The cursed Ring

Martha had always prided herself on her practicality. At 45, she believed only in what she could see and touch. She scoffed at talk of gods or ghosts, attributing such things to weak minds grasping for comfort. Her days were spent in the same small village where she'd grown up. Life was simple and lonely. She worked hard, saved where she could, and lived alone in a modest house she had inherited. The only valuable thing she owned was a gold ring passed down through her family, though she didn't care for sentimentality.

It was a stormy evening when she saw the girl. The rain had poured relentlessly for hours, flooding the streets. Martha was about to draw her curtains when her eyes caught a figure—drenched and shivering—a girl no older than 15, wandering aimlessly down the road.

"Ridiculous," Martha muttered to herself, but something tugged at her conscience. Despite her sharp exterior, she felt a rare sense of pity for the girl. Opening her door, she waved her inside.

The girl's name was Anna, and she had no family, no home. She was scared, hungry, and utterly alone. Martha allowed her to stay, albeit begrudgingly. At first, she set strict rules—Anna would help around the house in exchange for food and shelter. And though Martha never spoke of affection, she grew used to having Anna around.

Years passed, and though the two never became close in any emotional sense, Anna stayed. She cooked and cleaned, and Martha provided the shelter. It was a silent agreement, bound more by circumstance than love.

One morning, Martha didn't wake up.

Anna tried shaking her, calling her name, but the old woman remained still, her eyes closed, a faint smile on her otherwise stern face. Martha had died quietly in her sleep from a heart attack.

At first, Anna felt nothing but shock. She watched Martha's lifeless body for hours, unsure of what to do. There was no one to call, no family to notify. For the first time, Anna realized how truly alone they both had been. Eventually, she steeled herself and arranged the burial.

Anna, though only a teenager, handled the burial herself. She couldn't afford much, and there was no one to help. She laid Martha to rest in a small cemetery just outside the village. The rituals were performed as best as Anna could manage, and soon, Martha was buried beneath the earth.

Days passed, and Anna continued her life in the old house. She should have moved on, but something held her there—something more than just familiarity. It was as if the walls themselves whispered, reminding her of the gold ring Martha always wore. The thought gnawed at her mind, growing stronger with each passing day. She remembered seeing it glint on Martha's hand at the burial, and now, she could think of nothing else.

The ring could be her ticket out of poverty, she reasoned. It was valuable—surely worth enough to change her life. But it had been buried with Martha.

One stormy night, unable to fight the temptation any longer, Anna found herself standing in the cemetery, shovel in hand. The air was thick with the smell of rain and damp earth, but it did little to cool the fire of greed in her chest. With trembling hands, she began digging.

Each shovelful of dirt came quicker than the last. Her pulse quickened, her breathing ragged. A sense of unease gnawed at her, but she buried it beneath her determination. The ring. All she wanted was the ring.

As the hours passed, the coffin emerged from the ground like a dark, forgotten secret. Anna hesitated, the reality of what she was doing hitting her. But her fingers trembled with anticipation, and greed overruled her guilt.

The coffin creaked as it opened, revealing Martha's stiff form. Her face was peaceful, as though death had softened the harsh lines that life had carved into it. But Anna wasn't here for sentiment. Her eyes locked on Martha's hand—the gold ring still gleamed on her finger.

Anna knelt and gently grabbed Martha's hand, trying to slip the ring off, but it wouldn't budge. The ring seemed as though it had fused with Martha's skin, refusing to let go. Anna's frustration grew. She tugged harder, her fingers cold with sweat. Still, the ring remained stubborn.

In a frenzy of desperation, Anna grabbed a nearby rock and struck Martha's hand. The dull thud of cracking bone echoed in the cemetery, the sound more terrifying than Anna had anticipated. She recoiled for a moment, staring at the severed finger that now lay limp in the coffin. But greed was stronger than fear. She yanked the ring from the cold, disfigured hand and buried the coffin once more.

With the ring clutched tightly in her hand, she rushed back to the house, her heart pounding in her ears. The air around her seemed heavier, the shadows deeper, as though the very night had turned against her.

That night, Anna slept with the ring on her finger. Exhausted from her grim task, she quickly fell into a restless sleep. But something was wrong. Her dreams were filled with whispers—indistinct, rasping voices that chilled her to the bone. They seemed to call her name, beckoning her toward something she didn't understand.

At exactly 2 a.m., a soft knock echoed through the house.

Knock, knock, knock.

Anna sat up abruptly, her heart racing. She strained her ears, hoping it was just the wind. But then she heard it again.

Knock, knock, knock.

Her body went rigid. Who could be at the door at this hour? Trembling, she climbed out of bed and made her way toward the sound, her bare feet cold against the wooden floor.

As she approached the front door, a deep sense of dread settled over her. Her hand shook as she reached for the doorknob. When she finally opened it, the breath caught in her throat.

There, standing in the rain, was an old woman—soaked from head to toe, her face hidden in shadow.

"Can I have some water?" the woman asked in a raspy voice.

Anna's mind raced. The voice sounded familiar, but distorted. Compelled by an unnatural force, she nodded and fetched a glass of water from the kitchen. Her hands trembled as she handed the glass to the woman.

It was then that Anna's eyes fell to the woman's hand. One of her fingers was missing.

A cold wave of terror surged through her. Her stomach dropped. "What happened to your finger?" Anna asked, her voice shaking.

The woman slowly lifted her head, and Anna recoiled in horror. It was Martha—her face pale and bloated, her eyes burning with an otherworldly rage.

"You took it," Martha hissed, her voice low and menacing. Before Anna could react, Martha lunged forward, her skeletal hand wrapping around Anna's throat. The icy grip tightened, and Anna's world turned black as Martha's vengeful smile was the last thing she saw.

When the villagers noticed Anna had disappeared, they assumed she'd run away. No one thought to look for her in the old house. The building stood empty for months, the story of Anna and Martha fading into rumor.

One day, a man passing through the village found the gold ring lying on the floor of the abandoned house. Without hesitation, he pocketed it, unaware of the curse that lingered in its golden band.

Months later, the ring found its way to Sarah, a struggling single mother. She wore it daily, admiring its beauty, unaware of its dark history. It wasn't long before strange things began happening in her house.

She would wake up in odd positions, despite falling asleep normally. Objects would shift slightly during the night, and a sense of being watched lingered over her. After weeks of these disturbances, she decided to install a CCTV camera above her bed, hoping to catch whatever was causing the unsettling events.

The next morning, she watched the footage with bated breath. At around midnight, her sleeping form sat upright, her eyes open—completely black—and stared directly into the camera. Her mouth moved, whispering something too quiet to hear.

But it was what came next that made Sarah's blood run cold. In the corner of the screen, a shadowy figure appeared—an old woman with sunken eyes and a missing finger. The woman leaned over Sarah's bed, whispering into her ear.

It was Martha.