“Never speak her name at the well,” they told him.
But grief doesn’t follow rules…
The Grieving
David Holloway had only known silence since the accident.
His daughter, Aria, died six months ago—just nine years old, freckles like constellations, laughter that lived in every corner of the house. Now the house was quiet. Too quiet.
His wife left weeks after the funeral. Said he was too far gone.
He barely heard her leave. He barely heard anything anymore.
Until he heard the whispers.
They came at night, curling through the vents, barely audible. Just a giggle. A hum. Like Aria used to sound when coloring.
At first, he blamed his grief. The mind protects itself with lies, right?
Then he found the journal.
The Ritual
The journal was tucked in an old book about local folklore. It wasn’t something he remembered buying. Pages of cramped handwriting, shaky but legible.
The last entry read:
“They speak to me through the well. Not all of them are kind, but one of them remembered my name.”
David followed the directions. A dried-up stone well hidden deep in the woods. No moonlight touched this place. The air smelled of rust and old teeth.
Carved into the stone: “Echoes only. Never call.”
But he did.
He said her name: “Aria Holloway.”
The wind died.
Then he heard it.
“Daddy?”
The Visits
He returned every night.
Each time, Aria’s voice grew clearer. First whispers, then full sentences. Eventually, she asked him to bring her things:
Her teddy bear
Her favorite song on cassette
The sweater she wore the night she died
He dropped each item into the well, and in return, her voice grew warmer. Real. She remembered things only his Aria would know. He cried. Laughed. Told her stories. They sang.
But she never asked why he was always cold now.
Why his breath fogged in July.
Why his shadow didn’t follow him anymore.
The Echoes Feed
One night, the well whispered first.
Not Aria.
A different voice. Older. Harsher. It repeated his name, “David, David, David,” until his ears bled.
He ran. But he came back.
The well had changed—wider now. The stones wept black water. He saw fingers at the edge. Small ones. Like Aria’s. Reaching.
“Help me out, Daddy. Please.”
He reached in.
Her hands were wrong.
Too long. Too many joints. The skin—wrong. Like someone tried to wear a child.
He screamed. Fell back. Ran home.
That night, she was in the living room.
Aria. Perfectly normal. Smiling. Except…
She didn’t blink.
She didn’t sleep.
She didn’t breathe.
The Hollowing
She stayed.
His Aria. But quiet now. Eyes always watching. People who visited didn’t stay long. Said the house “felt off.” Cold. Like something beneath the floorboards was breathing upward.
David started forgetting things.
His reflection would lag in the mirror. His voice would echo back the wrong words. He found teeth in the sink—not his.
And sometimes, the well would call again.
Whispers from the drain.
From the fridge.
From Aria’s mouth while she stared at the wall.
The Truth
He went back one last time.
At the well’s edge, he saw it open wider—an abyss spiraling into the dark. Voices, hundreds, all crying out. Some begged. Some laughed. Some whispered through him.
Aria’s true voice cried out from deep below:
“Daddy… that thing isn’t me. Please let me go. You opened the door…”
He fell to his knees. The voice behind him—the thing wearing her face—leaned down and whispered:
“Echoes only. You called. So now… you stay.”
He was pulled in.
The New Whisper
The well is quiet now.
Except when someone visits. Then a voice whispers from the deep:
“Help me. My name is David Holloway. My daughter is in there. Please… remember her name…”
But no one answers.
Because they know.
You never speak a name at the Echo Well.
I love the whispering voice as the storyteller- it adds to the drama of it all.