Scary Bedtime Story
The Whispering Well
Grandma Elara always told the best bedtime stories. But they weren’t the sugary-sweet, happily-ever-after kind. Hers were… unsettling. Tonight’s was about the old well at the edge of town.
“Now, children,” she began, her voice a low, crackling whisper that sent shivers down my spine and my younger brother, Finn’s, even tinier spine. “Have you ever heard tell of Widow Hawthorne’s well?”
We shook our heads, wide-eyed. The wind howled outside, rattling the windows of her cozy cottage, adding to the already palpable tension.
“It’s been there for… well, longer than anyone can remember. Widow Hawthorne built it back when the town was just a few scattered farms. She was a solitary woman, always muttering to herself and tending her garden. Some folks said she was a bit… odd. But the well had the sweetest, clearest water anyone had ever tasted. Everyone relied on it.”
Grandma paused, stirring the fire in the hearth, the flames reflecting in her dark, knowing eyes. “Then one autumn, the well went dry. And Widow Hawthorne… she disappeared.”
Finn gasped softly. I bit my lip, suddenly feeling very cold.
“The townspeople searched for her, of course. But there was no sign. No trace. Just… gone. Weeks turned into months. The well remained dry, and the crops began to wither. Desperate, a young man named Thomas, known for his bravery, decided to climb down into the well to see if he could find the source of the problem.”
Grandma leaned closer, her voice dropping to a near-inaudible murmur. “He took a rope and a lantern, and his friends waited anxiously above. He descended slowly, the air growing colder and damper with each foot he lowered. The lantern cast eerie shadows on the well’s stone walls.”
“Then, he stopped. The friends above called down to him, but he didn’t answer. Only the faint sound of dripping water echoed back up the well shaft. They pulled on the rope, fearing the worst. But Thomas was still there, clinging to the rope with a death grip, his eyes wide with terror, but… empty.”
“They hauled him up, but he wouldn’t speak. He just stared blankly ahead, shivering uncontrollably. He never spoke again. They say he remained that way until the day he died, a vacant shell of the man he once was.”
The fire crackled loudly, momentarily breaking the silence. Grandma continued, her voice barely above the wind.
“The well remained dry, and the town suffered. Years passed, and the story of Thomas and Widow Hawthorne became a legend. Some said the well was cursed. Others said that Widow Hawthorne had made a deal with something… dark… to keep the water flowing, and when she couldn’t deliver, she paid the price, and so did Thomas.”
“Then, one stormy night, a young girl named Lily, dared by her friends, went to the well. It was abandoned now, overgrown with weeds and forgotten. The wind howled like a banshee, and the rain lashed down. Lily, despite her bravado, was terrified. She stood at the edge of the well, peering into the darkness. She could hear something… a faint whispering. At first, she thought it was the wind.”
“But then, she realized it was coming from the well itself. It was a low, mournful sound, like someone crying. She leaned closer, trying to make out the words. It was then that she heard it clearly. A voice, barely audible, whispering her name: ‘Lily… Lily… help me…'”
“Terror seized her. She wanted to run, but her feet were rooted to the spot. The whispering grew louder, more insistent. ‘Lily… help me… I’m so cold… so thirsty…'”
“Then, a hand reached up from the darkness. A pale, skeletal hand, dripping with water and grime. Lily screamed and stumbled backwards, tripping and falling onto the muddy ground. She scrambled to her feet and fled, not stopping until she reached her home, where she locked herself in her room and cried until she fell asleep.”
Grandma paused, her eyes fixed on us. “The next morning, Lily was gone. Vanished without a trace. Just like Widow Hawthorne, and just like Thomas. They say that on stormy nights, you can still hear the whispering coming from the well. And if you listen closely, you can hear it calling your name.”
She smiled, a slow, unsettling smile. “So, children,” she said softly. “Remember to always be polite to your elders. And never, ever, go near the old well at the edge of town. Good night.”
Finn whimpered and burrowed under his blanket. I stared at the ceiling, imagining pale hands reaching out of the darkness, whispering my name. The wind howled outside, sounding suspiciously like a mournful cry. Sleep didn’t come easily that night.
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