They Weren’t Afraid. That Should’ve Been My First Warning.
I was out tossing hay when they emerged—two deer stepping silently from the tree line. No panic, no flinching. Just… watching. The larger one lingered in the shadows, cautious. But the smaller one locked eyes with me. Unblinking. Unnerving. Like it knew something.
I chuckled awkwardly, trying to shake the unease. Snapped a photo. “Got some unexpected visitors,” I joked online. Just a harmless moment—or so I thought.
Then the little one walked right up to the fence. And dropped something at my feet.
A bundle, wrapped tightly in dark cloth. Too precise. Too… human. Inside: a weathered wooden box. And inside that, a silver locket—dull with age, etched with strange symbols that made my skin crawl the longer I stared.
When I looked up, the deer had turned back toward the woods, stopping just long enough to make sure I was watching. Waiting. Beckoning.
I followed.
It led me to a clearing I didn’t know existed—silent, sacred. At its center loomed an ancient oak, towering and black-limbed against the fading sky. The deer stepped beneath it—and vanished. Like mist in wind.
At the base of the tree, the earth had been disturbed. I dug. Beneath the soft soil was a flat stone tablet, carved with the same unsettling symbols. Beneath that, a sealed parchment.
“For the one who is chosen,” it read. “The truth is not safe. But this is only the beginning.”
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. I felt it—something watching, something old. Something awake.
The next day, I found whispers in local folklore—tales of a secret order sworn to guard something called The Veil. The locket? A key.
And now, whatever this is… it’s already begun.
And I don’t think I’m supposed to walk away.
