In the quiet town of Eldergrove, nestled between two forgotten mountains, there was an old bridge that no one dared to cross after sunset. It had stood for over a century, its wooden planks warped and splintered, held together by rusted iron nails that groaned in the wind. Locals whispered about the disappearances—people who had walked across the bridge and never returned. Some said they were taken by the wind, others by something older than the bridge itself. No one knew exactly when it started. The first disappearance was a farmer named Eli, who went missing while checking his fields near the river. His wife found his boots by the water’s edge, but nothing else. No body, no trace. The town doctor suggested he might have fallen into the river, but the current was too weak for such a thing. People began to avoid the area, especially after dark. Then came the children. A group of kids playing near the bridge one summer evening vanished without a sound. Their backpacks were left behind, filled with snacks and toys. No signs of struggle, no footprints leading away. The search party found nothing but silence. The town council ordered the bridge to be closed, but the locals kept their distance anyway, as if the place itself had a will of its own. A new family moved into Eldergrove, a young couple with a child named Lila. They were drawn by the town’s charm and the promise of a peaceful life. But soon, Lila began having nightmares about the bridge. She would wake up screaming, clutching her blanket, whispering things like "they’re waiting for me." Her parents dismissed it as childhood fears, but the dreams grew worse. One night, she disappeared from her room, leaving behind a trail of muddy footprints leading to the window. The town was on edge. The police searched the woods, the river, even the abandoned mill on the other side of the bridge. Nothing. Then, one morning, a note was found pinned to the bridge: "They don’t want you to see what’s on the other side." That night, a group of teenagers decided to investigate. They brought flashlights, ropes, and a sense of reckless curiosity. As they crossed the bridge, the air grew colder, and the sounds of the forest faded into an unnatural stillness. At the center of the bridge, they saw a faint glow, like light coming from beneath the wood. The youngest among them, a boy named Tom, stepped forward, his flashlight trembling in his hand. As he reached out, the bridge seemed to shift. The planks groaned, and the glow intensified. Suddenly, the ground beneath them gave way. Tom fell, but not into the river. He vanished into the darkness below, swallowed by the bridge itself. The others screamed, but no one could find him. When they ran back to town, they told the story, but no one believed them. Days passed, and more people began to disappear. A baker, a librarian, a schoolteacher. Each time, they were last seen near the bridge. The townspeople stopped going outside after dark, and the bridge became a forbidden place. But the disappearances didn’t stop. Instead, they began to follow a pattern. Every seven days, someone would vanish, always at the same hour, always from the same spot. One day, a journalist arrived in Eldergrove, determined to uncover the truth. He spoke to the townsfolk, interviewed survivors, and examined the bridge. He noticed something strange—the wood had no knots, no grain, as if it had been carved from a single piece of stone. When he tried to touch it, his fingers felt cold, even though the weather was warm. He spent nights by the bridge, watching and waiting. On the seventh night, he saw it—a figure standing on the far end, cloaked in shadow. It didn’t move, didn’t speak, just watched. When the journalist approached, the figure turned, revealing a face that was both familiar and unknown. It looked like him, but younger, and eyes that stared straight through him. The next morning, the journalist was gone. Only his notebook remained, filled with scribbles and sketches of the bridge. One page read: "It’s not a place. It’s a door. And we’ve been walking through it all along." Now, the bridge stands empty, untouched by time. Some say it appears only when the moon is full, and those who cross it are never seen again. Others believe it’s a test, a trial for those who seek the unknown. But no one dares to find out. And yet, every seven days, the town feels a strange pull, as if something is calling from the other side.