LindaTaanning
The village avoided the ancient well, though no one remembered why. Its water was stagnant, covered in a thin veil of green, yet it never dried, never overflowed. Children who lingered near it claimed to hear splashes when no stone had been thrown, and at night, faint ripples disturbed its surface without wind or hand.
Long ago, the earth cracked open around the well, revealing what lay beneath. A skeleton stared upward from its depths, limbs twisted, surrounded by broken jars that had once carried offerings. The bones rested upon a bed of moss that pulsed faintly, as if it were alive. Its hollow eyes seemed fixed on the sky, watching eternally, waiting.
Those who dared to peer too long swore the water darkened, shadows rising from its depths to tug at their reflection. One farmer tied a rope around his waist and leaned in to recover one of the ancient jars. The rope went taut, jerking violently, and when it was pulled back, it was frayed and slick, but empty.
The well fed on curiosity. Each year, someone vanished-a child, a traveler, a drunkard stumbling home. The ground around it grew damp with unnatural warmth, as though the earth itself had veins of blood. On moonless nights, bubbles rose from below, carrying with them a foul stench of decay.
The skeleton never changed, yet its position shifted subtly with each passing season. Some days its hands rested at its sides, other days upon its chest, and sometimes, it reached upward, fingers extended just beneath the surface.
When the villagers gathered one morning, they found the moss had spread beyond the well, curling into the soil like roots searching for new hosts. The skeleton was gone. Only the jars remained, resting on the surface of water blacker than the night sky, reflecting nothing at all.
The well no longer waited. It had begun to climb.