They came out of nowhere — just wandered up from the treeline while I was tossing hay near the fence. No fear, no hesitation. Like they’d been here before.
The bigger one had a calmness to him, like he was guarding. But the small one? The little one kept tilting its head at me, blinking slowly, like it was trying to tell me something.
I laughed and pulled out my phone to snap a photo —
“Today I got some guests,” I joked, even posted it with that caption.
But the moment after I took it, something strange happened.
The little one stepped forward. Right up to the fence. And dropped something.
At first, I thought it was a rock or a clump of mud.
But when I bent down to look closer, I froze.
It was a key.
Old, rusted, with a strip of red cloth tied to the top. The kind of thing you’d find in an antique store—or a mystery novel.
I glanced up, startled, but the deer were already gone.
Just gone. No sound, no movement. Like they’d vanished into the woods without a trace.
I picked up the key, my heart pounding. It was cold. Heavier than it looked. The red cloth was frayed at the edges, like it had been handled a lot.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the little deer’s eyes. The way it looked at me.
Like it knew me.
Or was looking for me.
The next morning, I searched the woods where they came from. I didn’t expect to find anything. But after an hour, I spotted something — half-buried beneath moss and leaves.
A small, rusted-out lockbox.
My hands were shaking as I pulled the key from my pocket.
It fit.
The key turned with a grinding click that echoed louder than it should have in the silence of the woods.
I hesitated.
What could possibly be inside a box delivered by deer?
Then I slowly lifted the lid.
Inside, wrapped in a yellowed linen cloth, was a bundle of letters—dozens of them—each one tied with twine. The top letter was addressed, in neat cursive handwriting:
“To the one who listens.”
Chills ran down my spine.
The paper was brittle as I unfolded it, and the ink had faded in places, but the message was clear:
If you’ve found this, then you were meant to. The forest remembers kindness, and so do we. This land is older than memory, and its guardians choose carefully. The deer are not what they seem. Protect them, and you’ll understand in time.
My breath caught. Guardians? What was this, some local legend?
I read on.
There is something buried beneath the clearing, under the stone with the spiral carved into it. Dig carefully. And do not open what you find there until the moon is full.
Suddenly, this wasn’t just about a box or a key anymore. This was something bigger—older.
I gathered the letters and tucked them safely into my coat. Then I went looking for the stone.
It took two hours, but I found it—a flat, weather-worn slab hidden beneath ivy, with a faint spiral still etched into the surface.
I dug.
My hands blistered. The air grew colder, even though the sun was still high.
Finally, I hit something solid.
Another box.
But this one wasn’t metal. It looked like… stone. With veins of something shimmering through it—like moonlight frozen in rock.
There was no lock, no hinges. Just a faint symbol that pulsed faintly when my fingers brushed it.
I didn’t open it.
Not yet.
The letter had been clear: wait for the full moon.
So now, here I am—waiting. Watching. The deer haven’t returned, but every night, I feel like something’s watching me from the woods. Not in a threatening way… just waiting.
Whatever happens next, I know one thing for sure:
This land is keeping secrets. And somehow, I’ve been chosen to uncover them.
Why do you do this?