Endless Night

The wind howled through the historic streets of London, echoing between the old buildings. Midnight had long passed, and the city lay under a restless silence. However, in the back alleys of Whitechapel, a man was walking briskly.

His name was Ethan. He was a journalist, but not an ordinary one. He was a seeker of truth, someone who tried to bring forgotten stories into the light. For the past few weeks, he had been working on a mysterious disappearance case. According to the records, over the last ten years, five people had vanished without a trace in the Whitechapel area. The strange thing was that none of these cases had ever been solved. It was as if the missing had evaporated into thin air.

That night, Ethan decided to visit the place where the disappearances had occurred. His notebook and voice recorder in his backpack gave him confidence. His steps led him to an old apartment building. The door creaked open, bearing the weight of years. As he stepped inside, the musty smell of mold filled his lungs. This place seemed like it had been abandoned for decades.

Ethan turned on his flashlight and moved forward. At the end of the corridor, a door was slightly ajar. He heard a faint rustling sound. His heart pounded. A rat? Or something else? Holding his breath, he pushed the door open. The room was empty. But just as he was about to turn back, he noticed an old newspaper on the floor. Bending down, he checked the date and felt his blood run cold. The newspaper was from 1938.

Ethan was puzzled. This wasn't a museum, so why was there a newspaper from 85 years ago lying here? As he flipped through the pages, he caught the scent of old ink. The headline sent shivers down his spine: “Mysterious Disappearances Continue in Whitechapel”

The more he read, the more unsettled he became. According to the article, people had gone missing in the same area back in the 1930s. The stories, the witnesses—everything was eerily similar. It was as if history was repeating itself.

Just then, he heard a footstep from upstairs. A strange feeling of dread crept over him, but his curiosity outweighed his fear. He slowly made his way to the stairs. His footsteps echoed. When he reached the top, he saw a faint light flickering from an open door. Ethan pushed it further open and gasped at what he saw.

In the center of the room was a round table, surrounded by people dressed in clothing from decades past. The women’s hair was styled in an old-fashioned manner, and the men wore fedora hats. None of them moved. Their eyes were closed.

Ethan stepped closer cautiously. As he reached out his hand, he felt an unnatural chill in the air. It was as if time itself had stopped in this room, as if he was standing at the threshold of another world trapped in the past. The moment his fingers brushed the surface of the table, he felt a faint tremor through the room. A whisper caressed his ear, so soft it was barely audible: “You found us… But now you are one of us.”

Ethan staggered backward, struggling to control his steps. He felt like he was being swallowed by the shadows. Then he noticed something—the old photographs hanging on the walls. The faces in the pictures… They were the missing people. But the most terrifying part was the last frame at the very end of the wall—his own face was in it.

His heart pounded violently. As he moved closer, he saw his reflection in the glass change. His face blurred, fading into a silhouette. A voice behind him spoke: “There is no escape from this fate.”

Ethan spun around. The man was still watching him, but now his face was distorted. His eyes were dark and hollow, like bottomless pits. “You don’t belong here,” the man whispered. “But now, you are here, and time will consume you.”

Ethan turned to flee, only to realize that the door was no longer there. The wall had become an endless void. The building itself seemed to be devouring him. That’s when he finally understood—this place was a trap, and he was becoming a part of its history.

Just as he was about to scream, everything fell silent.

Moments later, among the unmoving figures at the table, a new person appeared.

Ethan was now just a memory.

But this was not the end.

A whisper echoed through the dark streets of Whitechapel. The countdown had begun for the next curious traveler…

From that night on, those who wandered through the old streets of Whitechapel felt a faint breeze—perhaps just the wind, or perhaps the echoes of the past. Ethan’s voice whispered to another. Sometimes through the abandoned buildings, sometimes through the cobblestone alleys, a call could be heard.

When darkness fell, another journalist would embark on the search, just like Ethan, chasing stories and seeking the truth. But what they didn’t know was that this search would never end.