4. "The Crimson Message"

The envelope was ordinary—cream-colored, unmarked, and left on the kitchen table. But it was the ink that made Olivia’s fingers tremble. Blood-red, bold strokes scrawled her name across the front: OLIVIA. No return address. No stamp. Someone had left it there.

She lived alone.

Her apartment was still locked when she got home, keys jangling in her hand. The windows were shut. Nothing was out of place, except this single note in red.

She hesitated, staring at it like it might scream. Then, cautiously, she slid a knife beneath the flap and peeled it open.

One piece of paper. One line.

“You forgot what you buried.”

That was it.

Her heart stuttered. Her breath caught. She looked around as if the walls might speak, but they stood silent and still. The note trembled in her hands. The ink—red and thick—looked almost fresh.

It had been ten years since that night in the woods.

Ten years since she and the others had made a choice.

Ten years since silence had become survival.

“No one knows,” she whispered, trying to steady herself. “No one can know.”

But someone did.

That night came rushing back—cold dirt, heavy breaths, the sound of shovels hitting something that wasn’t earth. There had been four of them: Olivia, Marcus, Talia, and Ben. And one secret they swore would never surface.

She reached for her phone and dialed Marcus.

He answered on the second ring. “Liv?”

“I got a note,” she said, voice low. “Written in red. It said: ‘You forgot what you buried.’”

Silence.

Then: “I got one too.”

Her throat went dry.

“Same words?” she asked.

“Yes,” Marcus said. “This morning. I thought—God, I thought it was a prank. But now…”

“Have you talked to Talia or Ben?”

“Ben’s gone. Disappeared a week ago. No call, no texts. Just gone.”

Her stomach clenched. “What?”

“Talia’s not answering. I’ve called her five times.”

Olivia looked at the note again. The handwriting wasn’t familiar. It was sharp, uneven—almost like someone had written it in a hurry. Or anger.

“I think someone’s making a move,” she said. “Someone who knows.”

“We need to meet,” Marcus said. “Tonight.”

They agreed on the old diner off Route 7—the one they used to visit before everything went wrong.


---

The neon sign buzzed overhead as Olivia pulled into the lot. Marcus was already inside, staring at a mug of coffee like it held answers.

“Anything else?” she asked, sliding into the booth.

He nodded. “Another note was on my windshield when I left work.”

He handed it to her. It was the same ink, same handwriting.

“Confession is coming.”

“We need to dig it back up,” Marcus said. “If someone’s threatening us, it means they know what’s there.”

“No,” Olivia said sharply. “Touching it again—going back—that’s how we get caught. We leave it buried. We stay quiet.”

“But someone already knows. What if Ben talked? What if Talia’s—?”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

They both looked at the note again.

Confession is coming.

They stayed in silence until Olivia’s phone buzzed. A message. No name. Just a photo.

Talia. Pale. Eyes closed. Unmistakably lifeless.

Olivia dropped the phone.

The red ink wasn’t a warning. It was a countdown.


---

By the time they reached the woods, it was almost midnight.

The same place. The same trees. The same wind whispering through the branches.

Olivia’s hands were shaking as she held the flashlight. Marcus had brought a shovel.

They found the old clearing easily. Even after all this time, the ground looked different—like the earth hadn’t forgotten either.

He started digging.

“She didn’t deserve it,” Olivia whispered, watching dirt fly.

“She wasn’t innocent,” Marcus muttered. “None of us were.”

“But we made her disappear.”

“We buried the truth,” he said, pausing. “And now it’s clawing back.”

The shovel hit something.

They both froze.

It wasn’t a body. It was a box—metal, rusted, locked.

Marcus pried it open.

Inside: a stack of photos.

The four of them. That night. Digging. Smiling nervously. Caught in the flash of a hidden camera.

And a final note, sitting on top:

“Time’s up.”

The flashlight died.

A twig snapped behind them.

Olivia turned just in time to see a figure step into the clearing, face hidden by shadow, holding a recorder.

“Say it,” the voice demanded. “Say what you did.”

The red light on the recorder blinked.

The night was no longer silent.

It was confession.