“The Woman In the Well” is one of those scary campfire stories that leaves you questioning whether it’s real or not.
A group of campers at Willow Creek sleepaway camp gathers around a crackling fire for a night of marshmallows and scary campfire stories. The annual trek into the woods promises adventure, but the arrival of a new counselor, Ethan, brings an unsettling edge to the tradition.
His haunting campfire story of a woman wronged long ago sets the mood, leaving the campers on edge as shadows dance beyond the firelight and the forest grows unnervingly quiet.
As the night unfolds, an eerie tension settles over the camp, and by morning, something is terribly wrong.
The summer sun was relentless as our group trudged through the dense forest. It was my first time at Camp Willow Creek, a sleepaway camp in a remote valley, and the annual overnight trek into the woods was the highlight of the season.
Our group of twelve campers, led by two counselors—veteran Mrs. Mayer and the new guy, Ethan—set up camp in a clearing surrounded by tall trees. We pitched our tents in a loose circle, kindled a fire, and settled in for a night of roasted hot dogs, marshmallows, and the inevitable scary campfire stories.
As the sky darkened, the fire cast flickering shadows across our faces. We laughed and teased each other, the younger kids clutching their sticks of sizzling marshmallows a little too tightly.
Ethan, the new counselor, was different from the others. He had a sharp edge to his grin, and his eyes seemed to glint with something unspoken. When it was his turn to tell a story, he leaned forward, holding his flashlight beneath his chin, the beam carving his face into a mask of light and shadow.
“Let me tell you about the woman in the well,” he began, his voice low and deliberate.
“A century ago, there was a farm not far from here, owned by a cruel and brutal man. His wife was kind but frail, and he despised her for it. One night, in a fit of rage, he dragged her to the old stone well behind their barn. He didn’t even give her a chance to scream before he threw her in.”
Ethan’s voice dropped lower.
“They found her body weeks later, bloated and broken at the bottom of the well. Her fingertips were gone, just bone jutting out from the flesh. At first, they thought she’d clawed at the walls, desperate to climb out. But the stone was smooth—no blood, no scratches. Not a drop. Some said the rain washed it away. Others…” He paused, his eyes sweeping over us. “Others said she was so starved, so desperate, that she gnawed her own fingers to the bone, eating her own flesh to survive.”
I shivered, pulling my knees to my chest. Nathan, the quiet kid in our group, sat across from me. His eyes were wide but unblinking, like he was trying to prove he wasn’t scared.
Ethan leaned closer, the flashlight casting grotesque shadows across his face. “They buried her, but that wasn’t the end. The farm burned down not long after, and the husband was never seen again. Now, they say something lingers in these woods. A creature, silent as death, its fingers gleaming like wet bones. It moves through the shadows, watching, waiting. And when it finds you…”
He paused, letting the silence stretch until it was unbearable. Then he lunged forward, pointing into the darkness behind us, and shouted,
“Watch out!”
I nearly lost it. I wasn’t alone in my fright. Half the group jumped, some dropping their marshmallows into the fire. A few of the younger kids burst into tears, and even Nathan flinched, though he tried to hide it.
Ethan threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, come on, don’t be babies,” he said, waving a hand. “It’s just a story. Put out the fire and get to your tents.”
We obeyed, but the fear lingered like a weight in my chest. As I crawled into my tent, I glanced at Nathan’s tent across the clearing. He was already inside, his silhouette motionless against the canvas.
I zipped my tent shut, but sleep wouldn’t come. Every snap of a twig outside made my heart race, and I kept picturing those gleaming bone fingers reaching through the darkness.
The next morning, I woke to the sound of Mrs. Mayer’s voice, sharp and frantic. I unzipped my tent and stepped out into the gray dawn. She was pacing near the fire pit, her phone pressed to her ear.
“Yes, we need help now,” she said, her voice trembling. “One of the kids is… something’s wrong.”
Others stood by Nathan’s tent, pale and anxious.
As the rest of us stumbled out of our tents, Mrs. Mayer and another counselor ordered us to break down camp.
“Pack up, now!” she shouted.
We dismantled tents and stuffed sleeping bags, but no one touched Nathan’s tent.
I caught snippets of the counselors’ hushed conversations—words like “no blood” and “impossible”—but they waved us away when we got too close.
I looked around, but I couldn’t see Ethan anywhere.
The camp staff arrived soon after, their faces grim as they approached Nathan’s tent. Mrs. Mayer ushered us down the trail toward the cabins, but I couldn’t help looking back.
The staff unzipped Nathan’s tent, and one of them staggered back, covering their mouth. I only caught a peek before Mrs. Mayer grabbed my shoulder and pushed me forward, but it was enough.
Nathan was slumped inside, his skin pale and puckered, like he’d been submerged in water for days. His hands lay limp in his lap, the flesh on his fingertips gone, leaving only glistening, bone-white stubs that shimmered in the morning light.
We were sent home the next day. Our parents whispered about a wild animal attack, but their words felt hollow.
If it was an animal, why was Nathan’s tent undisturbed, the fabric pristine, no tears or claw marks? Why was there no blood, no sign of a struggle? And why did his body look like it had been drowned, when the nearest water was a stream half a mile away? Most chilling of all, why had no one heard a sound—not a scream, not a rustle—when whatever took Nathan’s fingers came in the night?
Back home, I couldn’t shake the image of those bone-white fingers. At night, I lay awake, listening to the creak of my house, the hum of the world outside.
One night, I woke to a faint tapping at my window, rhythmic and deliberate, like fingernails on glass. I didn’t dare look. But in the silence, I swore I heard a whisper, soft and wet, like a voice rising from the bottom of a well.
Is it coming for me?
