When Zach proposed, I expected magic. Instead, he gave me a strange, antique ring—dark stone, eerie engravings. It felt off, like it carried a story I didn’t know. A week later, I found a photo of Zach with another woman—Camille—wearing the same ring.
“She was my fiancée,” he admitted. “She disappeared before the wedding. No note. Just gone. The ring came back anonymously.” And now it was on my finger. Two nights later, someone taped a photo of me to our door. I was wearing the ring. Three chilling words were scrawled across it:
