The Echo of Ashwood Grove

The rumors of Ashwood Grove had always floated through the nearby town, whispered among locals but never fully believed. It was said that, years ago, a small village once thrived on those grounds, populated by a close-knit community. Then, mysteriously, every single resident vanished. The buildings, homes, and even the old schoolhouse now sat abandoned, crumbling into the earth, but untouched as if frozen in time.

A group of four friends—Sam, Elise, Peter, and Grace—decided to investigate. They had all heard stories about Ashwood Grove, but as thrill-seekers, they were eager to uncover the truth. Armed with flashlights, a couple of camping supplies, and a camera to document their adventure, they headed into the depths of the forgotten village at dusk.

As they entered the grove, the trees seemed to shift around them, casting ominous shadows that moved like silent sentries. The houses were eerily intact, their walls covered in vines, doors slightly ajar, inviting them in with a sinister silence. There was an unnatural chill in the air, though it was the middle of summer.

Their first stop was the old schoolhouse, its chalkboard still bearing faint scribbles of a forgotten lesson. Desks were overturned, as if the students had left in a hurry, and papers were strewn about, covered in dusty scribbles of the alphabet and numbers. As Sam inspected one of the desks, he saw a message scratched into the wood: “They never leave.”

They moved next to what appeared to be a general store. The shelves were stocked with items from decades ago—canned goods, thread, matches—all untouched and preserved in dust. Grace reached for an old tin of sardines, but the instant her hand touched it, a loud, echoing whisper rippled through the air. It sounded like children giggling, then fading into eerie silence.

“What… what was that?” Peter asked, his voice wavering.

Elise shone her flashlight toward the back of the store and froze. Standing at the far end, she saw a figure, shadowed and featureless, yet somehow familiar. It was small, almost child-like, but with hollow eyes that stared back, unblinking, as though daring them to look away.

Without warning, the figure disappeared into thin air.

“We need to get out of here,” Grace whispered, her voice shaking. But just as they turned to leave, they heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoing on the floorboards behind them.

They bolted outside, hearts pounding, and decided to check out one last building before retreating. It was the old chapel, a place that had served as the heart of Ashwood Grove. They pushed open the creaking doors and were greeted by rows of empty pews, each one marked by a thick layer of dust, as if untouched for ages.

At the altar, however, there was something that caught their eyes: a large, hand-carved stone with names etched into it, each representing a villager who had once lived there. But some of the names looked fresh, as if recently carved.

Elise stepped closer, her flashlight catching the engraving. To her horror, she recognized the names at the bottom—Sam, Elise, Peter, Grace.

“We need to go,” she choked out, but the doors slammed shut behind them, the echo resounding like a thunderclap.

The air grew thick, and a low, droning hum began to fill the space, building and vibrating through their bones. Shadows began to form around the pews, figures that rose slowly and stood facing the altar, their faces hidden but their postures accusing, watching the intruders.

Suddenly, they heard a whisper, low and cold, resonating through the chapel: “You belong to Ashwood now.”

Panic surged as they ran toward the door, pounding against it, desperate to break free. But the harder they pushed, the more the wood resisted, almost as if the chapel itself had come alive, refusing to let them go.

One by one, their flashlights flickered out, leaving them in complete darkness. In the shadows, they could feel hands reaching out, brushing their skin, pulling them deeper into the darkness.

As dawn broke, the town was silent once more, as if nothing had ever happened. But if you listen closely at night near Ashwood Grove, you can still hear faint footsteps echoing, and the soft, pleading whispers of voices, calling out names that have long since vanished.

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