The Arrival of Imran
At the edge of the village was an old well that had been abandoned, overgrown with wild shrubs and stones. It was rumored that the well had been dry for decades, but sometimes, late at night, the villagers swore they heard splashing sounds coming from within the well.
Some attributed it to the wind.
Others attributed it to something else.
Old Haji Kareem, the oldest man in the village, would often warn the children:
“This well is not empty. It is waiting.”
No one understood what he meant. But no one dared to ask.
The Arrival of Imran
In December 1980, a young schoolteacher named Imran arrived in Basti Noorpur. He had been appointed by the government to teach in the small village school. Imran was well-educated, progressive, and did not believe in superstitions.
When he first heard of the “haunted well,” he laughed.
“Just a way to frighten children,” he said confidently.
But the villagers did not laugh with him.
Imran rented a small room in a clay house near the fields. Every evening, he would mark papers under the faint light of a lantern. And every night, just after midnight, he heard something peculiar.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
It
Whispers in the Night
One chilly evening, a boy named Sameer disappeared.
Sameer had told his mother that he was going to fetch his kite from around the banyan tree before sunset. He never came back.
The villagers searched the entire night with lanterns. They searched the fields, the banks of the river, and the empty huts.
Then someone proposed searching the well.
Fear flashed through their faces.
No one wanted to peer into the well.
Finally, Imran decided to take the initiative.
“This is ridiculous,” he said. “I will go and check.”
He walked towards the well, holding a lantern in his hand. The night was strangely quiet. Even the crickets were holding their breath.
He leaned over the edge of the well and held out the lantern.
The well was not empty.
There was water.
Black, thick, and stagnant water.
And for a fleeting moment, he saw something floating in it.
Two white eyes.
Staring up at him.
The lantern shook furiously in his hand and went out.
Imran stumbled backward in shock, his heart racing.
When the villagers lit the lantern again and peered into the well, it looked as if the well was bone-dry.
Cracked stone.
Dust.
Nothing else.
Sameer was never seen again.
Imran could no longer deny what he had witnessed.
He went back to his room and searched for old records of the village in the school storage. He discovered something shocking.
Zainab was not a witch.
She was a widow who owned land that many villagers wanted.
It was false accusations that caused her death.
Imran felt anger and shock.
The village had killed an innocent woman.
And now, something was taking revenge.
The Night of Reckoning
Imran was determined to break the curse. He gathered the villagers.
“We have to admit what happened,” he said. “We have to ask for forgiveness.”
The villagers, afraid but desperate, agreed.That night, under the light of
the pale moon, they gathered around the well. Haji Kareem came forward with shaking hands.
“We were wrong,” he said. “Zainab, forgive us.”
But then, the wind howled furiously.
The earth shook.
The well started overflowing with black water, spilling over its edges.
From the well, a figure slowly emerged.
A woman.
Her clothes soaked.
Her hair covering her face.
Her skin as white as death.
Her eyes empty, dripping with black water.
The villagers screamed and fell to their knees.
Imran was paralyzed.
The woman’s
Imran was determined to break the curse. He gathered the villagers.
“We have to admit what happened,” he said. “We have to ask for forgiveness.”
The villagers were afraid but had no choice.
That night, under the light of the pale moon, they gathered around the well. Haji Kareem led the way, his hands shaking.
“We were wrong,” he said. “Zainab, forgive us.”
Just then, the wind began to howl furiously.
The earth shook.
verdana;">The well started to fill up with black water, overflowing its edges.
A figure slowly emerged from the well.
A woman.
Her clothes soaked through.
Her hair masking her face.
Her skin deathly pale.
Her eyes empty, with dark water dripping from them.
The villagers screamed and knelt on the ground.
Imran was paralyzed with fear.
The woman’s voice rang in their minds, not loudly but clearly.
“You watched.”
The villagers wept.
“You listened to lies.”
Haji Kareem crawled forward on his knees.
“We were afraid.”
The woman cocked her head.
“And so were my children.”
Then two small figures appeared beside her.
The two missing children.
Their eyes were empty.
verdana;">Their skin was cold.
The villagers cried uncontrollably.
Imran found his voice.
“What do you want?” he shouted.
The woman slowly pointed to the mosque.
“Truth.”
The next morning, the whole village assembled in the mosque courtyard. For the first time, they openly talked about what had happened forty years ago.
They confessed their cruelty.
They confessed their greed.
They confessed their silence.
};
The story of Zainab was written and filed inside the mosque records. Her land was donated to build a school in her name.And then
The splashing stopped.
The well dried up forever.
No more whispers.
No more wet footprints.
No more disappearances.
Imran lived in Basti Noorpur for many years. The school flourished, and children not only learned reading and writing but also learned about justice and courage.
style="font-family: verdana;">The old well was closed with stones.
But the villagers say that on very quiet winter nights, if you stand close enough, you can hear something faint.
Not screams.
Not splashing.
But a soft whisper:
“Remember.”
