The town of Elmsworth had always been quiet, nestled between thick woods and a river that whispered secrets to those who listened closely. It was the kind of place where time moved slower, where neighbors knew each other by name and the local bakery sold cinnamon rolls so good they made you forget your own problems. But beneath its serene surface, something strange had been happening. It began with the children. At first, it was just one or two missing for a day or two, their parents calling the police and then giving up when they returned home, confused but unharmed. Then, the disappearances became more frequent. A boy vanished after walking home from school, a girl disappeared during a hike, and an elderly man never came back from his morning walk. No signs of struggle, no footprints leading away, no clues—just empty spaces where people had once stood. The townspeople tried to ignore it, but the unease grew. Some said the forest was cursed, others claimed the river had a will of its own. A few even whispered about the old mill at the edge of town, a crumbling structure that had been abandoned for decades. No one dared to go near it, not even the bravest kids. One evening, a journalist named Clara Wren arrived in Elmsworth, drawn by the rumors. She had spent years chasing stories, but this one felt different. The locals were hesitant to talk, their eyes darting toward the trees as if something might be listening. She stayed in the only inn, a creaky building with peeling wallpaper and a fireplace that never quite warmed the room. That night, she heard a sound like a child’s laughter echoing through the halls, though no one else seemed to hear it. The next morning, she interviewed the mayor, who avoided her questions and muttered about “unexplainable things.” She spoke to a retired teacher, who told her about a legend passed down through generations: the “Hollow Door.” According to the story, there was a hidden door in the woods that led to a place between worlds. Those who entered never returned, their bodies never found, but sometimes their belongings would appear in the town square days later, untouched by time. Clara decided to investigate. She packed a flashlight, a notebook, and a small camera, and ventured into the forest. The trees loomed tall and silent, their branches weaving a canopy that blocked out the sun. The air was thick with the scent of moss and damp earth. She followed a trail that seemed to lead nowhere, until she stumbled upon a clearing. In the center stood a weathered wooden door, half-buried in the dirt, its hinges rusted and groaning as if it had been waiting for someone to come. She hesitated, heart pounding. The door was slightly ajar, as if someone had just left. She stepped closer, and the temperature dropped. A chill ran down her spine, but she pushed forward. Inside, the air was still and heavy, the silence pressing against her ears. The room beyond was dark, lit only by a faint blue glow coming from the far wall. There were no walls, no floor—just an endless void, swirling with shadows and light. As she reached out, the door slammed shut behind her. The glow intensified, and she saw figures moving within the darkness—shapes that looked human but not quite. They turned toward her, their faces obscured, their eyes glowing faintly. She tried to run, but the ground beneath her gave way, and she fell into the void. When she awoke, she was back at the inn, the morning sun streaming through the window. Her notebook was open, filled with scribbles she didn’t remember writing. The camera showed only static. She asked the innkeeper if anyone had seen her leave the room, but he shook his head, confused. She checked the door in the forest, but it was gone, as if it had never existed. The disappearances continued. More people vanished, and the town grew quieter, more cautious. Clara wrote her article, describing what she had seen, but no one believed her. She left Elmsworth soon after, but the town never forgot her. And some say, on certain nights, when the wind howls through the trees and the river runs deep, you can still hear the faint echo of a door opening, and the whisper of those who never came back.