The town of Ashgrove doesn't whisper. It breathes.

For generations, children have vanished into its abandoned mill. Most were written off as runaways, tragedies swallowed by rumor and silence. But when Lena disappears, her sister Tessa refuses to let the town bury another name. She follows the trail — into the mill's broken corridors, into the waterlogged dark, and into something older than the town itself.

What she finds isn't a haunting. It's a hunger.

Beneath Ashgrove lies a pit that remembers. It breathes with the voices of the lost, mimics every plea, and demands a single, merciless trade: survive as its own, or sink forever. Together, the sisters are dragged deeper than any before them — through ribs that close like jaws, tunnels of bone and debris, and floods that steal the very air from their lungs. Their blood is carved into walls, their memories twisted against them, their love weaponized as both curse and salvation.

Every chapter plunges further, stretching into suffocation and delirium. Infection spreads. Bones snap. Childhood lullabies return drowned and warped. Rats crawl, nails break, words burn red through the dark. And still, hand in hand, the sisters refuse to let go.

But the pit doesn't want just one of them. It wants both.

The Mouth of Ashgrove is not a story of escape. It is a descent — forty thousand words of blood, silence, and survival, ending in the black breath of a place that cannot die. Readers looking for neat resolutions will not find them here. What they'll find instead is the truth of horror: that the scariest part isn't death itself, but what you're willing to carve into your own flesh just to keep living one breath longer.

Unrelenting. Claustrophobic. Brutal. This book drags you down and does not let you surface.

Turn the page — but hold your breath.