In the quiet village of Elmhollow, where the fog clung to the hills like a shroud and the wind whispered secrets through the trees, there was an old legend that few dared to speak of. It was said that centuries ago, a group of villagers had made a pact with a being from beyond the veil of the world, in exchange for prosperity and protection. The price, however, was never fully understood—only that it came with a curse that would haunt their descendants for generations. No one knew exactly when the first signs appeared. Some claimed it began with the sudden death of the village elder, who was found seated at his desk, eyes wide open, a single red thread tied around his wrist. Others spoke of strange dreams, filled with whispers and shadows that moved when no one was there. But it wasn’t until the children started disappearing that the villagers took notice. The disappearances were always at night, and each time, the only clue left behind was a small carved wooden figurine, no larger than a hand, placed on the windowsill of the missing child’s room. The figures were crude, almost childlike in design, with hollow eyes and jagged mouths. They were carved from a type of wood that no one could identify, and they seemed to absorb the light around them, leaving dark spots on the walls where they were placed. A historian named Elias Vane, known for his obsession with local folklore, began to investigate the phenomenon. He spent weeks poring over ancient records, speaking to the oldest residents, and even visiting the ruins of the old chapel where the original pact was supposedly made. What he found was unsettling. The chapel had been abandoned for centuries, its stone walls covered in ivy and its stained glass shattered. Yet, within its crumbling altar, he discovered a set of carvings that matched the wooden figurines exactly. Elias believed the curse was tied to the concept of "balance." According to the old texts, the villagers had offered something in return for their prosperity: a part of their future. The being they had bargained with, which they called “The Watcher,” had taken the promise of the firstborn of each family. Over time, the curse had shifted, and instead of taking lives, it demanded something else—something intangible. A memory, a dream, or a fragment of the soul. One by one, the villagers began to forget. Not entirely, but in ways that felt wrong. People would wake up with a sense of emptiness, as if a piece of themselves had been taken. Some forgot their own names, others lost the ability to recognize their loved ones. The children who had disappeared were not gone, but trapped in a place between worlds, their minds slowly unraveling. Elias tried to find a way to break the curse, consulting old rituals and searching for a counter-spell. He found a journal hidden beneath the floorboards of the chapel, written in a language that no one could fully understand. The final entry was a warning: *“Do not seek to undo what has been done. The balance must be maintained, or all will be lost.”* As the days passed, the villagers became more withdrawn, their eyes distant, their voices hushed. Elias himself began to feel the effects. He would wake up with no memory of how he got to his bed, or what he had done the previous day. One night, he found a wooden figurine on his windowsill, identical to the others. When he touched it, a coldness spread through his fingers, and for a brief moment, he saw a glimpse of a child standing in the fog outside his window, watching him. He never finished his research. The next morning, he was found in the chapel, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his eyes open, a faint smile on his lips. His hands were clasped around a wooden figurine, and his journal lay beside him, pages blank except for a single line written in his own handwriting: *“I remember now.”* The villagers, though still haunted by the curse, stopped searching for answers. They built a new chapel, this time without any promises. The fog remained, and the wind still whispered, but the children no longer vanished. Or so they believed. But sometimes, when the moon was full and the sky was clear, you could see a figure standing at the edge of the forest, watching the village with hollow eyes. And if you listened closely, you might hear the soft sound of a child's laughter, echoing through the trees, just before the wind dies down and everything goes silent.