Dawn broke pale and uneasy over the farmhouse. Clara Bennett woke to a chill that had nothing to do with autumn's early frost. The house lay unnaturally quiet, as if holding its breath. She slipped from bed and glanced toward Eli's room—he slept peacefully, though his small frame trembled from nightmares she dared not imagine.
In the kitchen, she found last night's tea cold in its mug. The ritual supplies lay scattered on the table: bay leaves still fragrant, a few bent nails, and the dented salt satchel. Clara squared her shoulders. Today she would find Abigail's graves and finish the binding once and for all.
But first, a closer look at the trapdoor.
Bloody Warnings
Clara approached the cellar hatch with trepidation. She'd barricaded it after Eli's terror, but the makeshift block of chairs and blankets had been moved aside. The wood under her feet creaked as if mocking her precautions.
She knelt and brushed away dust—and froze. Fresh, dark red smears stained the trapdoor: small handprints and streaks that dripped to the floorboards. Her breath caught.
"Eli?" she called softly, though she expected no answer.
She pressed a trembling finger to the largest handprint. The wood was sticky, warm. Under the film of blood, letters had been scrawled:
"Help me, Mom"
Clara's heart plummeted. She swallowed hard and wiped tears from her cheeks. That message could have been Eli's—but he slept upstairs. She dared not think who—or what—had left it.
She backed away, knees weak. Something scratched beneath the boards, as if eager to escape. Clara exhaled, steeling herself. She'd stared into the well, battled its spirits, and held their cursed locket. She could face whatever horror scrawled that cry in blood.
A Mother's Resolve
She scooped up the bay leaves and nails, securing them in her satchel. Then, pausing only to scoop salt into her palm, she climbed the stairs two at a time. In Eli's room, he sat bolt upright, eyes wide.
"Mom?" he whispered. "I had a nightmare. I heard scratching under the floor."
Clara knelt beside him and brushed back his hair. "I know, sweetie. I saw a message last night. Someone—something—wanted us to know it's not giving up."
He shivered. "Is it going to get me?"
She wrapped her arms around him. "I won't let it." She inhaled deeply. "I have a plan, Eli. But you need to stay here with the lights on, okay? I'll come back soon."
He nodded solemnly, clutching his blanket. Clara kissed his forehead and retraced her steps downstairs, leaving a small lamp burning in the hallway.
The Historian's Warning
Clara drove into town before the sun fully rose, journal and microfilm map pressed against her chest. She needed Mr. Perkins—his knowledge of Woodpile's buried secrets could guide her to the exact tomb site.
At the historians' office, Perkins peered at the fresh blood stains on her jacket sleeve. "What happened?" he asked, alarmed.
"Someone—or something—left a message at home," she said, voice tight. "I need to locate the Harper graves now. Can you point me to the northeast corner as quickly as possible?"
He gestured to the microfilm reader. "I processed a more detailed survey last night. Follow me." He loaded a new reel, and an updated land map flickered on the screen. Among the graves numbered 17 to 22, a shaded area marked "Unknown—Do Not Disturb" caught Clara's eye.
"Perkins, what's this?" she pressed.
He sighed. "During the town's founding, a handful of bodies vanished from the Harper plot. The town elders covered it up, said there was no use 'sniffing around bad blood.' They feared the well's curse, but left the site untouched."
Clara's pulse quickened. "So the graves aren't where I thought— they're here," she pointed, "outside the map's main cemetery, under that abandoned stone marker."
Perkins hesitated. "If you disturb that ground, you might unleash more than you can control. Be careful, Miss Bennett."
She nodded, steeling herself. "Thank you."
The Forgotten Plot
By late morning, Clara stood in the overgrown field behind the farmhouse. Tall grasses brushed her hips, and a single weathered stone protruded from the earth: a forlorn headstone with no engraved name, just a simple carved cross.
She knelt and brushed away moss. Beneath it, the soil felt loose—disturbed long ago. Taking her shovel, she began to dig, the sound of earth shifting echoing in the silent field.
After minutes that felt like hours, her blade struck wood. She unearthed a small wooden box, its lid bound by rusted iron bands. Inside lay brittle bones—too many for one person—and a tarnished medallion identical to the one in the well's locket, inscribed with the date "10.5.1890."
Clara's stomach churned. The box must have held Abigail's family remains—or part of them—sealed away when the graves were "desecrated." A knot of grief and anger tightened in her chest.
She lifted the medallion and whispered, "I'm sorry." Following Abigail's instructions, she scattered salt atop the bones and hammered a fresh iron spike through the box's lid.
The ground trembled. A low moan rose from the soil, as if the earth itself cried out. Clara staggered back, but kept her footing. She planted bay leaves around the makeshift grave and recited her binding verse:
"By those laid here, souls unclaimed,
Rest at peace, no curse unchained.
Locked by iron, guarded by salt,
Whispers cease—no more assault."
The wind stilled. The grasses settled. For a blissful moment, there was nothing but silence—pure, unthreatening silence.
A New Darkness
Clara exhaled, relief flooding her, but it was short-lived. From behind the farmhouse came the crunch of footsteps. She whirled, shovel in hand.
Eli stood at the back door, face smeared with tears and dirt. "Mom? Why didn't you bring me?"
Clara raced to him, heart in her throat. "Eli! You're not supposed to be out here!"
He pointed at the ground. In the circle of salt around the box, fresh footprints marred the line, and tiny handprints imprinted in the soil. When Clara crouched to inspect them, she felt a sting on her cheek—blood. She brushed it off, discovering a single word written in red across her forearm:
"Soon."
Eli whimpered. "I heard laughter in the well."
Clara's soul clenched. She scooped him into her arms. "I— I thought I fixed it. But it's still coming."
They trudged back toward the house, the sun dipping toward the horizon. Clara set Eli at the threshold and barred the door behind them. He collapsed onto the couch, clutching his blanket.
Clara pressed her hand to her forehead, staring out at the abandoned field. The box remained buried, salt circle intact—for now. But the footprints and that single ominous word meant the curse had found a way through.
She turned back to Eli, determination flickering in her tired eyes. "We've bound part of it. But tomorrow… tomorrow I'll finish the job. I promise."
Behind her, the trapdoor in the floor lay silent, but Clara knew the next whisper could come from anywhere: the cellar, the attic, or even the dark corners of her son's dreams.
And as night fell, the farmhouse shivered with anticipation—for its deepest secret was still hungry for release.