Welcome to Elmwood.
Population: 6,572—at least, that's what the old wooden sign says as you drive in, though I'm starting to suspect that number includes people who haven't been seen in years. Some of them vanished without a trace. Some left pieces behind—bloody shoes found deep in the forest, smashed phones lying in the middle of the road, still buzzing with missed calls.
Most of the time, they just… disappear.
No one ever really talks about it. The town has this collective habit of swallowing its fear. People here smile like nothing's wrong, go to work, attend Sunday service, mow their lawns. But look close enough and you'll see it—their eyes darting toward the woods at dusk. The way they never stay out after dark. The bolted doors. The salt lines on windowsills. And the silence that settles in like a second skin when the sun goes down.
I've lived in Elmwood for 31 years. Born and raised. I used to think the town was just… quirky. A little weird, sure, but nothing more than that. Every small town has its legends, its whispers, its late-night campfire stories. But over time, the stories here started to feel less like tales and more like warnings.
It started with the woods.
The Pines—what the locals call them—wrap around the edges of town like a noose. Thick, dark, and old. Some of the trees look like they've been here since before the first settlers arrived. There's a weight to them, a kind of ancient silence that hums just beneath the bark. Sometimes, you hear things in there. Screams. Growls. Chanting. And sometimes, the forest spits things back out—wild-eyed people who went missing for days and return with no memory, or worse… with memories they refuse to speak of.
There's one story about a boy named Elliott Marshall—fifteen, top of his class, just gone one day. They found his bike at the tree line, wheels still spinning. Weeks later, his dog came back, fur matted with blood and eyes glassy like it had seen something it couldn't understand. Elliott never returned. His family moved away. No one talks about the Marshalls anymore.
And that's not even the half of it.
Lately, the air feels… wrong. Thicker. Like something is breathing just beneath the surface of the town. The moon looks brighter than it should. Nights feel longer. The animals are restless—deer running into traffic, birds flying in panicked circles, dogs howling for no reason. I swear I saw a man watching me from across the street last week, but when I looked again, he was gone. Just gone. Like he was never there. And the next day, the house he'd been standing in front of? Boarded up. No one remembers who lived there. No one wants to.
Some people have started whispering about creatures—things that hunt in the shadows. Wolf-like figures that walk on two legs, too big to be real, their eyes glowing faintly green in the dark. Others claim they've seen pale people standing on rooftops, unmoving, watching the town sleep. Vampires, maybe. Or something worse. At first, I thought it was just Elmwood paranoia. Mass hysteria in a town already fraying at the edges.
But now I'm not so sure.
A part of me wants to leave. I've been saying that for weeks. Got my bag half-packed, my car half-fueled. But every time I try, something stops me. A noise outside. A bad dream. A power outage. Or just… this feeling. Like the town knows I want to escape. Or maybe it's my mind keeping me here to solve these cold cases.
I haven't slept in three nights. Not really. The dreams are too strange—blinding lights through the trees, a voice whispering in a language I don't understand, and always… something chasing me. Something big. Hungry. I wake up with claw marks on my arms. Not deep, not bleeding. But there. Real. And no one can explain them.
Elmwood is more than just haunted. It's cursed. Or worse—alive. Breathing. Watching.
Something is happening here. Something ancient. Something no one wants to name. And whatever it is… it's getting closer. People are vanishing faster now. The nights feel heavier. There's a storm building—just beneath the surface. I can feel it in my bones.
Elmwood doesn't just keep its secrets—it keeps you.
Maybe the stories are true. Maybe they always were. Maybe Elmwood belongs to something else.
And maybe we're just waiting our turn.
May God help us all.