The Well of Waking Stones

July 2, 2026

by Mylene

3 min read

Story Premise 3 min read (592 words)

"The summer I turned sixteen, my best friend Mara and I spent most of our days at the old Proctor place. It was a dilapidated farmhouse at the end of a dirt road, surrounded by overgrown fields and a forest that seemed to swallow light. The locals said it was haunted, but we thought it […]"

The summer I turned sixteen, my best friend Mara and I spent most of our days at the old Proctor place. It was a dilapidated farmhouse at the end of a dirt road, surrounded by overgrown fields and a forest that seemed to swallow light. The locals said it was haunted, but we thought it was just a cool place to explore. On Mara’s birthday, a small group of us decided to have a campout near the house, mainly to prove we weren’t scared. Among us were Mara’s younger brother, Timmy, and a few others: Jake, the jock; Lily, the quiet one; and Zoe, who was always jittery.

We arrived at dusk, flashlights cutting through the gathering gloom. The house loomed, its windows like empty eyes. We set up a small campfire in the yard, but the atmosphere was too tense for fun. Zoe kept glancing at the house, and after an hour, she announced she wanted to go back to the trailer park where we all lived. The others started to mumble agreement. So, we decided to split: Zoe, Jake, and Lily would head back, while Mara, Timmy, and I would stay, promising to catch up later. Timmy was only twelve, but he begged to remain. We sent him back with the group anyway, to make sure they didn’t get lost on the overgrown trails.

Mara and I waited by the fire, joking about ghosts and scary stories. But after twenty minutes, Timmy hadn’t returned. The trail back was only a fifteen-minute walk at most. We called his name, but the forest was silent. We sent Timmy back to the camp we’d set up, and he promised to bring back help if the others weren’t there. Another thirty minutes passed. Nothing. Panic started to set in. Mara and I decided to walk to the edge of the woods ourselves, but the trail seemed longer and more twisted than I remembered, and we soon found ourselves back at the old house without having seen anyone.

We stepped inside the house, hoping to find the others hiding as a prank. The floorboards creaked under our feet, and the air smelled of damp earth and rot. We called out, but only our echoes answered. Then we heard it: a low, rhythmic sound, like many stones grinding together. It seemed to come from the well in the backyard. We’d never checked it before; it was covered with a rotted wooden lid. With trembling hands, we lifted it off. The well was deep, and at the bottom, we saw something glinting—a faint, sickly light. And then we saw faces, pale and upturned, staring up at us. They were our friends, their mouths open in silent screams.

A voice rose from the well, not human, but the sound of rocks shifting. ‘They came to drink,’ it said. ‘Now they are part of the well. Add more stones to keep the balance.’ We stumbled back, but the ground seemed to pull us forward. The last thing I remember was the darkness rising, and Mara’s hand slipping from mine as the well’s stone lips sealed above us.

Now, I am here, in the dark, among the other stones. I can feel them moving around me, wet and cold. I can hear the echoes of our friends’ voices, but they are not screaming anymore. They are singing a song I’ve never heard, and I know I will be singing it too, until someone else comes to the well, and I can crawl out and take their place.

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