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There are places in this world that do not appear on maps. Villages that exist
quietly, hidden between hills, forests, and forgotten roads. My village is one of
those places.
If you asked travelers about it, they would shake their heads and tell you they have
never heard the name. If you asked the elders in nearby towns, they would lower
their voices and change the subject. And if you asked the children, they would tell
you stories filled with fear, mystery, and whispers.
Because everyone knows one thing about my village.
In my village, there are ghosts.
I was born there. I grew up there. And for most of my life, I believed the ghosts were
only stories told to scare children into behaving. But stories, I later learned, are
often born from truth. And sometimes, the truth refuses to stay buried.
The Village at the Edge of Silence
My village sits between two dry mountains, surrounded by a forest so thick that
sunlight struggles to reach the ground. The houses are old, built from stone and
mud, with wooden doors that creak like tired bones. At night, the streets become
empty, and lamps glow softly behind closed windows.
People here follow strange rules.
No one walks alone after sunset.
No one whistles at night.
No one goes near the old well at the edge of the village.
And most importantly, no one asks questions about the past.
I never understood why—until the night the silence broke.
The Night Everything Changed
It was a calm evening. Too calm.
The air was heavy, and even the insects had stopped making noise. I remember
sitting outside my house, watching the sky darken, when suddenly every lamp in
the village went out at the same time.
Complete darkness.
People stepped outside, holding candles and lanterns. Fear moved through the
village faster than words. Then we heard it.
A sound that made my heart stop.
A slow, deep bell ringing from the direction of the abandoned well.
That bell had not been heard in decades.
No one owned it. No one remembered placing it there. Yet it rang, once… twice…
three times.
And then a voice followed.
Soft. Calm. Unhuman.
“We are awake.”
The Old Well
The well stood at the far edge of the village, covered with a heavy stone lid and
surrounded by dead grass. Children were forbidden from going near it. Adults
avoided looking at it for too long.
The legend said that long ago, during a terrible time of hunger and sickness, the
villagers used the well to hide their shame. The sick, the accused, the unwanted—
they were thrown inside and forgotten.
The well was sealed. Life continued.
But the souls never left.
That night, as the bell rang again, the ground beneath the well trembled slightly, as
if something beneath was breathing.
The Stranger Appears
From the darkness near the well, a figure appeared.
A tall man, thin as a shadow, wearing old, torn clothes that did not belong to this
time. His face was pale, and his eyes were black like deep holes in the night.
He looked at us and smiled.
“You still live on our bones,” he said.
People screamed. Some fell to the ground. Others ran back into their homes.
When the lantern light flickered, the man vanished.
But the fear stayed.
The Mark
The next morning, the village looked normal again. No broken doors. No footprints.
No signs of anything unusual.
Except for my door.
Carved deep into the wood was a strange symbol: a circle crossed by three straight
lines.
My grandmother saw it and went silent.
“They chose you,” she said quietly.
I asked her what she meant, but she refused to speak until nightfall.
The Watcher
That night, my grandmother finally told me the truth.
She said that every generation, one person in the village is born with the ability to
see and hear the dead. This person is called the Watcher.
The Watcher does not fight ghosts.
The Watcher listens to them.
“Our village survives because someone remembers the dead,” she said.
“When the Watcher ignores them, they return.”
The mark on my door meant that I was the new Watcher.
And the ghosts knew it.
The First Dream
That night, I dreamed of the well.
I stood at its edge, looking down into endless darkness. Hands reached upward,
scratching the stone walls. Voices whispered names—names I had never heard, yet
somehow recognized.
“Help us,” they said.
I woke up screaming.
Outside, the bell rang once more.
The Forest Calls
The next day, strange things began to happen.
The forest around the village seemed alive. Trees leaned closer, branches moved
without wind, and whispers followed me wherever I walked.
At sunset, I heard my name coming from the forest.
I followed it.
Inside, the air was cold, and the light faded quickly. In a small clearing, a woman
stood waiting.
She wore white clothes, torn and dirty. Her face looked cracked, like broken clay.
“I was buried alive,” she said calmly.
“They said I was cursed. I was only sick.”
She pointed toward the village.
“My bones are in the well.”
Then she disappeared.
The Truth of the Elders
I confronted the village elders. At first, they denied everything. But when I described
the woman, their faces turned pale.
“She was real,” one of them admitted.
“All of them were.”
They confessed that the well was not only a grave—it was a secret. The village had
sacrificed lives to survive, believing that silence would protect them.
They were wrong.
Ghosts in Daylight
Soon, the ghosts no longer hid.
A child appeared near the ruins of the old school.
An old man sat silently beside the dry riverbed.
A woman brushed her hair near the abandoned mosque.
They did not attack. They did not scream.
They waited.
Fear spread through the village. Some people packed their things and left. Others
prayed day and night.
But the ghosts stayed.
They were not here for revenge.
They were here for justice.
The Choice
My grandmother came to me one last time.
“You must decide,” she said.
“Open the well and free them… or seal it forever.”
Opening the well would reveal the village’s darkest secrets. Sealing it would trap the
ghosts—and me—with them.
That night, I walked toward the well alone, holding a lantern.
The forest watched.
The village held its breath.
The ghosts waited.
As I reached the stone lid, I felt something move beneath it.
Something ancient.
Something angry.
And something that had been waiting far too long.
To Be Continued…
This is only the beginning.
Because once the dead are heard, they never stop speaking.
Part 2 is coming. 👻🔥
