He said he found it shivering by the side of the road near the old sawmill. He thought its mother must’ve been hit by a car, and, as he put it, “What was I supposed to do, just leave it there?” So, he wrapped it in a towel and carried it in, cradling it like a newborn.
We all thought it was sweet. Uncle Ron had that quiet, stubborn kindness about him—he’d mow lawns for neighbors who didn’t ask, buy medication for strangers at the pharmacy, that sort of thing. So, bottle-feeding a fawn? Definitely him.
But what was strange was how quickly the fawn trusted him. No hesitation, no squirming. It just curled up against his chest as if it already knew him.
Then I saw the game cam footage.
I was helping him transfer files from his trail cam—he loved tracking bucks and foxes around the property. One video file wouldn’t open, though. He got flustered, muttering it was probably just squirrels. But after he stepped away to take a call, I decided to check it myself.
When it finally loaded, I saw something that made my stomach twist.
The timestamp read 4:03 a.m.
The fawn was there, but it wasn’t alone.
Something else appeared in the frame. It wasn’t an animal. Not fully human either.
It knelt beside the fawn, touched its head, then turned and looked straight at the camera.
After standing, it backed into the trees, leaving something behind on the ground.
Two minutes later, Uncle Ron came into the frame and picked it up.
A folded scrap of cloth, covered in what looked like veins—or maybe writing.
The video ended there, with no sound, just that eerie greenish tint of night vision. I didn’t know what to think, but my stomach couldn’t settle.
When Uncle Ron came back, I didn’t mention it. I pretended the file had just crashed.
That was the beginning.
The next morning, the fawn was gone.
Uncle Ron said he released it back into the woods, that it needed its freedom. But I didn’t believe him—not after the footage. Not after the way he avoided my questions about the towel it was wrapped in.
“I washed it,” he said. But it wasn’t hanging out to dry, and Aunt Marlene always hung everything.
Three nights later, I saw him walking barefoot into the woods behind the shed, holding something small in his hands.
I followed.
I stayed a good distance behind—maybe thirty yards. The full moon helped me make out his shape, and the small limp thing he was carrying. Another animal, maybe?
He stopped at the clearing where the camera had caught the footage. He knelt, placing whatever it was on the ground.
Something shifted in the shadows. I couldn’t make it out clearly, but it was there, watching.
Uncle Ron whispered something, stood, and backed away.
He passed right by me, close enough that I could’ve touched him, but he didn’t notice. His eyes were blank, like he was sleepwalking.
I stayed hidden until his footsteps faded, then crept closer.
The creature on the ground was a baby possum. It was perfectly still, curled like it was sleeping. But there was something off. It shimmered faintly, like it wasn’t entirely in sync with the air around it.
And the cloth was there again.
I didn’t touch it.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying the way Uncle Ron moved, like he was following some unseen command.
The next day, I confronted him.
I didn’t show him the video. I just asked, “What are you doing in the woods at night?”
He didn’t lie, but he didn’t offer much either.
“They’re watching. And it’s… not bad,” he said. “It’s a trade.”
“What kind of trade?”
He gave a tired, almost crumbling smile. “Peace. We give them small things. They leave us alone in return.”
I asked who “they” were.
He didn’t answer.
“You’ll see. Or you won’t. Just don’t interfere. It’s bigger than us.”
I should’ve left it there, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the cloth. The shimmer. The creatures.
So, I did the one thing I promised myself I wouldn’t: I set up the game cam again. Pointed it straight at the clearing. Fresh card, full battery.
It recorded for five nights straight.
Nothing happened.
No fawns. No possums. No strange figures.
Then, on the sixth night, there was movement.
Not Uncle Ron.
Me.
The footage showed me walking barefoot into the clearing at 3:48 a.m., holding something I couldn’t make out—a rabbit, maybe?
I was asleep in my bed. Or at least, I thought I was.
The footage continued. I knelt, whispered something, and left the rabbit behind.
When I stood up, the shimmer appeared—clearer this time.
It had a face, but not like any face I recognized. Not fully human, not fully animal. Just a presence.
It didn’t touch me. It just stared.
Then it bent toward the rabbit. The screen glitched.
When the video returned, I was gone, and so was the rabbit.
But the cloth remained.
I woke up the next morning with dirt under my nails and scratches on my legs.
I started sleeping with the lights on.
I showed Uncle Ron the footage.
He nodded like he’d been waiting for me to find it.
“It chooses,” he said. “It doesn’t hurt anyone. But it needs… offerings.”
“Why?” I asked.
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 knew that, like it or not, I never had a choice.
Not after I saw it.
The weekend Dee came to visit, I had no idea how far things had gone.
She’s six—loud, fearless. She ran around chasing butterflies and begged Uncle Ron to teach her how to use the riding mower.
But she wandered too far.
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 blinked. It took three tries to get her 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, pacing 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, there was a knock at the back door.
Not the front. The back.
Uncle Ron opened it.
A woman stood there, soaking wet, barefoot, her eyes wide as if she’d been crying for hours.
Her name was Willa. She said she’d gone missing in the woods across the highway in 1987.
She hadn’t aged.
She looked twenty.
Uncle Ron didn’t flinch. He just nodded.
He let her in, gave her a towel, and poured her tea.
She stared at 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. A place that wasn’t time, wasn’t a 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 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.”
A month later, I moved back to the city. 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 peaceful, but tired.
He said he hadn’t seen the figure in weeks. The woods felt “quieter now. Like whatever needed to pass through finally did.”
I asked if he still left offerings.
He said, “No. Now I just plant things. Let life happen on its own.”
He paused before adding:
“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 had once been.
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 something small—saving a fawn, giving a rabbit. But life doesn’t forget kindness. Or balance. What we send out finds its way back. Not always the way we expect, but always in ways we need.
If this story moved you, share it. Maybe someone else needs to hear it—
Every offering has a purpose.
And some woods