The next morning, the boy's parents called the police.

They found his bike first, abandoned by the bridge. The handlebars were slick with dew, as though it had been left there hours before. The search expanded quickly, volunteers combing the woods, scouring the creek, even crawling through the culvert.

But there was no sign of the boy.

What they found instead were his shoes, neatly placed at the mouth of the culvert. The laces were tied in perfect bows, pristine despite the mud that caked the banks of the creek. Farther downstream, his shirt was tangled in the roots of a tree, damp and stained with streaks of dirt.

Inside the culvert, just past where the light faded into darkness, they found a single handprint smeared on the wall. It was too large, too long to belong to a child—or to anyone at all.

Despite weeks of searching, nothing more was ever found. The boy's parents didn't stop looking, not for months, not even years. His mother returned to the bridge often, standing by the rail and calling his name until her voice cracked. His father spent hours wading through the creek, overturning stones and crawling through the tunnel with a flashlight, desperate to find something—anything.

But the forest gave nothing back.

The culvert remained.

It waits, deep in the woods, its black mouth silent and empty. At least, that's what most people would say. But on quiet nights, when the world feels too still, some swear there's more.

Stand by the creek, just close enough to hear the water trickling through the rocks. Listen carefully.

You might hear it: the soft hum of water, the faint sound of distant laughter.

And if you listen long enough, you might hear a voice, low and soothing, calling out from the dark.

"Come closer. It's safe. I promise."