I dug my nails into the floor, dragging myself away, but the voice grew soothing, hypnotic: ‘Stay with me. We’ll never be lonely again.’ I felt my consciousness slipping, and I was about to give in when I remembered the pocketknife Aunt Marta had given me for luck. I yanked it out and stabbed my own leg, the sharp pain snapping me back to reality. The pull weakened, and I crawled to the door, which shook as if something was hitting it from the other side, but the chair leg held.

Desperate, I clawed at the cracks in the stones, finding a loose one. I pulled it free, revealing a narrow tunnel just wide enough for me to squeeze through. I wriggled into the darkness, the sobbing fading behind me, and emerged outside, near the edge of the woods, just as the first light of dawn touched the sky. I ran back to the farmhouse, but I didn’t tell anyone the full truth. The police searched the estate but found no trace of Leo, Sam, or Julia. The well was apparently bottomless, despite its shallow water, and the case was closed as a strange disappearance.

Now, two years later, I still hear that sobbing at night, coming from wherever I am. I’ve moved cities, changed my number, but the sound follows me, and sometimes, in the mirror, I see the faint outline of a little girl standing behind me, with black, empty eyes. The lure to ‘come play’ grows stronger each day, and I know I can’t fight it forever. So I’m writing this, not as a warning, but as an explanation. And I pray that whoever finds this will understand that the well isn’t just in that cellar. It’s in the hearts of those who are doomed to listen.

I’m sorry, Leo. I’m sorry, Sam. I’m sorry, Julia. I’m sorry I left you there. But I’m coming soon, and we’ll play again.