The house groaned in the midnight silence, as if exhaling secrets it could no longer keep. Clara stood in the center of the living room, the lantern in her hand casting long, twitching shadows across the faded wallpaper. She could feel it—something calling from beneath her feet, a pulse buried deep under the cracked floorboards.
Taking a deep breath, Clara knelt and began prying at the wood. The nails resisted at first, clinging desperately to the past, but with each pull, the floor gave way. Dust swirled in the air, and the sharp smell of damp earth hit her nose.
Underneath the boards, hidden from sight for decades, lay a narrow tunnel—just wide enough for a person to crawl through.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Was this what Abigail had hinted at in her journal? The hidden place where the voices grew stronger?
Clara lowered the lantern into the hole. The flame flickered against the damp walls, illuminating claw marks gouged into the dirt. Something had tried to escape. Or perhaps something had tried to climb out.
"There's no turning back," she whispered to herself.
With a final glance toward the front door, Clara swung her legs into the hole and descended.
The tunnel smelled of mold and rot. Every movement stirred up clouds of choking dust. The further she crawled, the colder the air became, prickling her skin with goosebumps. She could hear it now—faint whispers threading through the walls, calling her name in voices she recognized and others she feared to remember.
"Clara… help us… find us…"
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself forward. She had come too far to run now.
The tunnel sloped downward until it opened into a small underground chamber. Carvings covered the walls—strange, spiraling symbols that seemed to move when she wasn't looking directly at them. In the center of the room stood a well.
Another well.
But this one was wrong.
The stones were blackened as if scorched by fire, and a heavy iron grate sealed the mouth of it shut. Chains bound the grate in place, each link engraved with protective symbols. Yet despite the seals, the whispers grew louder here, stronger.
"Clara…"
She stepped closer, lantern trembling in her grasp. As she peered down through the grate, she glimpsed movement far below. Pale shapes, writhing in the darkness.
Something ancient was imprisoned here.
And something else—a small, glinting object—rested just beyond her reach.
Clara set the lantern down carefully and knelt beside the well. She stretched her arm through the bars, fingers brushing the cold metal object. It was a pendant—an old locket, tarnished with age.
The moment her fingers closed around it, the whispering exploded into a deafening roar.
Visions slammed into her mind: a woman in white screaming at the bottom of the well, a boy standing frozen as shadowy hands pulled him under, a village gathering with torches and fear, chanting words Clara couldn't understand.
The locket burned in her palm. She yanked it back through the grate, gasping for breath. The images faded, but the terror remained, coiled tightly inside her chest.
She stumbled to her feet, pocketing the locket without thinking. Every instinct screamed at her to leave this place. Yet something compelled her to stay a moment longer.
That's when she noticed the writing carved into the wall beside the well. Not the strange symbols—but words, in English, scratched desperately into the stone.
"He waits beneath. The pact is broken. Blood must repay blood."
Clara backed away, heart pounding so hard she could barely hear her own breathing. The chains around the grate rattled softly, as if stirred by an unseen breeze.
A realization hit her like a blow: the curse Abigail spoke of had never been broken. It had only been sleeping, biding its time, and now Clara had disturbed it.
The pendant in her pocket pulsed with unnatural heat.
She had taken something from the well—something it wanted back.
And it would not let her leave without a price.
Crawling back through the tunnel was a blur. Clara barely remembered how she reached the living room again, slamming the floorboards back into place, covering the gaping wound she had opened.
She sank against the wall, shaking, her mind racing. Who had locked that well away? What had they trapped inside? And what exactly had she unleashed?
Clara closed her eyes, the whispers still echoing in her ears.
There was no more denying it.
The well had never been just a well.
It was a prison.
And now its prisoner was stirring.