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The sun had barely risen over the dense, fog-covered woods as Jacob tightened his grip on the cold steel of his rifle. He had heard the stories—whispers in the village about strange creatures lurking in the trees, about the trolls who dwelled deep in the heart of the forest. But Jacob didn’t believe in such nonsense. He was a man of action, a seasoned hunter who had survived countless hunts in treacherous terrain. Today, he thought, would be no different.

He had been tracking deer all morning, but there were no signs. The air was thick with the smell of moss and wet earth, and an unsettling silence had taken over the woods. Even the birds had fallen quiet. Every now and then, he thought he heard a twig snap behind him, but when he turned, no one was there. His frustration grew, and a sharp curse left his lips as he checked his rifle. It had worked fine the day before—yet today, the trigger seemed to malfunction, the bullets misfiring or not loading at all.

Jacob cursed aloud, blaming the trolls for putting some spell on his weapon. His fingers tightened around the rifle, his teeth gritted in anger. He wasn’t about to let superstition scare him, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching him from the shadows.

As if on cue, a rustle came from the underbrush, and an old woman stepped into view. Her bent figure was draped in tattered shawls, and she carried a large, mangy dog at her side. The woman’s eyes glimmered with a strange knowing, as though she had been waiting for him. Jacob tensed, his hand instinctively reaching for his rifle.

The woman tilted her head and spoke in a voice that was both rasping and mocking, “If you want to prove your worth, hunter, shoot this dog. If you do, I will give you a $5 piece.”

Jacob scowled. A $5 piece? A strange offer, but the bloodlust in his veins overpowered his hesitation. He looked at the mangy dog that sat motionless beside her, its yellow eyes fixed on him with unnerving intensity. The animal appeared harmless enough, but Jacob had never been one to back down from a challenge.

Without a second thought, he raised his rifle, aimed at the dog’s heart, and fired. The gunshot echoed through the trees, and for a brief moment, everything stood still. But as the smoke cleared and Jacob looked down at the lifeless creature, his stomach twisted in horror. Beneath the mangy fur, he saw the unmistakable features of a human child—the twisted, contorted face of his own son, his body wrapped in the skin of a dog.

His heart stopped. He dropped the rifle to the ground, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His son. His son, whom he had lost years ago in a tragic accident, was now dead—wrapped in the form of a mangy animal.

The old woman let out a laugh, one that echoed in the very marrow of his bones. She reached into her ragged coat and produced a gleaming coin—a $5 piece—and handed it to Jacob. Her voice dripped with cruel amusement as she spoke again, “A deal’s a deal, hunter. Now you’ve earned it.”

Jacob’s hands trembled as he took the coin, but rage boiled within him. He wasn’t going to accept this twisted fate. Without thinking, he hurled the coin back at the woman, shouting curses at her, but the moment the coin left his hand, it vanished into thin air.

Stunned, Jacob reached into his pocket, and there it was again—the $5 piece. It had reappeared, as though mocking him. Furious, he stormed off into the forest, the coin still burning a hole in his pocket. He didn’t know what to do, where to go. But in the back of his mind, he knew there was only one thing left: to drown his despair.

Later that night, Jacob entered the local bar, his boots heavy on the wooden floor. The familiar smell of stale beer and tobacco smoke filled his nostrils as he approached the counter. Without a word, he slammed the $5 piece onto the bar and ordered a drink. The bartender didn’t bat an eye. It was a strange coin, but money was money. Jacob downed the whiskey in a single gulp, the burning sensation doing little to soothe the agony inside him.

But as he reached for his glass to order another drink, his hand brushed the pocket of his coat. The coin—his $5 piece—was back, nestled deep within his pocket. His heart sank as realization hit. The coin, like the curse that had been placed on him, would not leave.

Every time he spent it, the coin would return. Every time he drank, the coin would reappear in his pocket, its weight a constant reminder of the darkness that had swallowed his soul. The tavern became his prison. The whiskey became his only solace, his only way to numb the agony of knowing that he had killed his own flesh and blood.

Days turned into weeks. Jacob’s health deteriorated rapidly. His once strong frame became gaunt, his face hollowed by the constant abuse of alcohol. The man who had entered the forest that day, confident in his strength and independence, was now a broken husk, trapped in a cycle he could not escape.

Finally, in a haze of drunken stupor, Jacob stumbled out of the bar one last time. His vision blurred, and the ground beneath him seemed to spin as he wandered into the cold, silent night. He could feel the weight of the coin in his pocket, and as he reached for it once more, it vanished. And so did he.

In the end, Jacob was consumed—not by the trolls or their magic—but by his own guilt and despair. The $5 piece never left his pocket, a symbol of a promise made and a life destroyed. And the trolls, watching from the shadows of the woods, smiled as the curse took its final toll.