He said he found it shivering by the road near the old sawmill. Said its mother must’ve been hit, and “what was I gonna do, just leave it there?” He wrapped it in a towel, carried it in like it was a newborn.
We all thought it was sweet. Uncle Ron always had that quiet, stubborn kindness—mowed lawns for neighbors who didn’t ask, paid cash for strangers’ meds at the pharmacy. So yeah, bottle-feeding a fawn? Classic him.
But the weird part was how quickly it trusted him. No flinching, no squirming. Just curled into his chest like it already knew him.
Then I saw the game cam footage.
I was helping him transfer files from his trail cam—he’s obsessed with tracking bucks and foxes around the back acreage. One video was corrupted, wouldn’t open. He got flustered, said “it’s just squirrels.” But when he left to answer a call, I dragged it to the desktop.
It finally loaded.
Night vision, timestamped 4:03 a.m.
The fawn was there—but it wasn’t alone.
Something else stepped into frame. Not an animal. Not human either, not fully.
It knelt beside the fawn. Touched its head. Then looked straight at the camera.
And when it stood up and backed into the trees, it left something on the ground.
Uncle Ron picked it up two minutes later.
A folded scrap of cloth. Covered in what looked like writing. Or veins.
The video ended right there. No sound, just that weird green-gray tint of night vision. I didn’t know what I was supposed to be seeing, or feeling, except my stomach wouldn’t unclench.
When he came back, I didn’t mention it. Just acted like it had crashed.
That was the start of it.
The next morning, the fawn was gone.
Uncle Ron said he let it back out into the woods, said it needed freedom. But I didn’t believe him. Not after the footage. Not after the way he avoided eye contact when I asked what happened to the towel it was wrapped in.
“I washed it,” he said. Except it wasn’t on the line. And Aunt Marlene always hung everything.
Three nights later, I saw him walking into the woods behind the shed. No flashlight. No boots. Just barefoot, holding something small in both hands.
I followed.
I stayed far back, maybe thirty yards. The moon was full enough to make out his shape, and the shape of what he was holding—small, limp, possibly another animal.
He reached the clearing where the camera had caught the footage. He knelt.
Something moved in the shadows. I couldn’t see it clearly, just enough to know it was there. Waiting.
Uncle Ron placed the object on the ground. Whispered something.
Then he stood. And backed away.
He passed within fifteen feet of me. Didn’t notice me. His eyes were glazed, like he was sleepwalking.
I stayed hidden until I couldn’t hear his steps anymore.
Then I crept closer.
It was a baby possum. Perfectly still, curled like it was sleeping. But something was wrong. It shimmered faintly, like it was out of sync with the air around it.
And the scrap of cloth was there again.
I didn’t touch it.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The memory kept looping—the way Uncle Ron moved, like he was following orders he didn’t understand.
The next day, I confronted him.
I didn’t show him the video. Just asked, “What are you doing in the woods at night?”
He didn’t lie. But he didn’t explain either.
“They’re watching. And it’s… not bad,” he said. “It’s a trade.”
“What kind of trade?”
He smiled, in a tired, crumbling way. “Peace. We give them small things. In return, they leave the rest of us alone.”
I asked who “they” were.
He wouldn’t say.
“You’ll see. Or you won’t. Just don’t interfere, alright? It’s bigger than us.”
That should’ve been the end of it.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about the cloth. About the creatures. About the shimmer.
So I did the one thing I promised myself I wouldn’t.
I took the game cam and set it up again. Pointed it at the clearing. This time with a fresh card and full battery.
It recorded five nights in a row.
Nothing happened.
No fawns, no possums, no figures.
Then, on the sixth night, there was movement.
Not Uncle Ron.
Me.
The footage showed me walking into the clearing at 3:48 a.m., barefoot, holding something I couldn’t quite see. A rabbit? Maybe?
I was asleep in my bed. Or thought I was.
The footage continued. I knelt. Whispered.
Left the rabbit.
And when I stood up, the shimmer appeared. But clearer this time.
It had a face. Not human, not animal, not mask. Just… a suggestion of features. A presence made visible.
It didn’t touch me. Just stared.
Then it bent toward the rabbit. The screen glitched.
When it returned, I was gone. So was the rabbit.
And the cloth remained.
I woke up the next morning with dirt under my nails and scratches on my calves.
I started sleeping with the light on.
I told Uncle Ron. Showed him the footage.
He nodded, like he’d been waiting.
“It chooses,” he said. “It doesn’t hurt anyone. But it needs… offerings.”
“Why?”
He just looked past me. “Balance. Something ancient. We don’t ask. We respect.”
I wanted to be angry. I wanted to scream at him for dragging me into this.
But part of me already knew I’d never had a choice.
Not after I saw it.
That weekend, my cousin Dee came to visit. She’s six, loud, fearless. Ran around the yard chasing butterflies, begged Uncle Ron to show her how to use the riding mower.
She wandered too far. Into the woods.
I noticed too late.
We found her standing in the clearing, staring at the ground.
No shimmer. No figure.
Just the cloth. This time, it was open.
She didn’t touch it. Just stared.
When we called her name, she didn’t move.
It took three tries to get her to blink, to look away.
Back at the house, she said something strange.
“He said my name. The quiet man. He said not yet.”
That night, Uncle Ron didn’t sleep.
He kept every light on. Paced the porch.
“It’s never spoken before,” he muttered. “Never.”
The next morning, the cloth was gone.
I asked Dee if she took it.
She just smiled. “He folded it back up.”
We left two apples in the clearing. No animals. Just apples.
Nothing happened for a week.
Then, just before dawn, a knock came at the back door.
Not the front. The back.
Uncle Ron opened it.
A woman stood there, soaking wet, barefoot, eyes wide like she’d been crying for hours.
She said her name was Willa. Said she’d gone missing as a child in the woods across the highway.
In 1987.
She hadn’t aged.
She looked twenty.
Uncle Ron didn’t flinch. Just nodded.
He let her in, gave her a towel, poured her tea.
She kept looking toward the trees through the kitchen window.
“They told me the door was open now,” she whispered. “That balance was restored.”
She didn’t remember much. Just pieces. Glimpses of a place that wasn’t time, wasn’t place. Like a waiting room built by moss and silence.
She stayed two days. Slept like she’d never slept before. Ate like it was her first meal in years.
Then she left. No bags. No phone.
Just walked into the fog.
Uncle Ron didn’t say anything for a long time after.
When he finally did, it was this:
“I thought I was helping them. Maybe I was helping her.”
I asked if it was over.
He shook his head. “It’s never over. But it changes.”
I moved back to the city a month later. I had to.
But sometimes I dream of the clearing.
Of the shimmer.
Of the folded cloth.
And I always wake up barefoot.
With dirt under my nails.
One day, I called Uncle Ron to check in.
He sounded tired. Peaceful, but tired.
Said he hadn’t seen the figure in weeks. Said the woods felt “quieter now. Like whatever needed to pass through finally did.”
I asked if he’d still leave offerings.
He said, “No. Now I just plant things. Let life happen on its own.”
He paused, then added:
“Maybe that’s the trade. Give something small, get something bigger back. Not always how you expect. But fair.”
I went back last fall.
The clearing was different.
Wildflowers grew where the cloth once laid.
No shimmer. No presence.
Just a breeze that felt like a thank you.
That night, I slept through without dreams.
Uncle Ron made pancakes in the morning. Said Dee was coming to visit again soon.
And I believed him.
For the first time in months, I didn’t feel like something was watching me.
I felt like something had let go.
Sometimes we think we’re doing a small thing—saving a fawn, giving a rabbit. But life doesn’t forget kindness. Or balance. What we send out finds its way back. Not always in ways we expect, but always in ways we need.
If this story moved you, share it. Pass it on. Because maybe someone else out there needs a reminder—
That every offering has a purpose.
And some woods remember who walks through them.
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