In the quiet town of Eldergrove, where the fog clung to the earth like a shroud, there were whispers of people who simply vanished. No one knew exactly when it started, but over the years, the disappearances became a part of the town’s fabric, like the creak of an old floorboard or the sound of wind through hollow trees. It began with a man named Thomas Wren. He was a baker known for his warm pastries and quiet demeanor. One morning, he didn’t show up for work. His wife, Eliza, searched the house, the bakery, even the nearby woods. She found nothing—no note, no sign of struggle, just an empty chair at the breakfast table. The police came, asked questions, and then left, saying they had no leads. Then came the second disappearance, a schoolteacher named Margaret Hale. She was last seen walking home from the library, her coat pulled tightly around her. Her students reported she had been acting strangely, speaking in hushed tones about "something watching." The townsfolk dismissed it as nerves, but soon, the pattern grew clearer. People would vanish without a trace, their homes untouched, their lives suspended in time. The town elders spoke in hushed voices, warning children not to wander too far into the woods. They told stories of the Hollow Tree, a massive oak standing alone at the edge of the forest. Locals said that if you stood beneath its branches on a moonless night, you could hear voices calling your name. Some claimed it was just the wind, but others swore it was something else—something older. A journalist from the city, Clara Voss, arrived in Eldergrove after hearing about the disappearances. She had a reputation for uncovering secrets, and the town welcomed her with cautious curiosity. She stayed in a small inn run by an elderly couple, Mr. and Mrs. Harrow. They were kind, but their eyes held a weight that made Clara uneasy. Clara spent days interviewing townspeople, sifting through old records, and wandering the woods. She noticed that all the missing people had one thing in common: they had visited the Hollow Tree at some point in their lives. Some remembered it as a childhood place, others as a spot they had never been to, yet somehow felt drawn to. One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Clara decided to go to the tree. The air was thick with mist, and the forest seemed to breathe around her. When she reached the Hollow Tree, she found a circle of stones arranged in a perfect spiral. At the center was a shallow depression, as if something had been buried there long ago. As she knelt to examine it, a voice whispered her name. She spun around, but no one was there. The wind carried the sound again, softer this time, almost like a lullaby. She stepped back, heart pounding, and turned to leave. But as she did, the trees shifted, and the path behind her disappeared. The fog thickened, and the world around her blurred. Clara stumbled forward, trying to find her way back, but the forest had changed. Trees that had been tall and straight now leaned unnaturally, their branches reaching toward her. She heard laughter, faint and distant, and the sound of footsteps echoing behind her. She ran, but no matter how fast she moved, the forest remained the same. Eventually, she collapsed against a tree, gasping for breath. The whisper returned, this time closer. "You should not have come," it said. "They are not gone. They are waiting." Clara opened her eyes and found herself back at the inn, the morning light filtering through the windows. She had no memory of how she got there. The Harrows looked at her with concern, asking if she was alright. She nodded, but the words she wanted to say stuck in her throat. The next day, Clara packed her things and left Eldergrove, promising to write about what she had found. But when she returned to the city, she couldn’t bring herself to publish the story. Something inside her refused to speak of the Hollow Tree, of the whispers, of the silence that followed. And so, the disappearances continued. People still vanished, their names fading from memory, their stories lost in the fog. And somewhere in the woods, the Hollow Tree stood, its branches swaying in the wind, waiting for the next soul to answer its call.