The Voices in the Wind

The wind never stopped in Marrow’s Hollow. It howled through the cracked earth and whispered between the slats of old wooden houses. It carried dust, the scent of dry rot, and, if you listened closely, something else—something not meant to be heard.

Lena had always heard the voices. Soft at first, like the rustling of dead leaves. Then, as she got older, they became clearer. They called her name, murmured fragments of words, pleaded. No one else seemed to notice, or if they did, they pretended not to.

Her grandmother had once warned her, before she passed. “You stay away from that well, girl. Nothing good ever came from listening to ghosts.”

The well sat at the edge of town, half-buried by sand and time. Wooden planks covered its mouth, nailed down in a crude ‘X’. A “Keep Out” sign, weathered and barely legible, stood beside it like a feeble guardian. But still, the wind found its way through the cracks, carrying voices that begged to be heard.

One evening, as the sun bled into the horizon, Lena couldn’t resist any longer. She had to know the truth.

She pried the planks loose with trembling hands. The moment the last board fell away, the wind surged—fierce and angry. A chorus of whispers rushed up from the darkness, urgent and insistent. Remember us. Remember what they did.

Lena peered over the edge. The well was deeper than she had imagined, its bottom lost in shadow. She saw something gleaming—was it water? No, it was something else. Something wrong.

Then she saw the bones.

Not just one set. Dozens, maybe more. Skulls grinning up at her from the abyss. Fragments of cloth still clinging to brittle ribs. Bracelets. Rings. Shoes too small for grown feet.

A gust of wind slammed into her back, nearly knocking her forward. She staggered, heart hammering, bile rising in her throat. She understood now. The town had not survived by chance. Long ago, when the drought had stolen everything—crops, cattle, even children—the elders had found another way. They had fed the well.

The voices swirled around her, rising into a wail. Tell them. Make them pay. We are still here. We are still—

“Lena?”

She whirled around. Sheriff Mallory stood behind her, face shadowed beneath the brim of his hat. Behind him, others gathered—silent, watching. She recognized them all. Her neighbors. The butcher. Her own mother. Their faces were blank, expectant.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” Mallory said.

Lena took a step back. “You knew. All of you.”

Her mother’s lips parted. She looked almost sad. “It’s how we survive.”

A sudden weightlessness filled Lena’s chest. The wind roared, louder than ever, lifting the dust around her. They weren’t going to let her leave.

She turned, ready to run—but hands grabbed her arms, pulling her back. The wind screamed.

Then she was falling.

The darkness swallowed her whole.

---

Marrow’s Hollow never spoke of Lena again. But when the wind howled through the town, rattling windows and slipping under doors, some swore they heard something more than the rustling of sand. A voice. A whisper. Calling a new name.