At the edge of town
there’s a well everyone swears
they don’t visit.
Too dark,
too deep,
too full of things
that were never meant to be pulled
into daylight.

But every night
you can hear the rope creak,
the bucket scraping stone,
the hush of neighbours
leaning over the rim
to see what’s floating there.

They say the well shows truths.
They say it reveals dangers
before they reach the streets.
But the water is murky,
thick with silt and rumour,
and the shapes that rise
are never whole;
just shadows,
distorted outlines,
bits of story swollen by the dark.

Still, people gather.
They whisper.
They point.
They swear they can see
the face of a monster
in every ripple.
And once someone says it aloud,
the rest nod,
grateful for something
to fear together.

By morning,
the stories have grown legs.
Accusations wander the town
like stray dogs,
sniffing at doorways,
barking at anyone
who looks the wrong way.
No one remembers
who first leaned over the well.
No one remembers
what was actually seen.

But the rope keeps moving.
The bucket keeps rising.
And the water,
stirred by so many hands,
grows darker each night
until the well no longer reflects
anything at all,
only the faces of those
who can’t stop looking.