The town of Blackridge didn't exist on most maps.
Arthur Virelith stared out the window of the bus as it rumbled down the narrow forest road. Fog crawled along the ground like a living thing. The trees loomed, twisted, and choked the sky. Luke Crimson, leaning back with his arms behind his head, glanced at Arthur.
"You ever get the feeling we shouldn't be doing this?" he asked, half-smiling.
Arthur didn't look at him. "You said you wanted an adventure."
Luke chuckled. "Right. Mysterious town. People disappearing. No phone signal. Classic horror setup."
They arrived just past dusk. Blackridge looked like it had been forgotten by time—cracked roads, crooked houses, and shuttered windows. The locals were quiet, avoiding eye contact, and the innkeeper never smiled once.
The reports had been consistent—people vanishing without a trace. No signs of struggle. No evidence left behind. Just silence. That was what intrigued Arthur.
He wasn't here to solve the mystery for the sake of others.
He wanted to see what was strong enough to erase a person from existence.
That night, they stayed in a creaky two-story inn. Luke fell asleep quickly, his usual carefree self. Arthur sat by the window, notebook in hand, tracking patterns, timelines, names. All victims were last seen within a one-mile radius of the Blackridge Forest.
At exactly 3:03 a.m., he heard it.
A soft whisper.
Not from outside.From the mirror.
He stood slowly. Luke was still asleep. The whisper came again, clearer this time, like breath on glass.
"Come see."
The mirror shimmered.
Arthur didn't react. He calmly picked up a flashlight, slid it into his coat, and walked out the door.
He didn't wake Luke.