The nightmares no longer waited for nightfall.
Clara had started seeing them even with her eyes open—flickers of shadow in the corners of her vision, whispers that didn't belong to anyone in the room. She barely slept anymore, and when she did, she awoke with bruises on her arms and soil beneath her fingernails.
Something inside the well had begun to follow her.
On this particular morning, she awoke just before dawn, breath catching in her throat as if someone had been pressing down on her chest. The house groaned under the weight of silence. The wind outside rustled like dry bones through the trees.
Clara sat up and pressed a hand to her forehead. The dream lingered.
This time, it had been different.
She stood at the edge of the well again, yes—but the image was more vivid, more real. And there had been a woman there, wearing a black shawl that fluttered like wings in the wind. She looked like Clara. Same hair. Same bone structure. But her eyes…
They were hollow.
And she held something in her arms. A bundle. No—an infant. Clara could hear it wailing, feel the coldness of the stone well against her bare feet. Then the woman screamed a word Clara didn't recognize, and the well opened—wide, impossibly wide—its mouth no longer of stone, but flesh and teeth and shadow.
Then everything was swallowed in silence.
Hours later, Clara stood in the attic of the house, surrounded by boxes thick with dust and memories.
Evan was downstairs, trying to transcribe the torn pages from Elsabeth's journal. But Clara knew the answers weren't on paper. They were buried here, in the forgotten corners of the Bennett family home.
She found an old wooden chest bound in tarnished brass. It took her a moment to break the lock open, but inside was what she had hoped—and feared—to find.
A black book. No title. No author. Just a symbol etched on the front: a crescent moon eclipsing an eye.
She opened it slowly. The pages were hand-written in old ink. There were rituals, chants, crude drawings of constellations and trees, and—
A bloodline.
The Bennett family.
"The sealing must pass through blood. The well accepts only what is given in desperation. The sacrifice is not a death, but a binding of soul. The gate must remain closed, or the shadow will choose another vessel—of the same line."
Further down, Clara saw names—her great-grandmother, Elsabeth Bennett. Then beneath her, a single name scratched in like an afterthought:
Thomas.
Her grandfather's brother. A name never mentioned at family gatherings. A face never seen in the old photo albums.
Clara's blood turned cold.
She flipped to the next page and found something even more disturbing: a hand-drawn image of a woman standing in front of a stone arch deep in the woods. Beneath it, a passage:
"One mouth silenced; one mouth watching. The well is the prison. The door is the invitation."
Clara remembered the strange arch Evan had found last week—half-buried in moss and dirt, its stones arranged in an unnatural curve. They thought it was just a ruin. But now…
She rushed down the stairs, book in hand, and slammed it on the table in front of Evan.
"You need to see this."
He raised an eyebrow. "Another horror journal?"
"Worse. A ritual guide. It details a pact that started with Elsabeth and was passed down… and Evan, there was another mouth. The well isn't the only entrance."
Evan turned pale as he read.
"You think that archway in the woods is—"
"Yes," Clara interrupted. "The gate. It was never sealed."
Evan took a deep breath. "But… why would Elsabeth only seal one?"
Clara looked at him, her voice low and cold. "Because Thomas—her firstborn—was taken by the well. That satisfied the shadow for a while. But then something happened. She got scared, left the second mouth open. Maybe she hoped the cost would be enough."
He ran a hand through his hair. "So… if the deal was with her bloodline…"
Clara nodded. "It's me now."
Later that night, Clara sat alone by the fireplace, staring into the flickering flames.
Her mind drifted to a story her mother had once told her—when she was six, curled up under thick blankets during a thunderstorm.
"Our family is older than this town," her mother had said. "And sometimes, the earth remembers what we bury. That's why we always keep a light burning in the window, Clara. To keep what's below from remembering us."
At the time, Clara had thought it was just folklore.
Now, she wasn't so sure.
She returned to the attic and pulled out the last box she hadn't opened. Inside were photos—sepia-toned and weathered. She flipped through them until she found one that made her heart stop.
It was Elsabeth, standing beside a young boy. He looked barely five. In the photo, his eyes were scratched out.
On the back, written in neat handwriting:
"Thomas, before the Offering. May he find peace in the shadow."
Clara turned the photo over again. The scratched eyes now looked like hollow voids, watching her from the past.
She dropped the photo.
The attic lights flickered.