Clara nearly dropped the bundle of framed pictures as she carried them down from the attic. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, and lamplight danced across the dust motes that swirled around her head. She set the wooden chest of photographs on the kitchen table and took a steadying breath. Each brittle frame promised another piece of the well's dark history—and perhaps the clue she desperately needed.
She lifted the top photograph. It showed a group of six children—three boys and three girls—laughing as they played at the edge of the farmhouse well. Their clothing placed it around 1910: knee-high socks, buttoned boots, pinafores, and sailor suits. The paint on the well's stones looked fresh, and behind them stood the same sagging porch she and Eli now called home.
Clara traced a finger over the smiling faces. One little boy in the center bore an uncanny resemblance to Eli: same round cheeks, same mop of dark hair. Her pulse quickened. A scrawled name in faded ink on the back read "Thomas Harper, age 6"—a different Harper family altogether.
She flipped to the next photograph. A single child—again, a boy of about six—stood alone by moonlight, flashlight beam illuminating his pale face as he leaned over the well. Beneath it, someone had scratched "Jonathan M."
The third picture made her gasp. It was the same child from the attic's buried box: the boy whose locket she'd retrieved. He stood at the well, hand extended, eyes too old for his small body. The back was inscribed "Eli Harper, October 1890" in spidery handwriting.
A chill crept up Clara's spine. Three different families, three six-year-old boys, all drawn to the well. Each photograph formed a pattern: a child the same age, the same pose, the same empty stare. The well was a magnet—and a trap.
The Uncanny Portraits
She lifted the next frame with trembling fingers. Inside was a studio portrait: an elderly man in turn-of-the-century suit, eyes cropped from the image, leaving only a hollow space. Handwritten beneath read "Samuel Crowther, 1920." Clara recognized the name from the Crowther journals—the brother who had first built the well.
Flipping rapidly, she found a series of uncanny images:
A woman in 1950s garb, her face blurred, captioned "Maggie Jennings, 1965."
A grainy black-and-white taken in 1988 showed a family locked inside the farmhouse, a little girl's hand pressed against the window, her face streaked with tears and something darker. The back read "Sara J."
Finally, a modern Polaroid: Eli himself, standing by the well last week—eyes distant. Clara's own handwriting on the back: "Autumn 2025."
She sank into a chair, heart pounding. The photos chronicle every generation touched by the well—and none escaped unchanged. More disturbingly, some of those lost children were later photographed as elders, suggesting they never truly left the well's influence: souls bound in time, forever hovering between life and death.
A Name for the Next Clue
Clara rifled through the pile until she found a single unframed snapshot of Eli's face as she'd first arrived—innocent, hopeful. On its reverse was scrawled one final word:
"Marisol"
Her breath caught. The medium's name. Clara recalled Marisol's protective circle, her blessings, her warnings about the house. Had Marisol once been a victim, too? Or perhaps she held the key to unlocking why the well answered only to certain names.
Heart hammering, Clara stacked the photographs into chronological order and snapped a picture with her phone. She texted Marisol: "Need to talk. Urgent. I've found something in the photos—meet me at the farmhouse in twenty."
Night's Gathering
Twenty minutes later, Marisol arrived, raincoat hood pulled low. Clara led her into the living room and poured two cups of tea before revealing the pictures one by one. Marisol's face grew paler with each frame.
When she saw the photo of Sara Jennings pressed against the window, tears welled in her eyes. "That was my great-aunt," Marisol whispered. "She disappeared for a week in 1965, and when she returned, she never spoke of it—just sketched spirals and whispers in her journal."
Clara set down the photo of Samuel Crowther. "And here—he was one of the founders. But his face is always erased in these studio portraits. No one would let me borrow the museum's copy of that original painting."
Marisol nodded. "The well demanded his silence. They removed his face so he couldn't be recognized—erased from memory."
Clara's jaw clenched. "Every victim… every family… erased or hidden. I've photographed all these. They're going straight to the local archive tomorrow."
Marisol took a deep breath. "The name you found—Marisol—on the back of Eli's snapshot. That's not my handwriting."
Clara's heart sank. "Then who wrote it? Someone used your name as a clue. Maybe the spirit wants you involved."
Marisol placed a steady hand on Clara's arm. "I'll help you—but we need one more thing: find the original studio that printed these photographs. They sometimes kept master negatives."
Clara nodded. "I'll do it at first light."
Dawn's Resolve
As Marisol left, Clara gathered the photos into an album. Rain tapped against the windows. The well outside waited silently, its stone rim slick with moisture. Clara knew that with each revelation, the curse tightened its grip—and the next clue lay with the photographer's studio, long shuttered but still standing on Main Street.
She slid the last photo of Eli into a protective sleeve. Tomorrow, she'd unearth every secret the well had swallowed and bind them with salt, iron—and the power of memory itself.
Clara closed the album and set it on the mantel above the fireplace. Whispered laughter drifted through the room, so soft she wondered if she'd imagined it.
"You cannot hide from me…"
She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the album's weight. "We'll see about that," she whispered back.