The Seal

 

    The handwritten letter was like a perfect black-and-white photograph.  The light illuminated all the important issues, while shadows slipped over the sender’s unspoken health concerns.

    There was nothing unusual about the postage — plain, forgettable. Unless you turned the envelope over, you’d miss the red wax seal pressed neatly over the flap. And it was that seal that carried both the answers and the mystery.

    Whenever someone in the village received one of these letters, they were careful to open it without breaking the seal. They had become collector’s items — the more you had, the higher your status, and everyone knew the clock was ticking.

    The first time Margo received one, she nearly tore it open without a second thought. She hadn’t grown up in the village, but didn’t know the weight that red wax carried. It was Mrs. Tillerman at the grocers who stopped her, her hand clasping Margo’s wrist with surprising strength for someone so thin and brittle-looking.

    “You keep the seal, dear,” she had whispered. “You must keep the seal.”

    That was two years ago.

    Now Margo had six.

    They sat in a small glass case in her sitting room, each letter preserved like an exhibit, each seal intact and glimmering faintly under the light. Visitors would eye them with a blend of admiration and unease. A silent tally ran in the background of every village conversation: who had how many, and who had just gotten their first — or, more worryingly, their last.

    Because no one ever received more than seven.

    Margo’s seventh arrived on a Wednesday.

    No wind. No clouds. Just the distant hum of insects in the hedgerows and the metallic squeak of the post slot.

    The envelope was slipped in, almost going undetected. 

    This time, the wax seal was darker. Almost brown. It glistened strangely, like something organic.

    She didn’t open it right away. She made tea. Fed the cat. Tidied the bookshelf.

    Then, finally, she sat at the desk by the window, candle flickering against the pane, and turned the envelope over.

    Someone had pressed a thumbprint into the wax.

    Not a symbol. Not an initial.

    Just a print. Human, unmistakably so.

    She swallowed, throat dry.

    Because no one ever touched the wax.

    For the first time, Margo wondered if the others — the first six — had all been warnings. Polite, restrained. Courteous correspondence.

    This one felt... different.

    With gloved hands, she gently slit the top of the envelope, careful not to disturb the seal. The letter inside was the same creamy parchment as the others, the handwriting still flawless, slanted, and unfamiliar. But the message was far shorter this time.

“Tonight. Be at the old quarry. Bring the others.”

There was no signature.

No instructions.

Just that.

    The wax seal gleamed beside her on the desk — dark as dried blood.

    The sound of the ticking was now louder.