In the heart of the forgotten village of Pathrakudi stood an ancient well, hidden by overgrown weeds and whispered warnings. The villagers called it "Kanneer Kulam"—the Well of Tears. No one went near it after sunset, and children were forbidden to even speak its name.
But Arjun, a curious 17-year-old, didn’t believe in village superstitions. He had returned to Pathrakudi after many years in the city and was eager to explore the stories he'd only heard in hushed tones from his grandmother.
One night, under a moon cloaked in mist, Arjun took his torch and made his way through the dense bushes behind the old temple. There it was—the well. Covered in moss and silence. The air grew cold, unnaturally cold, and the chirping of crickets stopped the moment he stepped closer.
Ignoring a strange tightening in his chest, Arjun peered into the darkness of the well. It was dry—or so he thought.
Then came the first whisper.
“Arjunnnnn…”
He froze. It wasn’t the wind. It was a voice—raspy, low, and full of pain. He swung his torch around, but saw nothing. Again it came, clearer this time.
“Help me…”
Heart pounding, Arjun leaned closer. Deep inside the well, a pale face flickered in the darkness—eyes wide, mouth agape, a hand reaching out. Before he could react, something cold gripped his ankle.
He screamed and fell back, dropping the torch. The light spun wildly before going out.
Now, in pitch darkness, the whispers turned to weeping. “Why did you leave me…?”
It was his sister’s voice.
But that couldn’t be. She had drowned ten years ago.
“I waited… in the dark…”
Arjun stumbled to his feet, backing away. But the ground seemed to shift beneath him. The well was no longer behind him—it was in front of him again. No matter which direction he ran, it was always there. The sobbing grew louder, joined by many voices now. Male, female, old, young—all pleading.
“Come down with us…”
Suddenly, ghostly hands burst from the ground and gripped his arms and legs. Cold, skeletal fingers dragged him toward the edge of the well. He fought, kicking and thrashing, but they were too many. His scream echoed across the night as he was pulled over the edge—
—and silence fell.
The next morning, only his torch was found, lying by the mossy stones.
The village elders nodded solemnly.
“The well has taken another one.”
From that day, the whispers returned louder each night. And if you walk near the well during a full moon, you might still hear a boy’s voice… calling for help from the bottomless dark.
But Arjun, a curious 17-year-old, didn’t believe in village superstitions. He had returned to Pathrakudi after many years in the city and was eager to explore the stories he'd only heard in hushed tones from his grandmother.
One night, under a moon cloaked in mist, Arjun took his torch and made his way through the dense bushes behind the old temple. There it was—the well. Covered in moss and silence. The air grew cold, unnaturally cold, and the chirping of crickets stopped the moment he stepped closer.
Ignoring a strange tightening in his chest, Arjun peered into the darkness of the well. It was dry—or so he thought.
Then came the first whisper.
“Arjunnnnn…”
He froze. It wasn’t the wind. It was a voice—raspy, low, and full of pain. He swung his torch around, but saw nothing. Again it came, clearer this time.
“Help me…”
Heart pounding, Arjun leaned closer. Deep inside the well, a pale face flickered in the darkness—eyes wide, mouth agape, a hand reaching out. Before he could react, something cold gripped his ankle.
He screamed and fell back, dropping the torch. The light spun wildly before going out.
Now, in pitch darkness, the whispers turned to weeping. “Why did you leave me…?”
It was his sister’s voice.
But that couldn’t be. She had drowned ten years ago.
“I waited… in the dark…”
Arjun stumbled to his feet, backing away. But the ground seemed to shift beneath him. The well was no longer behind him—it was in front of him again. No matter which direction he ran, it was always there. The sobbing grew louder, joined by many voices now. Male, female, old, young—all pleading.
“Come down with us…”
Suddenly, ghostly hands burst from the ground and gripped his arms and legs. Cold, skeletal fingers dragged him toward the edge of the well. He fought, kicking and thrashing, but they were too many. His scream echoed across the night as he was pulled over the edge—
—and silence fell.
The next morning, only his torch was found, lying by the mossy stones.
The village elders nodded solemnly.
“The well has taken another one.”
From that day, the whispers returned louder each night. And if you walk near the well during a full moon, you might still hear a boy’s voice… calling for help from the bottomless dark.