Niki walked across the field with her camera in hand. A subscriber to her blog, Places Forgotten, suggested the ghost town. She’d never heard of it, but thrilled by the reader’s response, she’d researched little beyond the best route to get there. Most of the buildings of the town were nothing more than piles of rubble. Except for a small traditional early-1800s church with its bell tower piercing the gray sky. It seemed untouched by the weather… by time. She looked around for signs of people inhabiting the church. No vehicle, lights, or smoke from the chimney. She clicked a few pictures. Then she saw them. Four children standing in the field. Their clothes, floral dresses, hooded coats, and black gloves were decades out of date. “Hello,” she called. They stood perfectly still. How had they appeared so suddenly? Zooming in her camera, her heart skipped a beat. They were wearing masks. White porcelain faces with hollow eyes and tiny round mouths. “I’m Niki.” What had she stumbled on? Unease prickled beneath her excitement. Was it some strange local ritual? The tallest child tilted her head slightly. Nothing more. The smallest child slowly lifted one arm and pointed toward the church. Then the children began walking. Not toward her. Toward the church. Their movements were stiff and deliberate, like puppets being guided by invisible strings. She knew she should leave. Instead, curiosity dragged her after them. The church doors stood open. The children entered. She followed. The air inside smelled of damp wood and dust. Dozens of people sat in the rows of pews. All wearing the same white faces. None of them moved. The four children sat in the front row among silent figures. As if their return was a signal, every face turned toward her. Hollow black eyes fixed on her. A violent ache exploded behind her eyes. Images flashed before her, too fast to grasp at first. Children huddled in the church. People weeping. A cloaked man dancing at the altar. The images felt real. Everyone stood and took a step towards her. She staggered backward. "We have been waiting for the missing one." A woman near her stood and slowly turned toward her. Cracks spread across her porcelain skin. Her mouth opened. The sound that emerged wasn't human. It was the creaking groan of ancient wood. Her porcelain face shattered. Beneath it was only darkness. No skin. No skull. No eyes. The others’ masks splintered as well. Fragments fell away like broken eggshells. Darkness spilled from within. She tried to scream and run, but couldn’t. The congregation started to shuffle toward her. Not quickly. Not frantically. Patiently. As though they knew escape was impossible. When dawn shattered the darkness, the field was empty. No footprints. No broken masks. No sign anyone had ever been there... Except for a camera buried in the decaying rubble, where a church had once stood.

All 4 of them suddenly went missing and the town did not know why. There was an active search for them, some even saying they saw them leave school together towards the nearby forest. But nothing was discovered after days and days of searching. The families were distraught; every day was filled with anguish for them as they continued to search, to no avail. Then one night, as the pastor was securing the church, he saw them. The missing children, silent dark figures in the night. At first he didn’t think it was them; they looked very strange to him from a distance. All had their heads pointing downwards, as if looking at something on the ground in front of them. As he slowly walked closer, he could barely make out that they were fully covered in the clothing he recognized from their missing photos on the news. But their faces…they had something on their faces. He could make out that their faces were very pale and contrasted harshly in the dark, blank and cold in the night. He continued walking towards them slowly, his light was the only thing illuminating his path as he approached them. He thought he heard whispers when he approached the nearest child. He stopped to call “hello?” They all turned their faces immediately upon hearing his voice. He stared aghast at what he now saw on each of their faces now that he was up close to them all. They were terrible, dark eyes that showed nothing back to him. They didn’t have any eyes. Just soulless, empty holes. Their mittens and boots were stained with dark blood; so much blood was all around them. He gasped and recoiled in horror as he took in the entire scene, slowly realizing that these children were covering a body—the body of an unrecognizable animal or human; he couldn’t tell which. He lost his footing trying to double-back to the church, landing painfully on his back. They converged towards him, whispers growing louder and louder until they loomed over him, a terrible buzzing noise consuming him. They each quickly grabbed a different part of his body and dragged him away to the forest, kicking and screaming in anguish, never to be heard from again.

She lived at the edge of the village. The place where the fog lingered, swallowing every spark of light. Her children followed her like the obedient drones they were; children were seen and not heard. They hovered around her skirts like lost little ducklings, their small hands clutching at the faded cotton, their laughter drifting through the trees above. Local villagers used to smile whenever they saw her. The poor widow who had no husband, no family, no future, but somehow always had children following her. Every morning, she opened the scrap of fabric covering the hole in her run-down wooden hut, and every morning, she was greeted by a beautiful chorus of "Mother!" The word always made her smile. She would stand at the rickety table, kneading dough while tiny fingers stole bits from the bowl. She would sing old hymns while the children danced around the hearth. She brushed their tangled hair, wiped dirty cheeks, and kissed scraped knees. By morning, more had always appeared, waiting for attention and a sliver of love. The plague bells used to ring multiple times a day. Dong. Another soul. Dong. Another family just gone. Now, the eerie silence rang louder. Winter arrived carrying death in its frozen breath. The church doors stood open day and night. Black carts rattled through muddy streets. Smoke from funeral pyres suffocated the sky. Yet her cottage remained full of laughter. Full of children. As the months passed, the little girl with chestnut curls stayed the same height year after year. The boy with a splatter of freckles never lost a tooth. Their clothes wore out, but their faces remained unchanged. Some people whispered until the plague came for them. One by one, the remaining villagers vanished. The baker. The blacksmith. The priest. The bell-ringer. Until only she remained with her children. One evening, she sat alone before the fire, dozens of children surrounding her. Tiny hands reaching for her. "My beautiful children, don’t ever leave me." The firelight flickered across their faces. Across the smooth mask-like skin. Across their perfect smiles. She rose and crossed to a worktable hidden deep within the shadows. Reaching for her trusted carving tools, bundles of stolen hair, and scraps of burial cloth. She began to carve. She had shaped every child after the plague had taken her husband and her friends. After it emptied the church pews, leaving her utterly alone. She had begun to build companions from memory. The eyes had always been the hardest part; she could sculpt lips that smiled, hands that held hers with care, and faces that resembled those of the loved ones she had lost. The children stared at her from the darkness, the firelight flickering across their empty glass eyes. Windows to nowhere. Highlighting the absence of a soul.