Sarah knew better than to listen to the old stone well—but when the voices started speaking her name, she realized it wasn’t just the sound of water echoing in the dark." The well at the center of Eldridge Hollow had stood for centuries, its moss-covered stones worn smooth by time—and something else. The townsfolk avoided it, crossing the square quickly when the sun dipped below the horizon. But Sarah had always been curious. One sleepless midnight, she crept to the well’s edge. The air was still, the moon a pale eye overhead. She leaned over the crumbling rim—and heard it. A whisper. Not the wind. Not the creak of old wood. A voice, faint but unmistakable, rising from the black water far below. "Sarah...". Her blood turned to ice. Then another voice joined it. And another. A chorus of murmurs, all speaking her name, each one slightly different—some young, some old, some horribly distorted. The rope swayed, though there was no breeze. The bucket far below splashed, though nothing had touched the water. Then, the worst sound of all—a wet, dragging climb from the depths. Sarah ran. She didn’t look back. But the next morning, her shoes were caked in mud… and her name was scratched into her bedroom wall in dripping, well-water letters. Because in Eldridge Hollow, some things don’t stay at the bottom of the well. Would you dare to listen? Subscribe and share for more watery terrors!