The Hidden Town Where No One Ages

The Hidden Town Where No One Ages

A Twilight Zone-style Mystery by ChatGPT

I first heard of Everspring from a traveler at a dusty roadside diner in northern Oregon. He was old, grizzled, and talked in riddles like he belonged in an old folktale. As I sat nursing a coffee, he leaned over and muttered, “If you ever get lost on Route 9, and take the wrong turn at the burnt elm tree, don’t be surprised if you end up in Everspring. People say no one ever grows old there. They say time forgets them.”

I laughed it off. A town where no one ages? Sounded like something from a science fiction paperback. But his eyes… they didn’t laugh with him.

I was a freelance photographer chasing urban legends, ghost towns, and eerie Americana. So a week later, I found myself behind the wheel, driving north, eyes scanning for that burnt tree. Just past mile marker 67, I saw it — a blackened, gnarled husk of a tree standing like a sentry. My GPS blinked out. My phone lost signal.

I turned.

The road was narrow, lined with towering evergreens, the kind that blot out the sky. Fog hugged the ground like a low whisper. After about twenty minutes, I saw a rusted metal sign hanging askew:

Welcome to Everspring. Est. 1883

“Where Every Season Stays Eternal”

A chill ran through me. The town itself looked like it had been plucked from a vintage postcard — white picket fences, trimmed hedges, cobblestone streets. The houses were old-fashioned but pristine, untouched by modern architecture or time.

I parked and stepped out, camera in hand. The air smelled of lilacs and old paper.

The people were… odd. Men in suspenders, women in modest dresses, children playing hoop-and-stick games. Everyone looked somewhere between 25 and 40 years old — no gray hair, no sagging skin, no teenagers or elderly. And they were happy — too happy. Their smiles held a practiced stillness.

“Newcomer!” a voice rang out. A tall woman in a blue dress strode toward me. “You must be tired. Come, we’ll get you settled at the inn.”

“I’m just passing through,” I replied.

Her smile never faded. “No one ever is.”

The innkeeper, Mr. Calloway, wore round glasses and had perfect posture. The moment I walked in, he handed me a brass room key as though he had been expecting me.

“We only have one room,” he said, “but it’s always just the right fit.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The town was too quiet. No sirens, no traffic, no bugs. Just… stillness. I looked out my window at 2 a.m. and saw townsfolk walking in single file toward the town square, holding hands and whispering in unison.

I followed.

In the square stood a stone fountain with a marble statue of a woman holding an hourglass. The townsfolk gathered in a circle. They began to hum.

A strange light pulsed from the fountain.

And I swear — I saw something crawl out of it.

It was humanoid but with skin like melting wax, hollow eyes, and twitching fingers. It slithered around the circle, brushing against the people, whispering as it passed. They never flinched.

I stumbled back and stepped on a twig. The creature’s head snapped toward me. It didn’t move. But everyone else turned to look.

I ran.

The next morning, everything was normal again. People greeted me cheerfully. The square was empty. The fountain still. I tried to leave. My car wouldn’t start. I tried walking — every path led me back to the town.

I confronted Mr. Calloway. “What is this place?”

He sighed, set down his newspaper, and said, “Everspring is not a where, Mr. Davis. It’s a when.”

He gestured to the clock above the mantle.

“It’s always 7:03 p.m. on the first day of spring. Always has been. We struck a deal, a long time ago — youth and comfort, in exchange for a little… memory.”

“A deal with what?”

He looked out the window. “The thing in the fountain. It feeds on what we forget. Every night, we give it pieces of our past — birthdays, faces, songs — and in return, we don’t grow old. But if you don’t give something up… it takes everything.”

I stared at him. “Then I’ll give up nothing. I’ll remember. I’ll get out.”

He smiled sadly. “You’ll forget. We all do.”