It was snowing the night David disappeared. The Christmas lights on the Carters' small suburban house glowed warmly, casting flickering colors onto the fresh blanket of white outside. Inside, Lillian was wrapping presents, humming along to a holiday song playing softly on the radio. Morgan, now eight years old, sat at the kitchen table, sketching in his notebook.
David had left for a late-night grocery run, nothing unusual. Just a quick drive to pick up milk, bread, and a few last-minute things for Christmas morning.
But he never came back.
Hours passed, and worry gnawed at Lillian's stomach. She called his phone—no answer. She called again—straight to voicemail.
At 1:14 a.m., the police knocked on the door.
David's car had been found abandoned just outside Lincoln High School, right near the football field. The engine was running, the driver's side door was open, and a half-full bag of groceries lay spilled on the pavement. There were no signs of struggle, no footprints in the snow leading away from the car. It was as if he had simply vanished into thin air.
Lillian clutched Morgan's hand, her fingers ice-cold despite the gloves she wore. The police officers spoke to her, their words muffled under the weight of her own fear. David was gone. Just… gone.
The officers assured her they would search the area, that they would do everything they could. But Lillian knew better. She had worked in a hospital for years; she knew when someone was missing under normal circumstances and when something else had taken them.
Morgan, still staring at the pothole, finally spoke.
"It's happening again."
Lillian's heart stopped.
She turned to him, kneeling so they were eye level. "Morgan… what do you mean?" Her voice was shaking, barely above a whisper.
The boy blinked, his storm-gray eyes locked onto hers. "I don't know," he said, but there was hesitation in his voice. As if part of him did know, but he wasn't ready to say it out loud.
Lillian exhaled shakily. She didn't press him—not here, not now. Instead, she scooped him up into her arms, holding him tighter than ever before.
But as she turned away from the pothole, something made her stop.
A sound.
A whisper.
She couldn't make out the words, but it was there—soft, distant, carried on the wind. It sent a shiver through her bones. She looked back, scanning the darkness beyond the school grounds.
Nothing.
But something was watching. She could feel it.
The Aftermath
The search for David lasted weeks. The police scoured Crestwood, dragging the nearby river, searching abandoned buildings, knocking on doors. No body was ever found. No security cameras captured anything. It was as if David Carter had simply ceased to exist.
The official explanation was vague. "Possible carjacking," they suggested. "Maybe he wandered into the woods, got lost in the snow." But Lillian knew those were just theories to make the town feel safe.
David hadn't wandered off.
He had been taken.
Lillian stopped sleeping. At night, she would sit in Morgan's room, watching him as he slept, afraid that whatever had stolen David would come back for her son.
And then the nightmares started.
Morgan would wake up screaming in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, his hands trembling.
"It's coming," he whispered one night, his voice hoarse. "The hole is opening again."
Lillian ran a shaking hand through his damp hair. "What do you mean?"
Morgan gripped her wrist. "The pothole. It's not just a hole. It's a door."
Lillian's breath hitched.
"A door to what?"
Morgan swallowed hard. "To where I came from."
The police searched the area but found nothing. No clues. No explanation.
Just one strange detail.
The pothole.
The same pothole Morgan had been found in years ago—forgotten and ignored by the town—was different now. It was wider, deeper, as if something had broken through from below.
And in the snow surrounding it, there were faint scorch marks.
Lillian's heart sank when she saw it. She knew this wasn't normal. This wasn't just an accident or a random disappearance. Something—someone—had taken David.
But who? Or worse... what?
Morgan, standing beside her, stared into the pothole, his gray eyes unreadable.
And then he whispered something, so softly that Lillian barely heard it over the wind.
"It's happening again."
Lillian grabbed his hand, her fingers ice-cold despite the wool gloves she wore. "Morgan… what do you mean?" she asked, her voice shaking.
The boy didn't answer. He just kept staring into the darkness of the pothole.
And for the first time in her life, Lillian felt truly afraid of her own son.