I shouldn’t have been in that section of the woods.
I set out on a warm Saturday, choosing to go hiking alone and picked an unfamiliar trail. Not far in, I spotted a thin, overgrown trail winding away from the main route. The path looked as if no one used it, but curiosity won.
That was my biggest mistake.
Minutes later, the ground vanished beneath me.
I shrieked as I plummeted.
Upon hitting the bottom, pain ripped through me. I stayed there for a bit, gasping and slowly realizing what had just happened.
I’d fallen into an old well.
Its walls, constructed from ancient stones entangled with moss and roots, closed around me. Above, only a tiny spot of light was visible.
My phone was no longer present.
Most likely destroyed by the fall.
I began yelling for help.
Over and over.
And over again.
Time seemed to stretch endlessly.
No response.
Eventually, sunlight faded from the opening and darkness overtook everything.
A creeping panic seized me.
What if rescuers never arrived?
What if this was where my life ended?
Frantic, I explored the slick stone with my hands, hunting for a notch, a crack, anything to make climbing out possible.
That’s when I touched something completely foreign.
I stopped in my tracks.
Again, I reached out.
Metal.
Chilled metal.
A handle.
My heart thudded violently.
Concealed in the well’s wall was a door.
Hand trembling, I swung the door open.
The centuries-old hinges creaked as it moved.
A stale draft met my face.
I peered into the entrance.
Just as my eyes adjusted to the gloom beyond…
The sight nearly made me faint on the spot.
