The Last Light in Elmridge

The fog never left the decaying town of Elmridge. A place where children were born with cloudy eyes and trembling hands and where the sun hadn't been seen in fifteen years was talked about in nearby villages. Elmridge was said to be cursed. Most people ignored it. Except for Clara, most As a junior journalist, Clara Merrin was looking for a story to save her career. She came with a camera, a notepad, and the arrogance of someone who thought ghosts only existed in old wives’ tales. She was wrong.

When she first arrived, Elmridge was quiet. Not peaceful, but quiet, like a body that hadn't been found yet. Birds did not sing in the skeletal trees, and no children played in the streets. From behind curtains, the residents of the town stared, their eyes wide with unspoken dread. No one answered Clara's knock on the door. No one was received. before she met Jonah. The last living member of the original Elmridge council, Jonah was 84 years old. He did not grin. His hands trembled from memory, not age. He invited Clara inside, gave her tea that had the scent of pine and ashes in it, and began to tell the story that no one else would. He roared, "A boy named Samuel went missing fifteen years ago." disappeared behind the church in the woods. When he returned, he was no longer Samuel. Clara hunched over. Jonah tightened the grip on his cane. He spoke in a language we were unable to comprehend. He had dark eyes. Not only the pupils but also the whites. He didn't go to bed. failed to eat. He just... listened. The town's lights then went out one night. every lamp and candle. We were swallowed whole by darkness. Moreover, ten people were gone by morning. Clara felt a tingle in her stomach. She gave the dim candle by Jonah a quick glance. Jonah whispered, barely audible, "He’s still here." "In the darkness. He resides there. nourishes on it." Clara left feeling uneasy but skeptical. She stayed that night in the only inn, an old, creaky building with lace curtains and too-clean mirrors. The candle by her side shook as she lay in bed. The flame moved strangely, as if it were resisting something that was not visible. It passed away at 2:13 a.m. The subsequent darkness was unlike any other. It was alive, thick, and suffocating. Clara's throat was holding her breath. Pure, obliterating silence filled her ears. The scratching then began. out of the walls. from beneath the bed from the closet's interior. She frantically searched for her phone, but it was inoperable. Not a single glimmer. It appeared as though all electricity had been taken away. She reached for the matches, but all she saw was damp wood. Then there are steps. Wet, slow, and bare. advancing closer. A child's whisper came from a few inches away: "Light no longer loves you." She cried out. The innkeeper found Clara in the hallway the following morning, eyes wide open, mouth open, and still. She was barely breathing. Her notes were written in black ink and her voice was gone. One image was all that was captured on her camera: a shadowy, hollow-eyed, impossible-to-miss figure standing just behind her shoulder. Clara, they claim, never spoke again. She was brought back to her city and locked in a room without windows. Nightly, she gnawed at the walls with one word in her ear: "Samuel." Elmridge? It persists. Forgotten. hidden in maps that nobody uses. But the fog continues to rise. Additionally, the scratching can still be heard if you pay close attention. awaiting the candlelight to return.