Introduction
Voices From The Well Horrible Story An old, worn well was located in the center of a little settlement, surrounded by undulating hills and dense woodlands. It was situated in an area of property known to the locals as “The Silent Clearing,” just beyond the village limits.
The well had witnessed the arrival and departure of generations and was said to be centuries old. The water within was still deep but had long ago turned murky, and the stone walls were covered in moss. Because they thought it was cursed and a gateway to something wicked and dark, the villagers frequently discussed it in whispers.
Numerous legends circulated about the well, but none were as horrifying as the story of the “Voices from the Well.” Strange whispers were heard by those who went too near the well at night, including melancholy screams, eerie murmurs, and the distinct sound of someone calling their name.
Others reported seeing dark forms emerge from the water, their faces contorted in pain. The origin of the well’s evil reputation was unknown, but its legend had endured through the ages, whispered among the elderly as they nestled together for warmth, and passed down like an old bedtime tale.
A Mysterious Call
In the summer of 1995, a young man named Arjun moved to the village. Arjun, a city boy, had recently inherited his late uncle’s cottage, located just outside the village, and decided to spend a few months in the countryside to escape the hustle and bustle of urban life. Eager to experience the tranquility of rural living, he often wandered through the fields and forests surrounding the village, enjoying the serenity of nature.
One evening, while walking along the outskirts of the village, Arjun noticed the old well in the distance. It seemed out of place, its looming structure casting a long shadow across the clearing. Curiosity tugged at him, and without giving it much thought, he made his way toward it.
As he approached, Arjun noticed the strange silence that hung over the well. The birds had stopped chirping, and the wind seemed to hold its breath. It was as if the world itself was holding back, watching him. He peered down into the well, but the water was so dark and murky that he couldn’t see the bottom. An unsettling feeling began to creep over him, but he shrugged it off as nerves. He wasn’t one to give in to superstition.
However, just as he was about to turn away, he heard it—a faint voice, whispering his name.
“Arjun…”
The voice was soft, almost melodic, but unmistakable. It was as if it had come from the depths of the well itself. Arjun froze, his heart pounding in his chest. He looked around, expecting to see someone standing behind him, but there was no one. The clearing was empty.
“Arjun… come closer…”
The voice was more insistent now, a low, beckoning tone that sent a chill down his spine. Against his better judgment, he leaned closer to the well, peering down into its depths. The air around him grew colder, and the faint smell of decay seemed to rise from the well.
“Who’s there?” Arjun called out, his voice shaking.
There was no reply, only the eerie stillness of the forest. Then, just as he was about to back away, something caught his eye—a shadow moving in the water. His breath hitched as he leaned even closer, trying to make sense of the strange sight.
It wasn’t just a shadow. It was a figure—pale, gaunt, and moving unnaturally in the depths. Arjun’s stomach churned with fear as the figure began to rise, its eyes gleaming a sickly shade of yellow. Before he could react, the figure’s mouth opened, and the whispers grew louder.
“Help… me…”
Arjun stumbled backward, his heart racing as he turned to run. But the whispers followed him, echoing through the trees. The voice was no longer just calling his name; it was pleading, begging for release.
“Help me, Arjun… You must set me free…”
The Haunting Begins
Over the next few days, Arjun tried to forget what he had seen. He kept himself busy, working around his cottage and exploring the village, but the memory of the well haunted him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching him, waiting for him to return.
One night, as Arjun sat by his fireplace, trying to read a book to distract himself, he heard the voice again—this time, not from the well, but from inside his home. It was faint at first, but unmistakable.
“Arjun…”
His blood ran cold as he dropped the book. He stood up, scanning the empty room. The shadows in the corners seemed to stretch, twisting as if they had a life of their own. He rushed to the door and flung it open, but there was nothing outside. The air was still, and the night seemed unnaturally quiet.
“Arjun… Help me…”
The voice was clearer now, as though it was right behind him. He whipped around, but again, no one was there. The voice seemed to come from every direction at once—faint, but persistent, like the whispering wind.
The next night, Arjun could no longer ignore the strange pull of the well. Despite his growing fear, he knew he had to return. The voice was relentless, and his curiosity had grown into an obsession.
Read More
The Horrific Truth
When Arjun returned to the well, it was darker than before. The moon was obscured by thick clouds, and the only light came from the faint glow of the fireflies dancing in the air. The well seemed even more imposing now, its jagged edges looming in the darkness like the mouth of a great beast waiting to consume him.
He stepped closer to the edge, peering into the murky depths. The whispers started again—faint at first, then louder, more desperate.
“Help me… Arjun…”
This time, however, the figure did not rise slowly from the depths. It shot up, a bloated, decayed form, its skin pale and stretched tight over its bones. The figure had no eyes—only dark, empty sockets—and its mouth opened wide, emitting a scream that pierced Arjun’s ears.
In a flash of horror, Arjun realized the truth: the figure was not merely a ghost. It was a victim—someone who had been trapped in the well for years, their body preserved by the dark, cursed water. The voice was not just an echo from the past; it was the cry of someone who had died violently, someone who had been drowned, their spirit bound to the well for eternity.
“Set me free… Arjun…”
As the figure lunged toward him, Arjun’s body went numb with terror. The whispers grew louder and more frantic, their volume rising until it was deafening. The figure’s hands reached out, grabbing him by the throat, pulling him toward the edge of the well.
In that moment, Arjun understood. The well was not just a burial site. It was a trap—a prison for souls, doomed to wander and suffer for all eternity. And now, Arjun was part of that curse.
The Final Descent
The villagers found Arjun’s body two days later, lifeless and cold. His expression was frozen in terror, his eyes wide open as if seeing something beyond the grave. The well remained as it had always been—silent, still, and undisturbed.
But the whispers did not cease.
As night fell over the village, the sound of footsteps could be heard near the well, faint at first, but growing louder. The voice—Arjun’s voice—could be heard crying out, trapped in the depths of the well.
Conclusion
Although the well at Windmill Ridge still exists, very few people now dare to go near it. No one discusses the terrible things that happened to Arjun, and the locals have long since left it. But for those who dare to listen, the voice of the forgotten endures.
“Assist me… Release me.
With its waters now tainted by the souls of the restless dead, some claim the well is still a conduit to the hereafter. Additionally, the voices will call to those who approach too closely, inviting them to descend into the depths where they will also be subject to the curse.
The whispers of the Voices from the Well will never cease. And the listener will never be the same again.