The lantern in the well

In the forgotten edges of a village, there stood an old stone well. No one drew water from it anymore. They said the well whispered at night.

Kiran, bold and curious, laughed at the warnings. One moonless evening, she lowered a lantern into the dark mouth of the well. The flame flickered, then steadied — but shadows danced in ways that didn’t belong to her.

A pale hand rose from the depths, clutching the lantern’s light. The well echoed with a voice, sharp as broken glass: “Thank you for waking me.”

The lantern shattered. Darkness spilt out like smoke, crawling across the ground. Kiran ran, but the shadows followed, whispering her name with every step.

From that night on, the villagers swore they saw a faint glow inside the well — not fire, but eyes, waiting for the next soul brave enough to look down.