Greystone Hollow was a village that time seemed to forget. Streets cracked and overgrown with weeds, and houses sagged as though bowing under the weight of years. In the center of town, several stone wells stood, their surfaces darkened with moss and lichen. Children dared each other to approach during the day, but none lingered. At night, the wells seemed to breathe, exhaling shadows into the cold air. The few remaining villagers warned travelers to stay away, muttering under their breath about the dangers hidden in the dark. The wells did not merely collect water—they collected secrets.
It was said that if you leaned too close to the well after dusk, whispers would curl from its depths. But these whispers were not your own thoughts. They belonged to strangers, people you had never met. The villagers spoke of things that should remain unknown—personal fears, sins, unspoken desires, and tragedies hidden in other lives. Those who listened often returned pale and shaken, clutching their heads as if the sound had burrowed inside their skulls. Some acted on the secrets, compelled by forces they could not understand, setting in motion events that brought misfortune or worse, permanent disappearance.
I first heard of the wells from Old Martha, who had lived her entire life in Greystone Hollow. Her eyes were clouded with age, yet sharp when she spoke. “Never go near them,” she said, voice low and urgent. “They pick who listens. Once they’ve chosen you, they follow you home. You’ll hear them in the quiet moments, behind closed doors, in corners of your mind.” I thought it mere superstition—until the night curiosity led me to one of the wells, moonlight reflecting off the cracked stone, and the first faint whispers tickled my ears like a spider crawling across my skin.
The whispers were not immediately intelligible. A soft susurration rose from the darkness, curling around me, playful yet sinister. Leaning closer, I caught fragments: a confession, a name, a crime someone had hidden for years. My heart pounded. How could the well know such things? I stumbled backward, nearly falling, yet the whispers followed, teasing, tugging at my attention. When I tried to step away, the sound seemed to push me back, forcing my gaze downward. There, in the black depths, I glimpsed movement—shadows like fingers stretching toward me, not quite tangible, yet impossible to ignore.
Suddenly, laughter echoed behind me. Not loud, but chilling, thin and brittle like dried leaves. I spun around; the empty village streets stretched silently beneath a pale moon. No one was there. The laughter continued, fading and returning, as if circling me in invisible loops. My skin crawled. I realized the well had chosen me. The whispers were no longer just distant voices; they were a living presence, weaving around my senses. Panic clawed at my chest, yet I could not turn my gaze from the darkness inside the stone circle. Curiosity had become compulsion.
Days after that night, the whispers persisted. I could hear them in quiet rooms, beneath the floorboards, and even in the rustle of leaves outside. They revealed secrets about strangers I passed in the market, things no one should know. Names, regrets, hidden crimes. The knowledge was intoxicating and terrifying at once. I tried to ignore it, to tell myself it was madness, but the well’s choice had tethered me. Sleep became restless. I saw shadows flicker in corners, heard faint breathing in empty hallways, and always, that laughter curling softly around my mind. The whispers never rested.
Some villagers had succumbed entirely. They would stand at the edge of the wells for hours, muttering the secrets aloud, eyes hollow, hands trembling. A few disappeared entirely, vanishing into the darkness after murmuring some cryptic warning. Families spoke in hushed tones about them, unwilling to name the missing. Others returned to the village, yet they were changed—quiet, haunted, their reflections distant and ghostly. It was said that the wells did not merely whisper; they demanded attention, demanded action. The longer one listened, the more one became a part of their web.
I tried to warn others, but the villagers would only shake their heads. “Curiosity here is a dangerous thing,” Old Martha whispered, her voice a rustle of paper. She spoke of the wells as if they were sentient, choosing whom to haunt. They did not act randomly; they sought those whose minds were open, whose hearts held secrets or desire. To resist the call was near impossible. Even now, I feel their pull in quiet moments, a tug beneath the ribs, a whisper curling from the corners of my consciousness, reminding me of that night.
One night, I returned. I could not resist. Moonlight pooled in the cracked stone, illuminating the black depth. I leaned close. The whispers rose immediately, clear and sharp, layering over one another. A woman’s confession, a man’s betrayal, children’s stolen joys. My pulse raced. I realized then that the well did not merely collect secrets; it reflected them, twisting them, making them tangible in ways that reality could not. I stumbled backward as a shadow flickered across the water, fleetingly, like a figure reaching upward, invisible but real.
I ran, but the whispers followed me, drifting on the night wind, lingering in alleyways, echoing in my ears. Days later, I heard of events in the village that I had not witnessed—disappearances, accidents, misfortunes—all linked to the people whose secrets I had heard. The well’s influence extended beyond the stone circle, a creeping presence that shaped reality subtly, insidiously. I began avoiding streets at night, windows drawn, yet I could still hear them, faint but unmistakable: the murmurs of lives unknown, but suddenly intimately familiar, curling through the air like smoke.
I attempted to record the whispers, to prove they existed. The tapes captured nothing but static. Words emerged faintly, ungraspable, distorted. It was as if the well’s voice existed just beyond the bounds of technology, bending the senses instead of the air. I tried to flee the village entirely, but something—habit, compulsion, the well’s tether—kept drawing me back. The further I tried to go, the more vivid the whispers became. In dreams, the wells appeared, shadowy mouths in stone, exhaling secrets that had never belonged to me, yet seemed to belong everywhere I went.
I learned that some who listened too long were driven mad. They wandered the streets at night, murmuring what they had heard, faces pale, hands clutching at invisible threads. Others disappeared altogether, leaving only shadows on the ground, or faint echoes of laughter. The village elders spoke of a pact long forgotten: the wells were remnants of some ancient force, bound to knowledge and curiosity, feeding on attention and obedience. To listen was to become entwined with their will, and once entangled, escape was uncertain. I understood then that the whispers were not accidents—they were deliberate, predatory, and patient.
On a stormy night, I returned one final time. Rain slicked streets reflected moonlight as I approached the well. Lightning flashed, illuminating its depths like a black mirror. I leaned close. The whispers rose immediately, layering atop one another until I could scarcely hear my own thoughts. Faces appeared in the water, strangers’ eyes, pleading, accusing, laughing. I tried to look away, but I could not. The well demanded attention, demanded acknowledgment. I felt it pull at my mind, tugging me downward, urging me to step closer, to surrender, to lean further and hear the ultimate secret it held.
I stumbled backward, heart racing, breath ragged. My reflection shimmered in the rain pooling around the well’s base, twisted slightly, altered. I realized the well had marked me, like those who came before. Even now, weeks later, I hear faint whispers in quiet moments, drifting in from corners of rooms, under doors, along the edges of sleep. The secrets do not belong to me, yet they follow me, feeding on curiosity, shaping perception, reminding me that Greystone Hollow is alive, that the wells are not mere stone. They are predators, patient and eternal, waiting for the next mind willing to listen.
I warned others who dared enter the village at night, but few believed me. The wells appeared ordinary, cold stone in a forgotten town. Yet I know the truth: they are not inert. They watch, they wait, they choose. Curiosity is their lure, attention their sustenance. Those who listen are changed, marked, haunted. Even distance cannot erase the whispers; they seep into thoughts, curl around memories, insinuate themselves into dreams. I often wake to faint laughter, or the murmur of a name I have never heard, yet know intimately. Greystone Hollow is patient, and it never forgets.
Now, years later, I pass the village occasionally, careful never to linger. The wells remain, silent but alive, awaiting the next curious soul. Sometimes I swear I see faint shadows moving within their black depths, shifting, reaching. The whispers continue, faint, echoing through my mind, always present, always persistent. I know some day, whether soon or far, they will call to me again, tugging at my attention, weaving me back into their game. Greystone Hollow is eternal, and the wells are patient. Curiosity is dangerous—too much, and the whispers do not let you go.
Anthology of the Unknown 
Leave a comment