A forsaken husband with a sick daughter bought a dilapidated house in a small town, but after hearing strange sounds from an old well, he decided to descend. What he saw made his hair stand on end…..

Nicholas Johnson stood on the doorstep of the dilapidated house, holding seven-year-old Sophie’s hand. The girl coughed quietly, almost imperceptibly, but her father heard every sigh. In that cough was their entire story of the last two years—endless hospitals, expensive medications they had to buy by borrowing money.

And his wife’s gaze, gradually turning from sympathetic to irritated, and then disappearing altogether along with her. «Dad, is this going to be our home?» Sophie asked, looking around the yard overgrown with weeds and the leaning fence. Her voice was weak, but it held that childish hope that kept Nicholas from giving up completely.

«Yes, sunshine. This will be our home,» he replied, squeezing her small palm. In the pocket of his jeans lay the last money from selling their city apartment.

Almost all of it had gone toward this half-ruined little house in a godforsaken small town, but here there was clean air, silence, and no one to look at them with pity or judgment. The house looked depressing. The paint had peeled off and hung in shreds like old skin.

The roof had caved in places, and the windows were boarded up with planks. But Nicholas saw not only that. He saw a place where Sophie could recover.

Where they could start over, far from hospital corridors and the compassionate stares of neighbors. Old lady Margaret, who sold them the house, had warned that the place was restless, but Nicholas dismissed it as small-town superstitions. He had no choice; this was the only property he could afford.

Besides, what problems could be worse than those they had already endured? When they went inside, Sophie immediately ran to explore the rooms, and the house echoed with children’s laughter for the first time in many months. Nicholas felt something warm stir in his chest.

Maybe they would manage. Maybe here, among these old walls, his daughter would finally get better. The first weeks passed in endless work.

Nicholas patched the roof from morning till night, replaced rotten boards, fixed the stove. His hands were covered in calluses, his back ached, but the work helped him not think about how little money was left and what would happen when it ran out. Sophie helped as she could, handing tools, sweeping trash, and her cough gradually became less frequent.

The neighbors were few and taciturn. Occasionally, Aunt Vera from the next house came by—a skinny old woman with sharp eyes—who brought milk and vegetables. But she looked at them warily, as if expecting something bad.

«The house has been empty for a long time,» she said once, watching Nicholas paint the window frames. The previous owners left at night without saying anything. And before them, others lived there only briefly.

«Why did they leave?» Nicholas asked, not looking up from his work. Aunt Vera shrugged—who knows. People said different things.

But the place is restless, that’s for sure. Nicholas didn’t ask further. He had enough of his own problems to worry about small-town gossip.

The main thing was that Sophie felt better. Her cheeks turned pink, the cough almost disappeared, and she started running around the yard again like a healthy child. But then the sounds began.

At first, Nicholas thought it was the wind in the chimney or the creak of old boards. At night, the house made many sounds—creaking, crackling, sighing like a living thing. But these sounds were different.

They came not from the house, but from somewhere deep in the yard, and they sounded like… crying. Quiet, drawn-out crying that started deep in the ground and rose up, becoming clearer. Nicholas listened, lying in bed, feeling chills run down his spine.

The sound was too human to be the wind, but too strange to be real crying. «Dad, do you hear it?» Sophie whispered one night, crawling under his blanket. «What, sunshine?» Nicholas hugged his daughter, feeling her little heart pounding.

«Someone’s crying. In the yard.» Nicholas listened to the night silence.

The sound was barely audible, but it definitely existed—a quiet, hopeless sobbing coming from the darkness. In the morning, Nicholas decided to inspect the yard. In daylight, everything looked normal—an overgrown plot with weeds, an old shed, a leaning fence.

But in the far corner, almost hidden by tall grass, he found something he hadn’t noticed before—an old well. The well was ancient, built from stones darkened by time. The iron cover was rusted and shifted aside, leaving a gaping black hole.

Nicholas approached closer and looked down. The darkness was absolute; even dropping a stone, he didn’t hear a splash or impact at the bottom. Deep, he muttered, feeling an inexplicable anxiety.

That evening, the sounds resumed. Now Nicholas knew exactly where they came from—the well. The crying was quieter than usual but more distinct, and words seemed to be in it.

Indistinct, distorted, but definitely human. Nicholas got out of bed and went to the window. Moonlight illuminated the yard with silvery glow, and the well appeared as a black spot among the grass.

The sound grew stronger, becoming almost calling, and Nicholas thought someone was calling his name. «Don’t go there, Dad!» Sophie whispered, appearing beside him. «I’m scared.»

«It’s okay, sunshine. It’s just the wind,» Nicholas lied, but he didn’t believe it himself. There was no wind; the night was completely still.

The next day, he decided to talk to Aunt Vera. The old woman listened silently, nodding as if expecting this conversation. «I know about that well,» she said finally.

«It’s old; my grandfather told stories about it. They dug it during famine years, looking for water. They found it, but the water was dead.

Whoever drank it got sick, and whoever drank a lot died outright. And what did they do with it? They wanted to fill it in, but it wouldn’t fill. The earth caved in, stones sank, like a bottomless pit.

Then the sounds started. They say someone lives there. Someone who can’t find peace.»

Nicholas wanted to laugh, but something in the old woman’s voice made him take her words seriously. In her eyes was fear—not feigned, but real, suffered through years. «What do you advise?» he asked.

«Leave here. While it’s not too late.» But Nicholas couldn’t leave…