The Evil Well of Curran’s Lane, Ballykillduff

They say Curran’s Lane was cursed long before the road was ever paved, before the hedges were trimmed back, before the last O’hanigan fled the place in the dead of night. But the worst of it—the real heart of the terror—was the old well.

It sat crooked and moss-choked at the bend in the lane, half-swallowed by thorns and briars. If you passed it by day, you’d hardly notice it. But if you found yourself near it at night, God help you.

Locals whispered about it in the pubs of Ballykillduff. They said the well was bottomless. That once, a farmer tried to fill it in after his prize sheep vanished without a trace. He poured in rubble, bricks, even a rusted bedframe. Nothing ever made a sound when it dropped. Just a hollow, greedy silence.

Old Mrs. Gildea, who lived closest to the well, swore blind that she heard voices coming from it in the small hours—whispers in a language no one spoke anymore, not even the priests. “It’s not water down there,” she’d mutter, crossing herself. “It’s something else. Something watching.”

Children dared each other to go near it. None ever went twice. Young Michael Kelly lost his dog near the well. “Toby just stopped,” he said, pale as ash. “He looked at it, started whining, then bolted. Straight in. Never barked again.” His parents found his shoes left behind, pointing toward the edge.

Then came the incident with Declan O’hanigan—the last of the family. He’d returned from England, claiming he didn’t believe in “local superstitions.” Said he’d camp by the well to prove it was nonsense. Laughed all the way to the tent he pitched just yards from it.

He was never seen again. Only the tent remained, shredded like it had gone through a thresher. His torch lay outside the well’s lip, still glowing, its beam pointed straight down into blackness.

After that, no one went near it. Not the county council, not the clergy. A hedge grew over the path, thick as a curse. Birds wouldn’t perch on it. The air turned colder near it, even in midsummer.

Now, the well waits. You can feel it when you walk past on the long way to the village. It’s patient, listening. Some say it feeds on fear. Others say it remembers.

Whatever it is, if you ever find yourself near Curran’s Lane at twilight—don’t look into the well.

And above all else—don’t listen if it whispers your name.