The town of Black Hollow had always been quiet, nestled in the shadow of a forgotten mountain range. It wasn’t on any map, and few people ever ventured there. Those who did often left with strange stories, though no one could quite explain them. The locals called it "the place where time forgets you," but no one ever really asked why. It began with the children. At first, it was just small things—popsicles vanishing from the freezer, shoes missing from the porch, books disappearing from their desks. Parents shrugged it off, thinking it was just childhood mischief or maybe the wind. But then the disappearances started happening more frequently. A boy named Eli went to the woods behind his house to collect mushrooms for his grandmother. He never came back. His backpack was found two days later, still full of mushrooms, but no sign of him. The search party found nothing. No footprints, no broken branches, just an eerie silence that followed them everywhere they went. Then it was the old man who lived alone at the edge of town. He was seen walking toward the river one morning, carrying a lantern. When he didn’t return by nightfall, the townspeople searched the banks. They found the lantern, still burning, but no body. The river was calm, its surface smooth as glass, reflecting the sky like a mirror. No one dared to look too long. Word spread quickly. People stopped going into the woods, avoided the river, and whispered about the town’s strange history. Some said it was a curse, others thought it was something older—something that had been waiting for a long time. A journalist from the city came to investigate. He set up camp near the river, determined to uncover the truth. He took notes, interviewed locals, and even recorded their stories. One night, he disappeared too. His tent was found empty, his notebook still open, filled with frantic scribbles. The last entry read: “They don’t take you. They just… leave you behind.” No one knew what to do. The town council debated closing the area, but the people of Black Hollow were stubborn. They had lived there for generations, and they weren’t about to let fear drive them out. Instead, they began leaving offerings—small items placed at the edge of the forest, near the river, as if to appease something unseen. One day, a girl named Lila wandered into the woods after her dog. She hadn’t meant to go far, just a short walk to find him. But when she returned, her dog was gone, and she couldn’t remember how she got back. She told the story with wide eyes, shaking as she spoke. “It was like I was being watched,” she said. “But not by anything human.” That night, the lights in the town flickered. The power went out, and when it came back, the clocks had all stopped at 3:07 AM. No one could explain it. Some claimed it was a ghost, others said it was the town itself, holding its breath. But the most unsettling thing was the sound that followed—soft, almost melodic, like a lullaby sung by something just beyond the reach of the senses. The disappearances didn’t stop. Each time, it was someone different, someone ordinary. A baker, a teacher, a farmer. And each time, they vanished without a trace, leaving behind only questions and silence. The townspeople grew wary, but they also became obsessed. They started looking for patterns, trying to understand what connected the lost ones. One evening, a group of them gathered near the river, candles in hand, hoping to see something. They sat in a circle, whispering prayers, stories, and names. As the flames flickered, the water began to ripple, though there was no wind. The surface shimmered, and for a moment, it looked like faces were reflected in the current—familiar ones, smiling, watching. Then, the candles went out. The river stilled. And when the light returned, the group was gone. No one has seen them since. The town remains, its streets quiet, its people watchful. Some say the forest is alive, that it feeds on memories and moments, taking what it needs to keep itself whole. Others believe the river is a gateway, a place where time folds in on itself, and those who enter are never truly lost—they’re just waiting for the right moment to return. But the question lingers: what happens to the ones who stay? Are they trapped in a world between here and there, or have they become part of something greater, something ancient and unknowable? And if the town of Black Hollow is real, why does no one remember it when they leave?