The Well in the Walls

I wanted to love this more than I did. The premise—sound archivist returns to a salt-bitten library—is tasty, and the imagery hits the moodboard for coastal horror. But man, the "off-limits sub-basement" and the too-helpful (or too-cryptic) Dettmer are tired tropes at this point. You get the feeling of the story mechanically checking boxes: creepy signboard? check. creaky reel-to-reel? check. ominous warning ignored? check. The janitor’s beeswax and analog recorder are cool props but feel underused; they’re waved at like props in a pantomime instead of integrated into the creepy logic of the place. Also, the way the building supposedly "wears her name" is evocative on the first read but becomes vague when you start thinking about stakes—what does it actually want, and why Nora specifically? Pacing leans slow-to-ambiguous rather than deliberate; by the time the drained reservoir appears, I wanted a stronger payoff. Still, the writing has talent—just wish the plot didn’t rely so heavily on familiar beats.

This story crawled under my skin in the best possible way. From the opening bus scene—"the bus coughed Nora into the salt-bitten wind"—I was hooked. The author nails atmosphere: Graymouth feels lived-in and eaten by the sea, and that creepy signage detail (G A YMOUTH LI A Y) made me laugh and shiver at the same time. Nora is a real person on the page—nervous, practical, and brave in a way that’s quietly heartbreaking. I loved the small touches, like the janitor’s beeswax and the nicotine-colored reel-to-reel; tactile details that make the library itself a character. The sub-basement warning and Dettmer’s too-bright smile are perfect set-ups for the slow, sound-based dread that follows. The scene where Nora listens to the tapes and realizes something in the building wears her name is genuinely chilling. If you like subtle, psychological horror that leans on sound and memory rather than jump-scares, this is for you. 😰

There are several striking images in The Well in the Walls—the chained letters of the town sign, the linoleum that gives underfoot like a wet sponge, the reel-to-reel described as "the color of nicotine"—and the author clearly breathes life into a haunted, coastal setting. However, the story struggles with internal logic and emotional payoff. Nora’s role as an archivist is an excellent idea (sound as archive of identity), but her motivations are thinly sketched: why does she return after being rid of wherever she came from? What personal stakes tie her to the library beyond professional duty? The instructions about heaters, the generator in the alley, and the off-limits sub-basement feel like convenient plot devices to create constraints rather than organically emerging rules. Similarly, the supernatural element—the thing that "listens back and wears her name"—is evocative but underexplored; the story hints at identity theft by place but never gives us a satisfying mechanism, emotional connection, or escalation that makes the threat feel inevitable rather than atmospheric. I appreciate the restraint and the sound-focused imagery, but I wanted either a clearer psychological read (more about Nora’s past) or a tighter supernatural logic. As it stands, it’s atmospheric but emotionally unfinished.

Short and sweet: I loved the mood. The library description—shelves like ribs of a beached whale, the film of sea crust on windows—stays with you. Nora feels believable and the details (the gum-line coffee taste, the brass keyring, the wobbling table) sell every scene. Favorite moment: Dettmer’s warning and that stairwell that seems to want you to fall in. The story’s obsession with sound (reel-to-reel, beeswax, the building that listens) made it feel original within coastal-horror tropes. Would read more from this author. 📼

As someone fascinated by form, I appreciated how The Well in the Walls uses sound as both motif and mechanic. The writing consistently foregrounds auditory sensation—the "quiet, like something breathing behind the walls," the hum of dry pipes, the analog click of a reel-to-reel machine—and this creates a cumulative claustrophobia that’s rare in location-driven horror. Structurally, the narrative is tidy: an inciting return to Graymouth, a local authority figure in Dettmer, explicit rules (don’t run both heaters, sub-basement off-limits), and escalation into the drained reservoir. Those rules operate like the creaky heuristics of a noir, only to be broken or reinterpreted with unnerving consequences. I also liked how the author resists overt explanation; the archive work—digitizing tapes, labeling boxes—provides a credible reason for Nora to stay and an intimate way for the supernatural to infiltrate identity (the idea of something that "wears her name" is elegantly creepy). If anything, I wanted a touch more on the town’s history—why the reservoir drained, who really locked up the library—but that restraint also keeps the story firmly in psychological territory rather than pulpy myth-making. A measured, haunting piece with excellent sensory control.