Dover Hill Road – The Following Morning
The frost was thick along the gravel edge of Dover Hill Road, making the
grass crackle underfoot as Kate and I stepped out of the truck. A heavy mist
hung in the folds of the hills, reluctant to lift. The land here was
different—older, quieter. It felt like even the birds didn’t want to break the
silence.
“This is the parcel Grey Pine bought,” Kate said, unfolding her
hand-drawn map. “Technically, we’re trespassing.”
“Technically,” I said, “Ray’s box already told us where to go.”
We followed the remnants of a wagon trail that hadn’t seen a wheel in
over a century. It led through a corridor of hardwoods, mostly maple and oak,
until we came to a clearing surrounded by limestone outcrops and scattered
chunks of broken fence.
Then we saw it.
The tree.
It was a massive white oak, dead now but still standing. The trunk
was split clean down the middle, as if lightning or time had driven a blade
into it from sky to root. It was exactly as Ray—and Silas—had described it.
Kate walked slowly to the base of the tree. The trunk had split into a
hollow deep enough to hide a grown man.
“I think this is it,” she said, kneeling down.
I scanned the bark. There, just above the hollow, carved in the soft rot
of the trunk, was the triangle and dots—but this time, with something new
beneath it:
An open eye.
Kate traced the symbol with one gloved hand.
“He knew someone might come after him. He left this as a warning.”
I reached into the hollow and felt something firm.
Wood.
Wrapped in waxy, resin-soaked cloth.
I pulled it out slowly—a small chest, no larger than a toolbox,
bound with cord blackened by age and sealed with a wax stamp nearly worn
smooth.
Kate stepped back.
“That’s it,” she said softly.
But neither of us moved to open it.
Because we both heard the same sound.
The distinct, deliberate click of a camera shutter from somewhere
in the trees.
Then a voice:
“I wouldn’t move too fast, if I were you.”
Ryland.
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