Divya 
When Dr. Anne Ross began tracing the origins of the Hexham Heads, she felt the pull of something ancient and malevolent. The small stone heads, seemingly innocuous, had a way of carving their presence into the minds of those who touched them. The Robsons had been the latest victims, but as Ross delved deeper, she realized the curse’s roots ran far deeper and darker than she feared.
The Forgotten Ritual
Her research led her to the fragmented writings of a local historian, Thomas Ackerly, who had died under mysterious circumstances in 1913. His journal, now preserved in the Hexham archives, described a pagan ritual shrouded in secrecy. Ackerly wrote of a guardian spirit, bound to the land by a pact forged in blood. The spirit neither wholly beast nor man was said to punish any who disturbed its domain. When the ancient stones were unearthed, the pact had been broken, and the guardian had awakened.
The Hexham Heads, according to Ackerly, were no mere relics. They were anchors, imbued with the essence of the spirit, containing its wrath. Removing them had unleashed something primal and vengeful.
Ross’s hands trembled as she read. The accounts felt too vivid, too detailed, to be dismissed as mere tradition. Ackerly claimed the guardian had once ravaged Hexham after a similar disturbance, leaving behind a trail of destruction and death. The rampage had only ended when the stones were returned to their rightful place. But where was that place?
Marion’s Nightmares
The Robson household, Marion’s fragile grip on reality began to splinter. Her dreams were vivid, oppressive images of the wolf haunted her nights. Its yellow eyes glowed like twin lanterns in the darkness, its breath hot and fetid against her face. In one dream, it spoke her name, a harsh sound that seemed to echo in her bones.
She woke in a cold sweat, her heart hammering in her chest. That morning, she found deep scratches gouged into her bedroom door. David tried to comfort her, but his nerves were unraveling. Every night, the low growl returned, reverberating through the walls. Their dog, Bruno, refused to leave the safety of the bed, whining pitifully at the slightest sound.
One evening, as Marion stood at the kitchen sink, the power flickered. The dim light seemed to stretch the shadows into grotesque shapes. Then she saw it: glowing eyes reflected in the window, watching her from the darkness outside. Her scream shattered the silence, but when David rushed in, the creature was gone. All that remained was the faint, rancid stench of decay.
The Unearthed Past
Determined to end the nightmare, Dr. Ross returned to the garden where the heads had been found. The air felt heavier there as if the earth itself resisted her presence. As she dug into the damp soil, an unnatural chill crept up her spine. The deeper she went, the more she felt like she was disturbing something that should have been left alone.
Finally, her spade struck stone. She uncovered fragments of a broken altar, ancient and weathered, its surface etched with crude carvings. Her breath caught as she realized what it depicted: a towering wolf, its eyes burning like fire. The stone seemed to radiate cold, oppressive energy as if it held the memory of the guardian’s fury.
Ross knew what needed to be done. She contacted the Robsons, urging them to meet her at the site. “We have to put the heads back,” she said, her voice steady despite the fear gnawing at her. “It’s the only way.”
The Final Confrontation
That night, under a swollen, blood-red moon, Ross, Marion, and David gathered in the garden. The wind howled through the trees, carrying a low, mournful sound that made their skin crawl. As they placed the Hexham Heads into the soil, the earth seemed to breathe, a deep, shuddering exhale that made their knees weak.
And then it came.
The wolf emerged from the shadows, its massive form almost too large to be real. Its fur was matted and black as coal, its teeth jagged and yellowed. It moved with an unnatural fluidity, its glowing eyes fixed on Marion. A growl rumbled from its throat, low and guttural, vibrating in the air like the toll of a funeral bell.
“Stay calm,” Ross whispered, though her voice quivered. “Don’t run.”
The beast lowered its head, its gaze never leaving Marion. It sniffed the air, its lips curling into a snarl that revealed rows of razor-sharp teeth. Ross clutched an ancient charm she had unearthed near the altar, muttering a half-remembered incantation under her breath. The words felt foreign, heavy on her tongue.
The wolf’s ears twitched. For a moment, it seemed to hesitate. Then it lunged.
Time slowed. David shoved Marion out of the way, throwing himself between her and the beast. Ross hurled the charm at the creature, and a blinding light erupted from the ground. The wolf let out a deafening roar, its form flickering like a shadow caught in a violent storm. The light grew brighter, searing their eyes, until the beast was gone.
A Lingering Unease
The garden fell silent. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and something metallic, like blood. The Hexham Heads lay buried once more, their dark power seemingly contained. But as Ross and the Robsons stood there, trembling and pale, a faint growl echoed in the distance.
“It’s over,” Marion whispered, though her voice was hollow.
Ross wasn’t so sure. She could feel it was a presence, just out of sight, watching, waiting. The curse had been quieted, but not broken. The Hexham Heads were back on the ground, but the darkness they had unleashed lingered, hungry and patient.
As they turned to leave, Ross cast one last glance at the garden. The shadows seemed to shift, taking on shapes that whispered of nightmares yet to come.
Reader’s Note:
The past does not sleep, and neither do the things we awaken. Some curses are not meant to be broken only endured.
Stay tuned for Episode 4, where the cost of disturbing the dead will be paid in full… and the darkness will demand its due. Till then keep reading Dip Dives
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