In the quiet village of Elmhollow, nestled between misty hills and whispering woods, there was an old stone well at the edge of the town square. It had been there for centuries, its surface worn smooth by time and hands that had touched it in secret. No one knew who had built it, but the villagers spoke of it with hushed tones, as if the very air around it carried a weight of forgotten sins. The well was said to be cursed, though no one could agree on how or why. Some claimed it was built over the grave of a witch, others whispered that it once held a forbidden ritual. What all agreed on was that those who peered too long into its depths often found themselves changed, their eyes reflecting something not quite human. Eleanor, a young woman from the city, came to Elmhollow seeking inspiration for her painting. She had heard the stories, of course, but she dismissed them as folklore—until the day she saw the well. It was midday, the sun high and golden, yet the shadows around it seemed darker than they should be. The water within was still, like glass, and when she leaned in to look, she felt a strange pull, as if the well itself were watching her. She didn’t think much of it at first. But that night, as she sat by the fire, she began to dream of the well. In her dreams, she saw figures moving beneath the surface, their faces blurred and shifting. They reached up with pale, skeletal hands, calling her name in voices that were not quite real. When she woke, her reflection in the mirror looked different—her eyes were deeper, darker, as if something had settled behind them. The next morning, Eleanor went back to the well. This time, she brought a lantern. The light flickered against the stone walls, casting long, wavering shadows. As she peered into the water, she noticed something new: a pattern, faint and barely visible, etched into the bottom. It was a symbol, ancient and intricate, unlike anything she had ever seen. It pulsed slightly, as if alive. She spent days trying to decipher it, sketching it in her notebook, researching old texts. No one in the village would speak of it directly, but they watched her closely, their eyes filled with something between fear and curiosity. One evening, an old man named Thaddeus approached her. His beard was white, his voice a rasp. "You shouldn't go near the well," he said, his fingers twitching. "It’s not just a well. It’s a door." Eleanor frowned. "A door to what?" Thaddeus didn’t answer. He simply turned and walked away, disappearing into the fog. Days passed, and the changes in Eleanor became more pronounced. Her paintings grew darker, filled with strange symbols and shadowed figures. She began to hear whispers in the wind, voices that spoke in languages she did not know. At times, she would wake in the middle of the night, unable to remember how she had gotten out of bed. Her reflection in the mirror would sometimes move without her, its expression changing before she could blink. One night, she returned to the well, drawn by an unseen force. The water was still, but this time, it was not dark. It shimmered, like liquid moonlight. She knelt, reaching out with trembling fingers. As her hand touched the surface, the world around her shifted. The trees swayed, the sky twisted, and the well opened wider than it ever had before. From the depths, something emerged. Not a creature, not a person, but a presence—a cold, silent awareness that pressed against her mind. It did not speak, but it showed her things. Visions of the past, of the well's true purpose. It had not been built for water, but for memory. A place where the lost could be remembered, where the dead could be given voice. But the villagers had feared it, and so they buried it, sealing it with a curse. Eleanor fell back, gasping. The well closed again, and the world snapped back into place. She stood alone, breathless, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. She had seen what lay beyond the veil, and now, something of it remained inside her. The villagers noticed the change. They spoke of her in hushed tones, some with reverence, others with dread. She no longer painted the same scenes, but instead sketched the well, the symbol, the shadows that followed her. And sometimes, when the wind blew just right, you could hear her whispering to the well, as if waiting for an answer that might never come. But the well never answered. It only listened.