By afternoon, word of Clara's moving-in had spread through Woodpile. Sheriff Dalton knocked on her door, eyebrows raised at the boards on the trapdoor.
"No signs of forced entry," he reported. "Dust pattern undisturbed. Probably rodents or settling boards."
Clara nodded, too drained to argue. "Thank you for checking," she managed. He left without pressing further, to her relief.
She closed the door and exhaled. The sheriff's denial might comfort neighbors, but it convinced her of nothing.
That evening, Clara rummaged through Abigail Harper's journal (found in the attic) and her laptop notes. The journal described dark rituals, protective salt circles, and charms meant to repel restless spirits. She copied passages onto fresh paper and tucked them into her jacket pocket.
At 8 p.m., she guided Eli to the backyard. Rain had cleared, leaving the grass glistening under a full moon. Clara carried a coil of salt, a handful of iron nails, and a small bag of dried bay leaves—her improvised arsenal against whatever haunted the well.
She knelt beside the stone rim and traced a circle of salt around the well's base. Each grain left a faint glow in the lamplight. Eli watched, wide-eyed.
"Is that like magic?" he asked softly.
Clara smiled. "Old magic. Let's hope it works."
Next, she pounded iron nails into the earth at the circle's edge, repeating a verse from the journal:
"Bound by iron's strength and salt's embrace,No voice shall call, no form shall trace."
The breeze picked up, swirling around the ring in eddies, and Eli shivered.
"Almost done," Clara assured him. She scattered bay leaves at four cardinal points, their dried scent sharp in the night air.
She stood and dusted off her jeans. The salt circle gleamed white under the moon. She felt… empowered. In control. Until a gust of wind blew out her lantern, plunging them into darkness.
"Mom!" Eli cried.
Clara fumbled for her flashlight. When the beam clicked on, she realized the circle was broken. Salt crust lay scattered, as though something had stormed right through.
Her breath caught.
The well's rope creaked. The empty bucket scraped the stones. A whisper, closer than ever:
"You can't stop me…"
Clara's blood froze. She grabbed Eli's hand and backed toward the house. He stumbled, and she lifted him into her arms.
Up the stairs they ran, slamming the back door and bolting it. Inside, she barricaded the kitchen with chairs and cabinets, and raced to their bedroom.
Eli clung to her. "What was that?"
"I don't know," Clara panted. "But it's stronger than I thought."
At midnight, the whisper came again—this time from the attic:
"I'm here… watching…"
Clara grabbed the journal from the nightstand. Abigail's final warning echoed in her mind:
"Tonight we leave, but I fear it will follow."
She realized the well's curse had no respect for barriers. It would hunt them, root and bone, until it had everything it wanted.
Clara pressed her forehead to Eli's. "Tomorrow," she whispered, "we go to Hollow Pine Woods. I have to find who first built that well—and how to close it forever."
Eli nodded, too frightened to speak. They sat together in the flickering lamplight, waiting for dawn and dreading the night that would follow.