Chapter 6 – Rayburn Creek

Ronny barely slept.

The anonymous call kept replaying in his head—“Some things are buried for a reason.”
He didn’t recognize the voice. No accent, no name, just a cold, flat warning dropped like a brick through his window of curiosity. But instead of deterring him, it lit something in him he hadn’t felt in years.

Resolve.

By morning, he’d already packed a thermos of coffee, a flashlight, his old hiking boots, and a folded map wrapped in a freezer bag. At exactly 8:00 a.m., he pulled into the Henderson Library parking lot. Maya was already there, standing beside her Subaru with a small backpack slung over her shoulder.

She looked him up and down. “Didn’t sleep either?”

“Nope.”

“Bring coffee?”

He handed her the thermos without a word.

They headed out of town, following old county roads as the sun rose behind them, casting long golden beams through the trees. The GPS got them close, but it was the map that got them there. They pulled off onto a gravel path that had long since stopped pretending to be maintained. Overgrown brush scraped the sides of the truck as they crawled along, until they came to a rusted metal gate sagging across the road.

Rayburn Creek shimmered just beyond it—thin, winding, shallow this time of year.

“This is it,” Maya said, stepping out and slamming the door behind her. “Just like the map shows. Creek bends left. Ridge to the west. And...”

She pointed toward two tall, gnarled trees just beyond a field of thistle and overgrowth.

“Twin sycamores.”

Ronny looked at them, both massive and white-skinned, their pale trunks like the bones of giants.

It was exactly what the message said.
“I buried it near the twin sycamores.”

They slipped through the gate and started walking. The air was still damp from last night’s rain, the ground soft beneath their feet. Birds sang high overhead, and the scent of wet grass and decaying leaves filled the air. It was the kind of morning that felt older than time.

Ronny paused near the base of the trees and pulled out the small hand-drawn map.

“It should be... right here. Between the two trunks, maybe ten or twelve feet out, just past where the fence line ends.”

Maya crouched and examined the area. “Ground’s been disturbed here before. It’s sunken a bit.”

He didn’t ask how she knew. Years of being around local farms and digging through cemetery records had taught her to notice things most people didn’t.

They both knelt down, brushed away layers of dead leaves, and started to dig—not with shovels, but with their hands, scraping and pulling back soft earth.

Five minutes passed. Then ten.

And then Maya’s fingers hit something hard.

“Here!” she said, breathless. “There’s something—wood?”

Ronny helped her clear more soil, revealing the rotted edge of what looked like an old crate or box, nailed shut and wrapped in waxed cloth that had mostly disintegrated. It was barely a foot long and about six inches wide. Whatever it was, it had been buried deep enough to escape detection from animals—or people—for a long time.

He tugged at it gently, and it came free with a faint suction sound, heavy with age and water.

They set it on the ground and peeled away the last of the cloth.

“No lock,” Ronny muttered. “Just rusted nails.”

Maya pulled out a small multitool from her pack—he hadn’t even thought to bring one—and pried up the corner.

With a low groan, the lid gave way.

Inside was a bundle wrapped in oilskin—still mostly intact—and something else. A small, brass key. Tied with a bit of twine to a folded sheet of paper, barely legible.

Ronny held it up to the light.

“To whomever finds this: He followed me this far. I couldn’t go home. If you read this, finish what I couldn’t. - M.E.D.”

Maya looked up. “She never made it back.”

Ronny nodded, staring at the key.

And then something cracked in the woods behind them.

Both of them froze.

Another crack. Closer.

They turned slowly.

Someone—or something—was coming through the brush.