November 9, 2025
10:00 PM CST

In the year 1812, nestled beyond the last clearing of the eastern Kentucky wilderness, young Clara Whittle wandered further than she was allowed.

She’d been warned of the woods—stories of changelings and spirits, of trees that whispered—but Clara, curious and clever, followed the sound of dripping water until she came upon something she’d never seen before:

A stone well, perfectly round, moss-covered, yet unweathered. It hadn’t been there yesterday. She was sure of it.

She peered over the edge.

No rope. No bucket. Just dark, motionless water at the bottom. Her reflection stared back—sharper than it should have been, as though the image beneath her had been expecting her.

Then it smiled.

She didn’t.

Startled, Clara stepped back, heart pounding. She stumbled, dropped her ribbon, and watched it tumble down the shaft like a leaf caught in a funnel. The reflection didn’t vanish. It waved.

She ran home and said nothing.

But the next morning, the ribbon was on her pillow—wet and knotted in a way she hadn’t tied it.

That night, the well was closer.

No longer in the woods, but at the edge of the field.

By the third day, it stood beside the house.

Her reflection waited inside, mouth open like it was swallowing words.

“Let me try,” it whispered, though no sound reached her ears.

Clara told her mother, who scoffed and smacked her cheek. “No lies about devils, girl. Not in this house.”

But that night, Clara’s mother was gone.

In the wellwater, Clara saw her—floating, unmoving, her eyes wide with surprise.

The reflection had taken her place.

Cooking. Smiling. Bending the world toward a darker rhythm.

No one else noticed.

They all called it Clara now.

And the real Clara? She waits in the well, watching. Waiting. Smiling at the next curious soul who leans too close.

Because the well doesn’t stay in one place.

It appears where lonely eyes wander.

Where reflections wish they were real.