In the quiet town of Elmsworth, where fog clung to the streets like a shroud and the old trees whispered secrets to the wind, there was a place known only as the Hollow. It was not marked on any map, nor did it appear in the town’s records, but those who had lived long enough knew its name. The Hollow was said to be a place where time bent, and people simply... vanished. No one knew exactly when the disappearances began. Some said it started with a child, a boy named Eli, who wandered off into the woods one autumn evening. His mother found his shoes by the river, but no sign of him. The town searched for days, but nothing was found. Then came others—farmers, hunters, even the postman. Each time, they left without a word, and each time, their homes remained untouched, their belongings neatly arranged as if they had just stepped out for a moment. The townspeople spoke in hushed tones, avoiding the forest that bordered the town. They told stories of shadows moving where there were none, of voices calling from the trees, and of lights flickering at odd hours. But no one dared to investigate. Not until a new teacher arrived, a woman named Clara, who had come from the city seeking a fresh start. She had heard the tales, but she dismissed them as superstition. “There’s always a reason,” she said, “and I intend to find it.” Clara began her own investigation, asking questions, reading old journals, and visiting the places where the missing had last been seen. She noticed something strange: all the disappearances happened around the same time of year, the first week of October. And every time, the moon was full, casting an eerie silver glow over the town. One night, she ventured into the forest alone, armed with a flashlight and a notebook. The trees loomed tall and silent, their branches twisting like skeletal fingers. As she walked deeper, the air grew colder, and the usual sounds of the forest—the rustling of leaves, the chirping of birds—fell away. It was as if she had stepped into another world. She found a clearing, and in the center stood a circle of stones, weathered and ancient. Strange symbols were carved into the rocks, some of which she recognized from old folklore. A chill ran down her spine. She reached out to touch one of the stones when a whispering voice filled the air. It was not loud, but it was clear, speaking in a language she did not understand. The words felt familiar, as though they had been spoken before, long ago. Suddenly, the ground beneath her shifted, and the trees seemed to lean inward, enclosing her in a tight circle. She stumbled back, but the path behind her had disappeared. Panic set in. She turned in circles, but every direction led back to the same clearing. The whispering voice grew louder, more insistent, and then she saw them—figures, half-formed and flickering, standing at the edges of the clearing. They did not move, but they watched. Clara tried to run, but her legs would not obey. She felt herself being pulled, not physically, but mentally, as if something unseen was drawing her in. The figures moved closer, their forms shifting, becoming more defined. One of them reached out, and for a brief moment, she saw her own reflection in its eyes—except it was not her. It was someone else, someone she didn’t recognize. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the vision faded. She found herself back at the edge of the forest, her breath ragged, her hands trembling. She never spoke of what she had seen, but she knew now that the disappearances were real. And they were not just random events. They were part of something older, something that had been waiting for someone to listen. The next morning, the town awoke to find that Clara was gone. Her classroom was empty, her things untouched, and no one had seen her leave. The only clue was a single symbol carved into the wooden desk—exactly like the ones in the Hollow. And so, the mystery continued. No one ever found her, and no one ever dared to go near the forest again. But sometimes, on the first night of October, when the moon is full and the wind howls through the trees, the townspeople swear they hear whispers in the dark, calling names that are not their own.