The town of Hollowbrook had always been quiet, nestled between two jagged hills and a forest that whispered even when there was no wind. It wasn’t the kind of place people talked about, but those who lived there knew its secrets. Most of them, anyway. It started with the children. At first, it was just one or two missing for a day or two, then returning as if nothing had happened. But soon, the disappearances grew more frequent. Parents would wake to find their child’s bed empty, their shoes neatly placed by the door, their school bag untouched. No signs of struggle, no footprints leading away from the house. Just silence. The sheriff, a grizzled man named Halvor, tried to keep things under control. He told everyone it was just kids running off, maybe chasing a stray dog or getting lost in the woods. But the townspeople didn’t believe him. They noticed patterns—each disappearance happened on the same night, the third Friday of the month, around midnight. The clock tower in the center of town chimed twelve times, and then the child would vanish. One evening, a woman named Elara found her son, Thomas, missing. She searched the house, called the neighbors, and even checked the woods. Nothing. Desperate, she went to the town square, where the clock tower stood tall and silent. She waited until the hour struck. As the chimes echoed through the streets, she felt a strange pull, like something was calling her. She followed it, stepping into the shadows beyond the square. She found a small clearing, surrounded by trees that seemed too still, too perfect. In the center was a stone circle, worn smooth by time. Inside, she saw a child’s toy—a stuffed rabbit, its eyes sewn shut. She reached out, and the moment her fingers touched it, the air turned cold. A whisper curled around her ears, not in any language she knew, but filled with sorrow. Suddenly, she heard a voice behind her. “You shouldn’t be here.” Elara spun around, but there was no one. Only the trees, watching. She ran back to the town, heart pounding, but when she returned, the clock tower had changed. The numbers on its face were different, the hands moving backward. No one else seemed to notice. Days passed, and more children disappeared. The town began to unravel. People stopped going out at night, locked their doors, and kept their windows closed. But the disappearances continued. Each time, the clock tower chimed, and each time, a child vanished without a trace. One night, a group of teenagers decided to investigate. They were curious, maybe even reckless. They brought flashlights and a map they’d found in an old bookshop. The book, titled *The History of Hollowbrook*, mentioned the clock tower as a place of ancient power. It spoke of a ritual, a forgotten rite that bound the town to something beyond time. They climbed the tower, their footsteps echoing in the dark. At the top, they found a hidden room, covered in dust and symbols carved into the walls. In the center was a circular altar, and etched into the floor was a spiral pattern. As they stepped inside, the air thickened, and the temperature dropped. One of them, a boy named Jace, muttered something about the moon being full. Then, the clock tower began to ring—not once, but endlessly, each chime deeper than the last. The ground trembled. The teenagers screamed, but no one came. When the sound finally stopped, they were gone. Not a single trace of them left behind. The town never recovered. The disappearances slowed, but the fear remained. Some said the children had been taken by something older than the town itself, something that fed on memory and time. Others believed the clock tower was a gateway, and the children had crossed over, never to return. No one knows what happened to them. No one dares to ask. But sometimes, when the wind blows just right, you can hear faint laughter echoing from the woods. And if you listen closely, you might hear the clock tower ringing again, as if waiting for the next child to answer its call.