The Gathering

The sound of conch shells echoed across the valley, carried on the wind from the hills to the riverbank, where the earth smelled of wet clay and the water shimmered with early morning mist. It was the first day of the new moon, and the Reed family—scattered across a dozen homes in the nearby village of Blackwater—was preparing for their annual celebration by the River Azure.

Like clockwork, they came. One by one, families arrived in colorfully decorated bullock carts and jeeps, their children squealing with excitement, their arms laden with pots, garlands, and bundles of banana leaves. The older women—wrapped in pristine white cotton sarees with gold borders—walked barefoot to the river’s edge, their silver hair pulled back tightly, eyes sharp with the knowledge of traditions older than memory.

Every year, without fail, the Reeds performed their ancestral rituals at this sacred spot. And every year, they feasted beneath the oak trees, laughing and arguing like only a large family could.

But this year was different.

Lillian, the matriarch of the main house, had noticed it first: the silence of the birds. No birds chirped. No egrets fished along the muddy bank. The river seemed to flow slower, heavier. The sky, though clear, had a strange yellow tinge, like old parchment about to catch fire.

She shook the thought away. Perhaps she was just tired. At seventy-two, she had seen more than her share of good and bad omens, and had learned not to fear them.

The younger women began unpacking. Fires were lit in three stone circles, and the scent of roasting spices wafted through the trees. Children chased each other through the shallow water, while men laid out mats and bamboo plates. The air grew thick with incense, laughter, and anticipation.

Lillian’s granddaughter, Roxanne, arrived just before the sun reached its peak. She was late—again—and her mother scolded her under her breath. But Lillian only smiled. Roxanne reminded her of her younger self: curious, reckless, and always asking questions.

“Did you bring the book?” Lillian asked quietly as Roxanne greeted her.

Roxanne hesitated, her eyes flicking toward the small jute bag she carried slung across her shoulder. “Yes, grandma.”

Lillian’s smile faded. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

“I just want to understand,” Roxanne replied. “You always said the family carries power in blood and memory. I want to see it for myself.”

The book—bound in tanned leather, stitched together with what some claimed was human hair—was never brought to the river. It was kept hidden in the prayer room of the main house, wrapped in red cloth and buried beneath sacks of rice. Its name was never spoken aloud. The older women called it simply The Book.

Lillian had read from it once. Long ago. She remembered the pain in her chest, the shadow in her father’s eyes, the storm that drowned half the village. The power it held was real—and dangerous. But it was also seductive. It promised knowledge. And to the young and bold, that promise was often louder than any warning.

The rituals began with the lighting of the torch, the sacred brass torch. The eldest uncle, Harold, recited chants that rolled off his tongue like thunder. Women drew intricate patterns along the river’s edge, using white and yellow powder, forming shapes meant to welcome ancestors—and keep other things away.

As the chants rose in intensity, Roxanne slipped away. Her bare feet padded over soft earth, carrying her deeper into the forest’s edge, where the shadows grew darker and the sounds of celebration faded into stillness.

There, in a clearing covered with dry leaves and twisted roots, she opened the book.

The pages crackled with age, but the ink—dark as spilled oil—was fresh to the touch. The air around her shifted. A wind rose suddenly, though the leaves on the trees did not sway.

Her fingers brushed over a page marked with a symbol unlike any she had seen: a jagged circle surrounding a shape that looked like an open mouth. The title above it read:

The Rite of the Abyss.

Beneath it were instructions, handwritten in an ancestor’s angular script. Simple ingredients. A chant. A time.

Midnight.

She closed the book, her breath shallow. She should have felt fear. Instead, a strange exhilaration coursed through her veins, like drinking something too cold and too fast. A presence stirred in the air, not seen, but deeply felt—like someone watching from just behind her shoulder.

When she returned to the riverbank, the rituals had ended, and the feast had begun. No one noticed the slight trembling in her hands. No one questioned the strange gleam in her eyes.

Except Lillian.

As she watched her granddaughter laugh and serve rice on banana leaves, Lillian felt her chest tighten—not from age or effort, but from something else. A memory. A warning. A wound reopened.

This year, she thought, the river would not forgive.

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