There was a village named Shalbanpur. From a distance, it looked as if a breath was trapped inside a deep ocean of green. All around stood dense sal and banyan forests so thick that even sunlight lost its way trying to enter. The branches intertwined as though they had imprisoned the village. No outsider could enter. No insider could leave.
At the very heart of the forest, where light never reached, there stood an ancient well. Its stone rim was cracked, wrapped in vines and wild growth, as if untouched for centuries. The village elders used to say, "That is not a well. It is a mouth. The mouth of something dark beneath the earth. Whoever looks down into it never remains normal again."
No one went there easily. Those who did returned in silence. Words abandoned them. Some said that near the well, even birds stopped singing and insects held their breath. Only one sound could be heard—
Drop… drop… drop…
Not water. Breathing.
In that village lived Riyad. Fourteen years old. Curious eyes. Proud heart. Other boys never called him a coward, because he never showed fear. But deep inside, the stories of the well circled his mind. At night he woke to whispers—
"Come down… Riyad… come down…"
One afternoon the sky turned blood-red. Thunder roared in the distance like a restless beast. The village slept in the heavy heat. Riyad slipped out alone. In his hand, an old torch and a stick. On his feet, worn sandals. In his heart, stubborn resolve. Today he would see what lay inside that well.
As he entered the forest, the air changed. Cold. Damp. Rotting. Birds fell silent. Even the leaves seemed afraid to move. Branches scratched his skin as he walked, drawing thin lines of blood. He did not stop.
At last, the well stood before him. Vines curled around its rim. The stones were blackened as if burned by ancient fire. The inside was darkness so thick it swallowed light. Riyad turned on his torch. The beam fell downward. No water. Only black emptiness.
He leaned closer.
At first, nothing.
Then he heard it—
Drop… drop… drop…
Breathing. Rising from deep below.
Suddenly, a freezing gust burst from the well. So cold it felt like fingers brushing his throat. Riyad stepped back. His heart pounded wildly.
Then the whisper—
"Riyad… come down… play with us…"
The voice sounded like his own, but twisted. As if many voices had merged into one.
He turned and ran. But the forest had changed. Trees stood closer. Paths twisted the wrong way. He ran forward only to find the well again in front of him.
Impossible. He had run the other way.
Without warning, the ground cracked. A hand burst out—mud-covered, long fingers, black sharp nails. It grabbed his ankle. Riyad screamed.
But the scream dissolved into the air. No one heard.
More hands emerged from the well. Dozens. Childlike, yet rotten and distorted. Eyes white as milk. Smiles filled with blade-like teeth. They whispered—
"Play… play… come down…"
They dragged him toward the well. He struggled, struck with his stick, but the grip tightened. For one final moment, he saw it—
Deep inside the well were countless faces. All smiling. All calling his name.
His last scream never reached the village. Only the dogs howled together. A flock of birds scattered into the sky.
The next morning, villagers found Riyad's sandals at the edge of the forest. Fresh scratch marks around the well. Blood stains on the stones.
And now, from inside the well, a new sound can be heard.
Drop… drop… drop…
Along with a trembling whisper—
"Riyad… come down… play…"
The villagers never look toward that forest anymore. But on nights when the moon hides behind clouds, a boy's voice drifts from the trees—
"Come… play with me…"
No one goes. Because whoever does never returns.
They only add another voice to the darkness below, forever.