In the quiet town of Elmsworth, where the trees whispered secrets and the fog rolled in like a living thing, there were stories that only the oldest residents dared to speak of. They told of the old mill at the edge of the woods, a place long abandoned and covered in ivy, its windows broken and its doors warped with time. Most people dismissed it as just another ruin, but for those who had grown up in the shadow of its crumbling walls, it was something else entirely. It started with a girl named Lila, who was known for her curiosity and her habit of wandering alone through the woods after school. She would often find herself drawn to the mill, not out of fear, but out of an unshakable feeling that something was waiting for her there. Her friends warned her, saying that the mill had been cursed, that it was haunted by the ghosts of those who had disappeared over the years. But Lila never believed in ghosts—until the day she saw the light. It was a cold October afternoon when she first noticed it. A soft glow emanating from the upper window of the mill, flickering like a candle in the wind. The others had said the building was empty, that no one had lived there in decades. Yet here it was, a light in the dark, calling to her. She hesitated, then stepped forward, her boots crunching on the fallen leaves. As she approached, the air grew colder, and the trees seemed to lean closer, their branches whispering in a language she couldn’t understand. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the scent of damp wood. The floor creaked beneath her feet as she climbed the rickety stairs. At the top, the door was slightly ajar, and the light came from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. In the center of the room stood a small table, covered in faded photographs and old letters. Lila picked one up—it was a photo of a young boy, no older than ten, standing in front of the mill, his face half-hidden by shadows. The date on the back read April 12th, 1978. She turned the photo over and found a message written in shaky handwriting: “He’s still here.” The words sent a chill down her spine, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave. Something about the room felt familiar, as if she had been there before, though she had no memory of it. That night, she dreamt of the boy. He stood in the same spot, his eyes hollow and his mouth moving as if speaking to someone unseen. When she woke, her hands were stained with ink, and the photograph had vanished from her pocket. The next morning, she went back to the mill, but the door was locked, and the light had gone out. No one could explain how it had appeared or why it had stopped. Word of Lila’s strange behavior spread through the town. Some said she had gone mad, others claimed she had seen something she wasn’t meant to. But the most curious thing was that every night after that, people began to see the same light from the mill, even though it had been empty for years. Some claimed they heard laughter echoing from within, while others swore they saw figures moving behind the broken windows. The town council decided to investigate, and when they arrived, they found the mill exactly as Lila had described it—dusty, silent, and untouched. But when they opened the door, the air inside was warm, and the faint sound of a child’s voice drifted through the halls. None of them stayed long. They left quickly, refusing to speak of what they had seen. Lila never returned to the mill, but the stories didn’t stop. Over the years, more people began to report strange occurrences around the old building—lights, whispers, the sound of footsteps in an empty house. Some say the boy is still there, waiting for someone to find him. Others believe that the mill is a gateway, a place where memories linger and time folds in on itself. And so, the legend lives on, passed down from one generation to the next. A tale of a place that shouldn’t exist, yet does. A story that begins with curiosity and ends with something far more mysterious. And in the quiet town of Elmsworth, where the trees whisper and the fog rolls in, the question remains: Are we chasing ghosts, or are they chasing us?