The Pact

“We’re in this together, no matter what,” Daniel said, a promise written in his eyes.

When Daniel and I first met, we were just two kids with scraped knees and wild imaginations. Together, we conquered imaginary lands and faced make-believe villains. But life was simpler then. Now, we're facing something much darker—something real.

It began a month ago, during one of our late-night adventures. Daniel and I often walked through the woods near the old quarry, telling ghost stories and daring each other to go just a little bit deeper, a little bit farther. But that night, as the shadows lengthened, we found something. Something we should have left alone.

We stumbled upon a wooden box, buried shallowly in the ground, as though someone had hidden it in a hurry. Daniel’s curiosity got the better of him. He pried it open with a rock, revealing a bundle of letters, photographs, and a small, ornate dagger, its handle engraved with strange symbols.

“Put it back,” I whispered, sensing something wasn’t right.

But Daniel shook his head. “We have to know.”

Over the next few days, we read through the letters, piecing together a tragic story of betrayal and revenge. The photos showed two best friends—inseparable, like us. But over time, the letters grew darker, filled with anger and resentment, until one friend vanished without a trace. The last letter, written in a shaky hand, ended with a curse on anyone who disturbed the box.

Since then, strange things started happening. Shadows in Daniel's room, cold drafts, whispers that would rise just beyond the edge of our hearing. Then Daniel got sick. The doctors couldn’t explain it, and he grew weaker each day, like he was fading.

I couldn’t bear to see him like this. “We’re going back to put the box back where we found it,” I told him one evening, determination hardening my voice.

He was too weak to argue, but he nodded. “Together, then.”

That night, we returned to the quarry, carrying the box like it held all our hopes. The air was thick, pressing against us like a weight. When we reached the spot, I knelt, hands trembling, and began digging the soil back over the box.

But as I covered it, the shadows seemed to gather, growing darker, heavier. And then, I saw her—a figure, watching from the edge of the trees. She had the same haunted eyes from the photographs, her gaze filled with anger and sorrow.

I clutched Daniel’s hand, trying to find strength. “We’re sorry. We didn’t mean to disturb your things.”

But the figure didn’t move. Instead, she reached out, as if trying to pull us in. I could feel Daniel’s grip loosening, his hand going cold.

“No!” I cried, pulling him close. “You can’t have him. He’s my best friend.”

The air grew colder still, pressing in, until I thought my chest would collapse from the weight. But I didn’t let go. And then, slowly, the shadows began to lift. The woman’s face softened, the anger fading into something else—maybe even a touch of peace.

And then, just like that, she was gone.

When we finally left the quarry, Daniel’s hand was warm in mine, and he had strength enough to walk. We didn’t speak on the way back, but there was a quiet understanding between us. Whatever happened, we would face it together.

A few days later, Daniel was back to his old self, and life resumed as normal. We never went back to the quarry. We didn’t have to. Because from that night on, I knew there was a bond between us that nothing—not curses, not shadows—could ever break.