The town of Hollowbrook had always been quiet, nestled deep in the forest where the trees grew too close and the sky seemed to dim before noon. It was a place that few ever visited, and even fewer stayed. The locals spoke of it in hushed tones, as if the very air carried some unspoken warning. But for those who did come, they often left with more questions than answers. It began with the children. One by one, they vanished—never seen again, no signs of struggle, no footprints leading away from their homes. Parents would search for hours, calling out into the woods, but the silence was absolute. The police arrived, asked questions, and then left just as quickly as they came. They couldn’t explain it, and they didn’t want to try. Then the adults started disappearing. A baker who always closed his shop at the same time, gone without a trace. A teacher who had just finished her class, never seen after that. Each disappearance followed the same pattern: no clues, no evidence, just an empty space where someone had once been. The townspeople tried to carry on, but the fear crept in like a slow poison. They stopped going out at night, locked their doors, and whispered about the old legend of the Hollowbrook Forest. It was said that the forest had a will of its own, and that it took what it wanted. Some believed it was the work of a spirit, others thought it was something older, something that had been waiting for centuries. A journalist named Clara arrived in town, drawn by the strange stories and the growing unease. She had heard of similar cases in other places, but none as consistent or as inexplicable. She set up camp in the local inn, which had been abandoned for years but still stood, its windows dark and its door creaking when opened. She interviewed the townspeople, asking questions that made them uncomfortable. They spoke of shadows that moved when there was no wind, of voices that echoed through the trees, of dreams that felt too real. No one could agree on what was happening, but all of them agreed on one thing: something was wrong. One evening, Clara decided to go into the forest herself. She had a flashlight, a notebook, and a sense of purpose that bordered on recklessness. The trees loomed around her, their branches entwined like fingers reaching for the sky. The deeper she went, the more the light from her flashlight seemed to fade, as if the forest itself was swallowing it. She found a clearing, and in the center stood a stone circle, worn smooth by time. There were symbols carved into the stones, ones she didn’t recognize, but they felt familiar, as if she had seen them before in a dream. She reached out to touch one, and suddenly the air around her shifted. It was colder, heavier. The silence wasn't just absence of sound—it was a presence. She heard a voice, soft and distant, calling her name. She turned, but there was no one there. Then she saw the children. They were standing at the edge of the clearing, watching her. Their eyes were wide, their faces pale. One of them stepped forward, holding out a hand as if to beckon her. Clara froze. She wanted to run, but her legs wouldn’t move. The child smiled, and in that moment, she understood. The disappearances weren’t random. They weren’t taken. They were chosen. The forest had a way of luring people in, of offering something they couldn’t refuse. When she finally woke up, she was back at the inn, the sun rising over the trees. Her notebook was open, filled with scribbles she didn’t remember writing. She tried to recall what had happened, but the details were fuzzy, like a half-remembered dream. The next day, the town was different. The people moved with more urgency, their eyes darting toward the forest. And then, one by one, they began to vanish again. Clara left Hollowbrook that night, but she never told anyone what she had seen. She kept the journal, and sometimes, when the wind was just right, she could hear the whispers in the trees. She wondered if the forest had let her go, or if she was simply waiting for the next call.