Every night at exactly 3:17 a.m., the streetlights along Elmwood Drive flickered twice before going out completely. No one knew why, and no one dared to investigate. The town of Hollowbrook had long since stopped asking questions. It was a quiet place, tucked away in the woods, where time seemed to move slower and the past lingered like a forgotten whisper. Eleanor Price, a freelance journalist with a habit of chasing the strange, arrived in Hollowbrook after receiving an anonymous letter. The envelope was sealed with wax and addressed only to her, though it contained no signature. Inside was a single sentence: "The lights don’t go out. They wait." She didn’t believe in coincidences, and she certainly didn’t believe in ghosts. She rented a small cottage on the edge of town, its windows fogged with dust and its walls lined with peeling wallpaper. That first night, as she settled in, she noticed the faint hum of the streetlights outside. At 3:17 a.m., they blinked once—then went dark. A chill ran down her spine, but she forced herself to stay awake. The next morning, she spoke to the local librarian, Ms. Hargrove, who gave her a strange look when Eleanor asked about the lights. “You’re not from around here, are you?” the woman said, adjusting her glasses. “That’s not something people talk about. The government did something there years ago, back when the military was testing something up north.” Eleanor pressed for more, but the woman simply shook her head. “Some things are better left alone. You’ll understand when you see it.” Curious, Eleanor began researching the history of Hollowbrook. She found old newspaper clippings about a secret facility called Project Echo, which had operated in the early 1960s. The facility was abandoned after a series of unexplained disappearances, and the surrounding area was declared a restricted zone. But the records were incomplete, and many files had been redacted or destroyed. One evening, she followed the streetlights to the edge of town, where the road ended in a dense thicket of trees. There, she discovered a rusted gate with a sign that read: “No Trespassing. Violators Will Be Prosecuted.” Beyond the gate, the ground was uneven, as if something had been dug up and never replaced. As she stood there, the wind picked up, carrying with it a low, humming sound. It wasn’t mechanical, nor was it natural. It was something in between, like the echo of a voice that had been lost to time. She felt a pull, an urge to step beyond the gate, but something held her back. Days passed, and the lights continued their nightly ritual. Eleanor started keeping a journal, documenting everything she saw and heard. She noted that the flickering always occurred at 3:17 a.m., and that the hum grew louder each night. One night, she woke to find the room dimly lit by a soft blue glow. The air smelled of ozone and something metallic. She followed the light to the window, where she saw a figure standing in the distance. It was tall, slender, and moving with a slow, deliberate pace. When it turned, its face was featureless, like a mask made of smoke. It stared at her for a moment, then vanished into the darkness. After that, the dreams began. She would dream of a vast underground chamber, filled with machines that pulsed with a sickly light. People in white suits moved silently, their faces hidden beneath helmets. There were voices, murmuring in a language she didn’t understand, and a deep, resonant tone that vibrated through her bones. The final night came on a stormy evening. The wind howled through the trees, and the sky was split by flashes of lightning. As 3:17 approached, the lights flickered again—but this time, they didn’t go out. Instead, they remained on, casting an eerie glow over the street. Eleanor stepped outside, drawn by an invisible force. At the end of the road, the gate creaked open on its own. She walked through, her breath shallow, her heart pounding. The forest beyond was silent, save for the sound of her footsteps. Then, just beyond the trees, she saw it: a structure half-buried in the earth, its surface covered in symbols that glowed faintly in the dark. As she approached, the ground trembled. The air thickened, and the hum returned, stronger than ever. She reached out, her fingers brushing against the cold metal of the door. A sudden flash of light blinded her, and when she opened her eyes, she was back in her cottage, the clock reading 3:17 a.m. The lights were still on. The wind had stopped. And the silence was deafening. She never wrote about what she saw. She kept the journal locked away, and she left Hollowbrook the next morning, never looking back. But sometimes, when the wind blew just right, she could still hear the hum. And she wondered if the lights weren’t waiting for someone to come home.