Clara stood still, her breath shallow, the name Elias Dorne echoing through her mind like an ancient chant. The light from the oil lamp flickered, casting long, trembling shadows on the crumbling stone walls. In that dim silence, she finally whispered, "Elias Dorne… Why does that name sound like it's been with me all along?"
Elias watched her with quiet patience. He was no longer just the enigmatic Keeper of the Well—he was part of a lineage, part of a truth that had long been buried beneath layers of secrecy and fear. "Because the name is in your blood," he said softly. "It's in your family's history, though obscured, rewritten, and forgotten."
Clara's hands clenched into fists at her sides. "Tell me everything. Now."
Elias nodded. He moved toward the far side of the chamber and brushed his hand against a loose brick. With a heavy groan, the wall gave way to reveal a passage—a narrow, spiraling staircase descending into darkness.
"You've walked the surface of Hollow's End long enough," he said. "It's time you saw what lies beneath."
They descended in silence. The walls were tight, and the air grew colder with each step. The only sound was the soft scuff of Clara's boots and the occasional creak of the old stone beneath them. At last, they emerged into a circular room far beneath the earth. Ancient carvings lined the walls—symbols Clara had seen before in fleeting dreams.
"What is this place?" she breathed.
"A vault," Elias replied. "A hidden library. Every generation of Keepers has recorded their memories here. Each inscription is a moment—a truth too dangerous to exist above ground."
Clara moved to the wall and ran her fingers over the markings. One set caught her attention. It depicted a woman with wild curls and eyes just like her own, standing over a well, her hands raised as if invoking something.
"My grandmother?" Clara asked.
"No," Elias said. "Your great-grandmother. Agnes Bennett. She was one of the last to complete the full Trial. She passed, but the cost…"
He trailed off.
Clara turned to him. "What cost?"
Elias hesitated before speaking. "She bound the Well. Sealed it, using blood and memory. She did it to protect your family—but in doing so, she lost her mind. The village branded her mad. They said she drowned in the Well, but the truth is… she became part of it."
Clara's stomach churned. The idea of her ancestor sacrificing everything—sanity, identity—for a truth no one else could bear, stirred something primal in her. Rage? Grief? Both.
"I need to see her," she said. "I need to know what she knew."
"That's not easily done," Elias warned. "The echoes that remain—memories like hers—are fragmented. But sometimes, if the blood calls loud enough, they answer."
Clara looked back to the carvings. "Then let's call her."
Elias moved to a worn stone plinth in the center of the room. He produced a dagger from within his coat—old, silver, etched with the same symbols from the wall. "Only your blood can open the way."
Clara took the dagger without hesitation. She made a shallow cut across her palm, then pressed her hand to the center of the plinth.
The room trembled.
Wind—though there was no source—whirled through the chamber. The carvings began to glow faintly, lines of light snaking through the stone like veins awakening. And then she heard it.
A voice.
Faint. Distant. Singing.
"Down by the hollow, where whispers wake,
Bury your truth for silence's sake…"
Clara gasped. It was the lullaby. The one her mother used to hum. The same one she'd heard in her dreams.
A glowing mist pooled from the walls, collecting into the form of a woman—older, but with features unmistakably similar to Clara's. Her eyes shimmered with a strange mix of sadness and strength.
"Agnes," Elias whispered. "She's here."
The apparition turned to Clara, and for a moment, neither spoke. Then Agnes's voice, soft and cracked like old parchment, broke the silence.
"You've come far, child. Too far, perhaps."
Clara stepped forward. "I need to understand what happened. What did you see in the Well?"
Agnes shook her head. "It's not what I saw. It's what I remembered. The Well doesn't show the future. It shows the truth we try to bury. And the Bennett line… we've buried too much."
Clara's hands trembled. "What did we bury?"
"Your great-great-grandfather, Josiah. He opened the Well to steal its power. He believed it could grant visions, insight into death and beyond. But he unleashed something—something that shouldn't have been seen. He thought he could control it. Instead, it consumed him."
Clara turned to Elias, who looked grim.
"We've kept that truth hidden," he admitted. "We told the village that Josiah disappeared during a storm. In reality, he was taken—mind, soul, everything—by the entity in the Well."
Agnes's form flickered. "It speaks. Always. In riddles. In dreams. If you listen too long, you forget who you are. That's why I sealed it."
"And that's why the dreams are getting worse," Clara whispered. "It's waking up again, isn't it?"
Elias nodded. "You are the first in generations to carry both the blood and the memory. It's calling to you."
Clara turned back to the glowing echo of her ancestor. "How do I stop it?"
Agnes smiled sadly. "You must remember what we chose to forget."
The light burst outward. The vision collapsed. Clara fell to her knees, breath ragged, heart racing.
Elias crouched beside her. "Are you alright?"
She nodded slowly. "I saw it. I saw him. Josiah… He wasn't just obsessed. He was possessed. Something from the Well took him."
"Then it's begun again," Elias said gravely. "The Trials will grow darker. You must be ready."
Clara stood, her resolve hardening like ice. "Then let's not waste time."
But as they made their way back to the staircase, a sound stopped them—a laugh. Childlike, yet hollow. It came from the darkness behind them, echoing from the vault.
Clara turned. "Did you hear that?"
Elias was already drawing a line of salt from a pouch at his belt, his face pale. "It's too soon. The seals are breaking faster than expected."
And from the shadows beyond the carvings, something watched them. Not quite a figure. Not quite human. Just… hunger.