The Gold Beneath the Roots

Tales whispered through my childhood told of a land veiled in mystery—where eight wine barrels of pure gold were buried deep beneath the surface, guarded by something—or someone—not of this world. Some said it was an ancient guardian. Others said it was a curse that devoured any who dared seek it. Many had tried. All had failed.

None of them were the chosen one.

And as a child, I never thought that person could be me.

The dreams started when I was fourteen. Strange, surreal, and terrifyingly vivid. Always the same: I was standing under three enormous trees—still green and alive while the rest of the land around them had turned dry and desolate. A man waited beneath the trees, dressed in white, his eyes hollow, his voice echoing like wind through bones.

“You are the chosen one,” he’d whisper. “Only a pure-hearted soul, with no greed and only good intentions, will ever unlock what lies beneath. Anyone else will fall—generation after generation—cursed.”

Then, always, he would lower his head and say, “But I need something from you first. Hold a mass in my name, so I can rest in peace.”

I never remembered his face. Only the words.

And when I turned eighteen, the dreams changed.

He no longer whispered.

He stood taller. Stronger. Real.

“It’s time.”

That was all he said that final night before I woke, gasping for air, drenched in sweat. I knew I had to go.

I didn’t tell anyone the full truth—only that I was heading to the old land my grandparents had once farmed, a place now left to dry and dust. I brought two men I trusted, ones I’d grown up with: Emiliano, tall and reserved, and Diego, shorter but clever, always with a joke ready to break tension.

The first day felt endless.

The moon loomed above us like a pale eye, watching in silence. The land was swallowed in shadow, eerily quiet—except for the place where the three trees stood. They were vibrant and green, their leaves shimmering faintly with an otherworldly glow, as if untouched by time or nightfall. We all froze in place, staring.

“Strange how they’re still alive,” Emiliano muttered, his voice low as he rubbed his arms against the sudden chill.

The rest of the land was dry, barren and lifeless. But those trees? They pulsed with something ancient. Something sacred. Or cursed.

A hush fell over us as I stepped forward. My heart pounded as I followed the guardian’s instructions echoing in my mind. We moved into position, each of us forming a triangle around the trees. The night grew colder, the silence thicker, like the air itself didn’t dare make a sound.

“Start digging,” I said, my voice firmer than I felt.

The shovels pierced the dirt with a heavy crunch, and time slowed. Every sound—every scrape, every breath—felt magnified. The wind shifted, carrying whispers none of us dared acknowledge. My skin prickled. Something unseen watched us.

After an hour, the weight of dread grew unbearable. I climbed down into the shallow pit and held up my hand. “Stop. Something’s off.”

The air pulsed. The guardian was nearby.

A familiar chill slid down my spine as his voice filled my head.

"Ask the tall one— if he’s been truthful."

Confused but obedient, I turned to Emiliano. “He wants to know if you’ve been honest. About everything.”

Emiliano’s eyes darted to mine. He hesitated. Then nodded. Once. Silent.

"Ask again. Ask if he’s hiding something."

The guardian’s tone was sharper now. I repeated the question.

Emiliano flinched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snapped, too quickly.

The air grew heavy. The temperature dropped further.

"He is lying."

The guardian’s anger surged through me like a lightning strike. I gasped.

“You need to be honest,” I warned him. “He’s getting angry. If there’s something—anything—say it now.”

Emiliano’s jaw clenched. “No. I’m done with this.” He dropped his shovel and turned.

"STOP!" the guardian boomed, his voice shaking the ground beneath us.

We both froze.

"You haven’t been truthful—not to her, not to yourself. Why betray someone who trusted you?"

Emiliano didn’t answer. His silence said everything.

The guardian’s fury manifested like a wave of wind crashing through the trees. The leaves rustled violently as if in protest.

“Please, stop,” I whispered. “Let me handle this.”

I turned, my voice trembling with fear and rage. “Get out! Both of you. Back to the house. Now!”

Without protest, they obeyed. But the unease lingered long after they left.

The moon hung low, casting silver light across the earth. Shadows curled around the triangle we had formed, now three shallow graves beneath the night sky. I stayed behind, staring at them. The silence was unnerving—too heavy to ignore. Then, the wind whispered again—this time, softly, as if trying to tell me something only I was meant to hear.

As I climbed out of the pit, I felt the ground groan beneath me.

But I didn’t know then... that night had only just begun.

Because of Emiliano’s lies—his silence, his betrayal—he had awakened something ancient, something furious. The spirits were no longer patient. They were mad. Aggravated, if you asked me.

The wind outside turned feral, howling through the trees like wolves in a feeding frenzy. The house creaked and groaned; the air thick with electricity. A sudden chill swept through the halls. Windows fogged over in seconds. Doors began to rattle. The very floor beneath us trembled.

Then—the voices began.

Whispers first. Soft, like breath against glass. Then louder. Angrier. Echoing from the walls, the ceilings, the floorboards.

I turned to see Diego pale, sweating, clutching his stomach.

“You alright?” I asked, already knowing he wasn’t.

He looked up at me, but his eyes were different—glassy, unfocused, like someone else was looking out from inside him.

Then he started to speak.

But it wasn’t him.

The words came in a low, guttural tone, a language twisted and broken. His mouth moved, but the voice wasn’t his.

I stepped back, heart thudding. Fear crept in slowly, then pounced.

But I held it down.

I had to keep it together.

Because someone was about to die.

And it wasn’t going to be me.

The spirit had entered the house.

Faces formed on the walls—grotesque and shifting, mouths twisted in agony, eyes sunken and crying out in silence. Shadows crawled across the floors like ink spilled in reverse.

“Just tell him what he wants to hear!” one of the faces screamed.

“Tell the truth—or else!”

I turned to Emiliano, whose face had gone white.

“Say it!” I shouted. “Say what you’re hiding I won’t be able to stop this much longer!”

But he just stood there, shaking his head, frozen.

Behind me, Diego collapsed to his knees, whispering to himself in that broken voice.

“Leave him alone!” I screamed. “Let him go—he has nothing to do with Emiliano’s fault!”

But the spirit answered through the walls, through Diego’s trembling frame:

“This is a message. Until the truth is spoken, I will not stop. You must know. You deserve to know. He is not faithful to you.”

My breath caught.

Those words sliced deeper than the cold.

I turned back to Emiliano, whose face was now soaked in sweat.

“Is it true?” I asked quietly. “Have you been lying to me this whole time?”

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then finally, with his voice barely above a whisper, he confessed.

“When I was seventeen… I got a girl pregnant,” he said, eyes down. “I asked her to… get rid of it. She did. It was never talked about again. Not until now.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

The spirit stopped. The wind outside died. The faces in the walls began to melt into nothing.

But inside me, something else had broken.

He had lied. Not just to the guardian. To me. And now I knew—he was not the man I thought he was. Not the friend I believed in. Not someone I could trust to share a truth as sacred as the one buried beneath the land.

The mission felt shattered. All this effort. The dreams. The years of wondering. The digging. The ritual.

Was it all for nothing?

I feared the worst now.

Because this wasn’t just about gold anymore.

It was about judgment. And maybe, just maybe—I hadn’t passed the test after all.

We were up by 4 a.m., digging before the sun rose. But Emiliano stayed behind.

I didn’t argue. My anger burned too bright. I knew the spirit wouldn’t give us anything now. He was furious. But I still had hope.

Hours passed. Then Diego found something.

He dug a deep hole that led to tunnels beneath the surface.

I followed him down.

First—we saw bones. Human bones. A baby-sized skull.

Then another tunnel. Brown strings poked from the dirt.

Diego reached to pull it out.

But it wasn’t string.

It was hair.

He held it up in shock—and right before our eyes, it vanished into dust.

Was that the key? The missing piece?

We didn’t know.

But the day ended without answers.

Another sleepless night followed.

“You’re ready.”

That night, I dreamed again.

The guardian stood beneath the trees, his face clear for the first time. Eyes soft and sad. He had once been young, I realized. Once alive. His black coat fluttered though there was no breeze.

"I was betrayed," he said. "Greed ruined my soul. I protected this treasure from people like him. Now you’ve proven yourself."

I opened my mouth to speak, but he raised his hand.

"You still have work to do."

I nodded. "The mass. I’ll do it."

He smiled. "Then on the third night, it will be yours."

And I woke.

The second day, I said nothing of the dream. I only gathered fresh flowers, found a white cloth, and prepared a small altar between the trees. I wrote the guardian’s name in charcoal, just as he had whispered it: Océlotl Tonali.

As the sun set, I lit three candles and spoke aloud the prayers I remembered from childhood. I told his story. I honored his name. I thanked him for his protection. I asked for his peace.

The wind blew gently through the leaves.

The third day, everything changed.

The land felt lighter. The sun gentler. The digging easier.

We worked together silently. Even Emiliano, subdued and solemn, offered no resistance. At exactly 6:06 p.m., Diego’s shovel hit something hard.

It wasn’t rock.

We found it by accident.

Not treasure.

Not barrels of gold.

We found it by accident.

Not treasure. Not barrels of gold.

It was cement.

We all froze.

With gloved hands, we cleared the soil away, revealing smooth, pale concrete—the kind used in foundations, not graves. We uncovered sharp corners and walls buried beneath roots and time. It looked like the bones of a building—its shape broken but undeniable.

It wasn’t what the legend promised.

But none of us moved.

The ground beneath us began to hum—soft but low, like a warning.

Day Three

Something was different.

The trees… they were whispering.

I heard them.

Faces formed in the bark—faces of sorrow, faces of the dead, and in one twisted branch… the face of the devil himself, laughing at me.

I looked to the left and saw a black mustang, wild and enraged, stomping in place like it wanted to charge. It wasn’t real—couldn’t be—but it felt real.

Midnight had fallen, but the light from the trees made it look like 6 p.m.

A voice called from the tunnel.

"Come down here," it whispered.

I knew if I did, I’d never return.

“No,” I said.

“Then give me someone in return.”

Diego, hearing it too, stepped forward. “I’ll go,” he said.

“No!” I shouted. “You stay here. I won’t lose you too.”

Then we saw it.

A white light glowing from deep within the earth.

And I realized what had to happen.

I turned to Emiliano and screamed toward the house, “Come here!”

He came reluctantly.

“Get in the hole,” I said.

“By myself?”

“Yes. All by yourself.”

He resisted, but I stood firm. “Because of your lies, we’re in this mess. If we have any chance left—it’s through truth.”

He looked at me. Then at the tunnel.

And climbed down.

I watched as the spirits surrounded him—shadows flickering, faces screaming, the devil twisting in the branches above.

And then—

Silence.

The trees sighed.

The sorrowful faces faded.

The devil’s grin vanished.

The spirits were free.

The curse… broken.

At least, for them.

By the fourth day it was time to pack up and return home.

She felt betrayed, discouraged, hurt — a failure. The treasure hadn’t been found, only nightmares unleashed. Her hands were blistered, her heart heavier than the tools they’d left behind. Every step away from the land felt like a thousand regrets pulling her back.

But just as she turned for one final glance at the land of the three trees, the air shifted.

The wind died.

The light bent.

And the spirit appeared before her — calm, no longer angry, his voice no longer haunting but steady, peaceful.

"You did what no one else could," he said. "You freed them... and me."

She stared at him, eyes wide, heart pounding in her chest.

"For generations I have waited," he continued. "Now I can finally rest."

"But... what now?" she asked, voice trembling.

He smiled, faint like a whisper. "Now you are the guardian."

Her breath caught in her throat. "What do you mean?"

"You were chosen because of your heart. The treasure still lives beneath — but it no longer matters who finds it. What matters is why. Guard it. Protect it from greed. Keep it sacred."

Before she could ask another question, his figure began to fade, like fog in sunlight.

"Wait!" she cried. "I don’t understand—"

But he was gone. And silence reclaimed the land.

As a note fell from the sky written by Océlotl.

To the one with a pure heart—

You are not just the chosen.

You are the keeper now.

Guard what others cannot.

And never forget—what lies beneath always remembers.

The trees stood still. The devil had fled. The souls were free. But she... she remained.

Now, the guardian.

The weight of it settled into her bones like cold morning dew. The treasure wasn’t gold alone — it was the land, the truth, the souls, the legacy.

And it was hers to protect.

But I didn’t get the fortune.

I didn’t win.

And maybe—just maybe—I carry a curse.

A curse born from someone else’s lies.

Or maybe it’s something else entirely.

There are so many questions now.

And no one left to ask.

Still, one thing remains clear:

That land is no myth.

It lives. It breathes.

And it remembers.