That night, I didn’t sleep. Every creak of the house made me tense. The locket sat on the nightstand, its silver surface gleaming in the moonlight. I tried to convince myself it was nothing — a trick, a coincidence — but deep down, I knew better.
By morning, curiosity had swallowed fear. I spent the day searching through old records and local archives. That’s when I found it — the legend of The Keepers of the Veil.
They were said to be a secret order that once lived in these woods centuries ago. Their mission: to guard something ancient buried beneath a great “Black Oak,” believed to stand between the world of the living and something far older — something not meant to be disturbed.
The symbols on the locket matched those recorded in forgotten journals. According to fragments of the story, the order vanished after a fire in the 1800s. But some believed they never died out — they simply went underground, passing their duty through cryptic signs and chosen heirs.
The deer, according to the same legends, were said to be their messengers — guides between the seen and the hidden.
That evening, I examined the locket again. A hidden clasp released a small compartment inside. Folded within was a fragment of paper, bearing a charcoal sketch of the same oak — and a single word beneath it: Return.
Every part of me screamed not to go back. But I did.
At dusk, I retraced the path. The forest felt different — older, alive. When I reached the clearing, the disturbed soil beneath the oak had smoothed, as if untouched. I placed the locket at its base. For a long moment, nothing happened.
Then the ground rumbled softly. From deep below came a sound — low and ancient, like the earth itself groaning awake.
I ran until the trees thinned and the lights of my home came into view. The silence returned, heavy and absolute.
By morning, the locket was waiting on my porch. Clean. Polished. As though it had never touched dirt.
No note. No tracks. No explanation.
Whatever The Veil is, it hasn’t finished with me. The forest feels different now — aware. At night, I see shapes near the treeline. The same stillness, the same watching.
Maybe they’re waiting for me to finish what began centuries ago.
Or maybe they’re waiting to see if I’ll dare to open whatever truth I’ve uncovered.
All I know is that nothing in those woods happens by accident.
And now, whatever sleeps beneath that oak… knows my name.
