In the quiet town of Elmsworth, nestled between two dense forests and a river that never seemed to flow quite right, there was a place known only as the Hollow Building. No one knew exactly when it was built, or who had constructed it, but its presence was undeniable. It stood at the edge of the woods, its windows boarded up, its door rusted shut. Locals whispered about it, calling it a relic of something forgotten, something better left buried. One autumn evening, a man named Elias Voss arrived in Elmsworth, seeking work as a researcher for the local university. He had heard rumors of the Hollow Building and was intrigued. The university had recently acquired a collection of old government documents, some of which were said to be linked to the building. Elias was told not to ask too many questions, but he couldn’t help himself. The first night, he stayed in a small inn on the outskirts of town. The innkeeper, an elderly woman with eyes like polished glass, warned him. “That place isn’t meant for the living,” she said, her voice low. “It’s got its own rules.” Elias ignored her. The next morning, he made his way to the Hollow Building. The air was thick with the scent of damp wood and something else—something metallic, like blood. As he approached, the wind picked up, carrying with it a strange hum, almost like a whisper. He pushed open the creaking door and stepped inside. The interior was dark, lit only by narrow slits high on the walls. The floorboards groaned under his weight. Dust covered everything, but there were markings on the walls—symbols that looked ancient, yet eerily modern. They were etched into the wood, glowing faintly in the dim light. Elias ran his fingers over them, feeling a warmth beneath the surface. He found a desk in the center of the room, covered in yellowed papers. Some were official-looking, others were sketches of strange machines and diagrams of human anatomy. One document, dated 1947, mentioned a project called "Project Echo." The notes spoke of experiments involving time, perception, and the human mind. There were references to a "reality filter," a device designed to alter how people experienced the world. As he read, the temperature in the room dropped. The whispers grew louder, though they weren’t voices. They were more like thoughts, drifting through his mind. Elias felt a pull, a sense of being watched. He turned around, but the room was empty. At the far end of the building, there was a sealed door. It was locked, but the key was missing. Instead, there was a small panel with a single button. Curious, Elias pressed it. A low hum filled the air, and the door creaked open just enough to reveal a narrow staircase leading down. He hesitated, then descended. The steps were uneven, and the air grew colder with each step. At the bottom, he found a chamber filled with rows of glass tanks, each containing a figure. They were motionless, their faces frozen in expressions of fear. Their skin was pale, almost translucent. Elias stepped closer, and one of the figures blinked. He stumbled back, heart pounding. The room was silent again. He turned and ran, climbing the stairs as fast as he could. When he reached the top, the door slammed shut behind him. He tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. Hours passed. The whispers returned, stronger this time. They weren’t just in his head—they were all around him. He realized then that the building wasn’t just a place; it was a prison, holding something that shouldn’t have been. And now, it was awake. When the authorities found him, he was sitting in the middle of the room, muttering incoherently. He claimed he had seen things no one should see. But when they asked what, he just stared at the wall and said, “They’re still here. They’re watching.” No one believed him. The Hollow Building was closed off, its secrets buried once more. But sometimes, on quiet nights, the wind carries a sound from the forest—a whisper, a sigh, a question. And if you listen closely, you might hear someone asking, “Did we ever leave?”