When Zach proposed, I expected a dreamy moment. Instead, he slipped an old, unusual ring onto my finger—dark stone, strange engravings. It didn’t feel romantic; it felt… unsettling. Like it had history I wasn’t meant to know.
A week later, I stumbled across a photo of Zach with another woman—Camille. She was wearing the exact same ring.
“She was my fiancée,” he admitted quietly. “She vanished before our wedding. No goodbye, no explanation. Then the ring showed up in the mail.”
And now, I was wearing it.
Two nights later, someone taped a photo of me—wearing that ring—to our front door. Written across it, in jagged ink: “You’re next. Return it.”
The police came. No fingerprints, no leads, no answers.
Our own digging uncovered something worse: Camille had been linked to an obscure occult group. The ring wasn’t just antique—it was one of several artifacts with dark, binding significance.
I turned it over to the police. We put the wedding on hold.
But I can’t shake the feeling: Camille didn’t just disappear.
She was warning me.
Listen to your gut. Some heirlooms were never meant to be passed down.