The ink had long dried on the pages of the Bennett family's history, but not even the most carefully penned records could prepare Clara for what was written in blood and memory beneath the well.
She stood in the chamber, the echo of the ancient bell still vibrating through the stone walls. The Keeper's Mark burned softly on her palm—a sigil shaped like an open eye cradled by roots, pulsing faintly with a life of its own. Clara could feel it in her bloodstream now, a quiet thrum that connected her to something ancient, something watching.
"I saw it," she whispered, barely able to speak the truth aloud. "The same mark in the book… It was carved into her skin."
Evan, pale and shaken, nodded. "Your grandmother had it too. But she never talked about it—not even on her worst nights."
The room around them was lined with more of those cryptic symbols etched into the walls, the ceiling, even the floor. The smell of damp stone was laced with old blood and burning sage. The candlelight flickered over shapes that twisted when Clara wasn't looking directly at them.
"Why did it choose me?" Clara muttered, gripping her wrist.
"Because you listened," said a voice.
Both Clara and Evan spun toward the far corner of the chamber. From the shadows, an old man stepped into the light. His eyes were clouded, but sharp, and his robes were dusted with soil and ash. He carried no torch, and yet his presence seemed to cast a glow of its own.
"I'm sorry I startled you," the man said, voice rasping like wind through dry leaves. "I've been waiting for you, Clara."
"You know my name?"
"I know all the names of the Chosen. You are the Listener. And I—" He placed a hand on his chest. "—am the Historian."
Evan whispered under his breath, "The same Historian your grandma mentioned?"
Clara took a step forward. "Are you… alive? Or are you something else?"
The Historian gave a dry chuckle. "A bit of both, perhaps. I've walked between this world and the one below for many lifetimes. But I am real, and I am here because your time has come."
Clara shivered. The Mark on her hand pulsed again.
"I don't want this," she said. "I didn't ask for any of it."
"None of the Chosen ever do," the Historian replied, looking at her with something like pity. "But the Well doesn't make mistakes. It calls those who are meant to listen. And you, Clara Bennett, are the last in a long, broken line."
He beckoned them to follow.
As they walked deeper into the catacombs, the walls opened into what looked like a subterranean library. Shelves made of petrified wood curved around the chamber, crammed with books bound in leather, cloth, and stranger materials Clara couldn't identify.
"These are the Records of the Well," the Historian said, gesturing at the tomes. "Every vision, every whisper, every sacrifice recorded here."
"Sacrifice?" Clara asked.
The Historian stopped before a stone basin in the center of the chamber. "To protect the living, a Keeper must give a piece of themselves. The Well feeds on memory, pain… and blood."
He pointed toward the basin, where dark stains formed a ring at the bottom. "Your grandmother gave her sight. Your great-grandmother gave her voice. The Well takes what it needs."
Clara's throat went dry. "And what will it take from me?"
"That depends," the Historian said softly, "on what you're willing to give."
Evan stepped between them. "No. There's got to be another way. She's not going to bleed for some ancient curse."
But Clara couldn't move. Something inside her resonated with the basin, the books, the walls. The whispers that had haunted her dreams were louder now, clearer—voices from generations past, warning, pleading, guiding.
The Historian turned to a shelf and pulled out a small, blackened book. "Your grandmother's ledger. Her final entries spoke of regret… and of you."
Clara took the book with trembling hands and opened it.
July 17: The voices have returned. Louder. Clara was only six when she first heard them. I should have told her then. But I was afraid she would become like me.
August 5: I dreamt of the Well. The woman in white spoke your name, Clara. She said the Listener must awaken, or all is lost.
September 13: If you are reading this, my sweet girl, know that I loved you fiercely. And I am sorry.
Tears blurred her vision. "She knew… She always knew."
The Historian laid a hand on Clara's shoulder. "Your family has been guarding the Well for centuries. But the seal is weakening. The Hollow wants out."
Clara looked up sharply. "The Hollow?"
"The entity beneath the Well," he said. "A creature of endless hunger, sealed long ago by the first Keeper. Every Listener has heard its voice. Some fall to it. Some resist. But it grows stronger with each generation."
Clara felt like the floor had dropped beneath her. "And if I fail?"
"Then it escapes."
The chamber grew colder. Shadows curled around the edges of her vision. She felt the Mark throb again—faster now, insistent.
Evan grabbed her hand. "Clara, don't do anything stupid."
But Clara was already moving. She stepped to the basin, her grandmother's book clutched in one hand, the other hovering over the edge.
"I have to know," she whispered. "I have to see what they saw."
She let a drop of her blood fall into the basin.
The chamber exploded in sound.
Wind screamed through the catacombs. The walls trembled. The books flew open, pages fluttering like wings. And the shadows… the shadows peeled away from the walls and surged toward her.
Clara stood still, eyes wide, the Mark blazing on her palm. Visions flashed before her—images of her ancestors, the Well swallowing lives, the Hollow's countless eyes opening in the dark.
She screamed.
And then it stopped.
The basin was empty again. The chamber silent. Evan was on the ground, shielding his head. The Historian stood unmoved.
"You saw it," he said gravely.
Clara fell to her knees. "It wants me."
"Yes," the Historian said. "But it's not just you. It wants the world."