You can measure the collective desperation of a town by the quality of its wishing well.
In the case of Whispering Falls, that quality falls somewhere between “don’t drink the water” and “please update your tetanus booster.”
The Legendary Wishing Well of Whispering Falls is tucked between a vape shop and a taxidermy studio.
A laminated sign next to it, warped by weather and time, urges passersby to “Toss a Coin, Make a Wish, and Watch Your Dreams Take Flight!”
I tossed a quarter and watched it sink immediately into three inches of stagnant rainwater, brushing against a carpet of rusted nickels and forgotten gum wrappers. If my dreams took flight, they were headed straight for a crash landing.
According to local legend, the well was “blessed” by an old hermit who lived in the woods and “understood the secret language of water.” More likely he understood the secret language of cheap tourism gimmicks, but I digress.
The well itself was about waist-high, made of crumbling faux-stone, and covered in a tangle of dead ivy that looked less like mystical growth and more like nature itself trying to repossess the place out of embarrassment. At some point someone had tried to paint the stonework with glitter paint to make it “more magical.” It now shimmers in exactly the way mildew does when it’s losing a fight with sunlight.
I waited around for thirty minutes to see if anything mystical happened. A breeze kicked up. A plastic shopping bag tumbled across the parking lot like a lost soul. A guy in a faded “I Believe in Bigfoot” hoodie asked if I had change for a five.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate hope. It’s that when you’re tossing your dreams into a glorified birdbath and expecting cosmic dividends, you might want to recalibrate your expectations.
Sadly, the Wishing Well of Whispering Falls doesn’t grant wishes. It collects disappointment, one coin at a time.