Sleep came slowly. The woods outside whispered. Not the creak of branches or the rustle of leaves, but
something deeper—low and rhythmic, like breath drawn through a hollow throat.
Tony awoke before dawn. His skin was clammy. A hum—distant and deliberate—curled through his ears. It
wasn't a sound in the room, but in the marrow of his bones.
He rose quietly, stepping out of the house and into the stillness of morning. The fog hadn't lifted. It clung to
the fields like a veil of breath, dense and unmoving. Every step toward Bramble Hollow felt heavier.
The tree was still there. The one with its crooked branches reaching like pleading fingers.
But the box was not.
The earth had not been disturbed. No paw prints. No dig marks. Just grass where the shallow grave had
been. Tony stared in disbelief, breath catching in his throat. He dropped to his knees, digging with
trembling hands.
Nothing.
He stumbled back to the house, sick with unease. He didn't speak of it to Clara or his parents that day.
Instead, he busied himself at the shop, trying to distract his mind with cataloguing. But the distraction
failed.
That night, his dreams returned.
He was standing on a wooden floor. Beneath his feet, the planks breathed. A tune spilled from the dark—a
music box melody, slow and sweet. Something spun just beyond the edge of vision. Something giggled.
He turned and saw a figure in the dark.
A child's shape. But wrong.
Painted lips grinned too wide.
Eyes like polished buttons.
And laughter. Laughter that stretched too long, high and echoing.
Tony jolted awake, sweat plastering his shirt to his chest.
When Clara visited that afternoon, she found him pale and hunched over his workbench.
"The box is gone," he said before she could speak.
Her expression changed from curiosity to alarm. "Gone? What do you mean—did someone take it?"
"I buried it," Tony whispered. "It… it came back. It's not in the ground anymore."
Clara sat beside him, taking his hands in hers. "Tony, listen. We have to do something. If this is more than
just a dream—if this is real—we need help."
He hesitated, then nodded. "You're right. But we need someone who understands strange things. Not just
prayers."
Clara exhaled slowly. "I might know someone. My aunt used to speak of a man… a guide of sorts. He knows
local folklore. Old churches. Superstitions. He lives two towns over. We could find him."
Tony nodded again, firmer this time. "Then let's go."
They spent the evening preparing—gathering what little money they had, packing provisions, and planning
the journey. Clara left to speak with her family, and Tony, reluctantly, informed his mentor, Merrin.
The older man gave him a long look. "Sometimes, old things are meant to be forgotten," Merrin said, eyes
lingering on something unseen. "But if you have to go… take care not to look too long at what looks back."
As dusk fell, Tony returned to his room. His pack lay ready beside his bed.
And at its center, nestled between folded clothes and wrapped bread—
The box.
Unwrapped. Unmoved.
Waiting.