The Old Wound

Morning came with the sound of birds again, as if the world had exhaled. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in soft gold, and the elders began stirring, collecting brass pots and repacking their offerings. The feast leftovers were buried, as was tradition, near the oak roots—an offering to the earth for its blessings.

But not everyone had slept.

Roxanne sat at the edge of the clearing, arms wrapped around her knees, her eyes fixed on the water. She hadn't spoken to anyone since returning from the ritual. The book was buried in her bag again, its presence somehow heavier now, as if it had fed on something and grown stronger.

Her mind replayed the voice. The reflection. The words.

“Not from you. Through you.”

She didn’t know what it meant. But something had changed—and not just inside her. The river was different. Its current was stronger. The water, darker.

Behind her, Lillian approached in silence. She lowered herself onto the mat beside her granddaughter with the deliberate grace of age and wisdom. For a few minutes, they said nothing. The rustling leaves and birdsong filled the space between them.

“You called it, didn’t you?” Lillian said at last.

Roxanne turned sharply, heart jumping. “What—”

“Don’t lie to me. I’ve seen that look before. When your great-uncle David read from that book, just once, he had that same haunted stare. He tried to hide it too.”

Roxanne looked down. “I only wanted to see if the stories were true.”

“They’re worse than the stories,” Lillian said bitterly. “You don’t understand what you’ve done.”

“Then tell me!” Roxanne snapped, louder than she meant to. “All my life I’ve heard whispers and warnings. But no one ever explains. They just say ‘stay away.’ Why? What is it? What did we bury in that book?”

Lillian exhaled deeply, her face tight with old pain.

She looked at the river, her eyes tracing the bend where the water disappeared behind the rocks.

“Before your time,” she said quietly, “when I was still a girl, this river was our guardian. The family was smaller then, but united. The rituals were pure—offerings, prayers, memories of those who came before us. Until David found the book.”

She paused. Her hands trembled slightly.

“They said it came from your great-grandmother’s side. A Priestess woman, but from a line touched by black magicians. One day, he came home with it—said he’d found it behind the temple, buried in the mud. I always thought it had found him.”

“What happened?” Roxanne asked.

“There was a ritual in the book. Just like the one you did. Meant to open a channel. He didn’t tell anyone. Just followed the steps and called out.”

She looked into Roxanne’s eyes, voice hollow now.

“The next day, his son, Rafael, was gone. They found him face-down in the river, his skin white as chalk. And David—he started hearing voices.

Muttering, whispering things. He stopped eating.

Burned every photo in the house. By the next full moon, he walked into the river and never came back.”

A silence fell. Even the wind held its breath.

Roxanne swallowed. “So the book takes something?”

“No,” Lillian said. “It marks something. It opens a door. And whatever it touches… changes.”

She turned her gaze to Roxanne, sharp now. “I don’t blame you. You were curious. But you’ve started something. And if you don’t stop it—if you don’t seal it—more will follow.”

“Seal it? How?”

Lillian looked away. “There’s another ritual. At the end of the book. It’s dangerous. It requires blood.

Not just sacrifice—willing blood. That’s why no one ever does it. Because once it starts asking for things, it doesn’t stop.”

By late afternoon, the family began packing up the camp. Pots clanged, children cried, and the familiar chaos of departure resumed. No one noticed the subtle shift in the air. The way shadows lingered a little longer under the trees.

The way the birds flew a little farther from the river.

No one but Roxanne.

She helped roll up the mats and stack the baskets.

But her mind raced. Could she undo it? Would the ritual Lillian mentioned really work?

As she turned to load the last bundle onto the jeep, Ashlyn ran up to her, panting. “Roxanne… something’s wrong.”

Roxanne froze. “What?”

“It’s Rowan—my little brother. He’s missing.”

Panic rose like bile. “Where was he last seen?”

“Near the river. He said he wanted to touch the ‘face in the water.’”

They found the boy a few minutes later, standing ankle-deep in the river, eyes vacant, staring into the current.

When Roxanne called his name, he didn’t respond.

Only when Lillian touched his shoulder did he flinch, blink, and burst into sobs.